Venice is still victorious over Time. Despite her age, the City of the Sea is fascinating still. She has successfully defied a dozen centuries; she may perhaps defy as many more. All other cities in the world resemble one another. Venice remains unique. She is the City of Romance—the only place on earth to-day where Poetry conquers Prose. The marriage of the Adriatic and its bride has never been dissolved. She is to-day, as she has been for fourteen hundred years, a capital whose streets are water and whose vehicles are boats. She is an incomparable illustration of the poetical and the picturesque; and, were she nothing else, would still attract the world. But she is infinitely more. The hands of Titian and Tintoretto have embellished her. She wears upon her breast some architectural jewels unsurpassed in Italy. And, finally, the splendor of her history enfolds her like the glory of her golden sunsets, and she emerges from the waves of Time, that have repeatedly endeavored to engulf her, as do her marble palaces from the encircling sea.

The charm of Venice begins even at what is usually the most prosaic of places—a railway station. For, to a city where there are no living horses, the iron horse at least has made its way; and by a bridge, two miles in length, Venice is now connected with the outer world by rail. A quick, delicious feeling of surprise comes over one to see awaiting him in the place of carriages a multitude of boats. The pleasing sense of novelty (so rare now in the world) appeals to us at once, and, with the joyful consciousness of entering on a long-anticipated pleasure, we seat ourselves within a gondola, and noiselessly and swiftly glide out into the unknown.

The first surprise awaiting almost every visitor to Venice is that of seeing all its buildings rise directly from the sea. He knows, of course, that Venice rests upon a hundred islands, linked by four hundred and fifty bridges. Hence, he expects to see between the houses and the liquid streets some fringe of earth, some terrace or embankment. But no:—the stately mansions emerge from the ocean like a huge sea-wall, and, when the surface of the water is disturbed by a light breeze or passing boat, it overflows their marble steps as softly as the ultimate ripple of the surf spreads its white foam along the beach. As, then, our gondolier takes us farther through this liquid labyrinth, we naturally ask in astonishment, "What was the origin of this mysterious city? How came it to be founded thus within the sea?" The wonder is easily explained. In the fifth century after Christ, when the old Roman empire had well-nigh perished under the deadly inroads of barbarians, another devastating army entered Italy, led by a man who was regarded as the "scourge of God." This man was Attila. Such was the ruin always left behind him, that he could boast with truth that the grass grew not where his horse had trod. A few men seeking to escape this vandal, fled to a group of uninhabited islands in the Adriatic. Exiled from land, they cast themselves in desperation on the sea.

But no one can behold this ocean-city without perceiving that those exiles were rewarded for their courage. The sea became their mother,—their divinity. She sheltered them with her encircling waves. She nourished them from her abundant life. She forced them to build boats in which to transport merchandise from land to land. And they, obeying her, grew from a feeble colony of refugees to be a powerful republic, and made their city a nucleus of vast wealth and commerce,—a swinging door between the Orient and Occident, through which there ebbed and flowed for centuries a tide of golden wealth, of which her glorious sunsets seemed but the reflection.

Who can forget his first glimpse of the Grand Canal? Seen at a favorable hour, the famous thoroughfare delights the senses as it thrills the heart. For two miles it winds through the city in such graceful lines that every section of its course reveals a stately curve. Upon this beautiful expanse the sun of Venice, like a cunning necromancer, displays most marvelous effects of light and shade, transforming it at different hours of the day into an avenue of lapis-lazuli, or emerald, or gold,—an eloquent reminder of the time when Venice was a paradise of pleasure, when life upon its liquid streets was a perpetual pageant, and this incomparable avenue its splendid promenade. Its curving banks are lined with palaces. They seem to be standing hand in hand, saluting one another gravely, as though both shores were executing here the movements of some courtly dance. These were originally the homes of men whose names were written in that record of Venetian nobility, called "The Book of Gold." Once they were marvels of magnificence; and viewed in the sunset light, or by the moon, they are so still. Under that enchanting spell their massive columns, marble balconies, and elegantly sculptured arches, seem as imposing as when the Adriatic's Bride was still a queen and wore her robes of purple and of gold.

To build such structures on the shifting sands was a stupendous undertaking; and what we cannot see of these Venetian palaces has cost much more than that which rises now above the waves. From every door broad marble steps descend to the canal, and tall posts, painted with the colors of the family, serve as a mooring place for gondolas, a kind of marine porte cochÈre. Each of these structures has its legend,—poetic, tragic or artistic; and these our gondolier successively murmurs to us in his soft Venetian dialect as we glide along the glittering highway.

Thus, in the Palazzo Vendramini, the composer Wagner died in 1883. Not far from this stately mansion is the home of Desdemona. Within another of these palaces the old Doge Foscari died of a broken heart at the ill-treatment of his countrymen. In one lived Byron; in another Robert Browning; in a third George Sand; a fourth was once the home of Titian.

But now our winding course reveals to us, suspended over this noble thoroughfare, a structure which we recognize at once—"The Bridge of the Rialto." For centuries this was the only bridge that crossed the Grand Canal. An ugly one of iron has been constructed near the railway station; but this Rialto remains a relic of Venice in her glory, for its huge arch is entirely of marble, and has a length of over a hundred and fifty feet. Its cost exceeded half a million dollars; and the foundations, which for three hundred and twenty years have faithfully supported it, are twelve thousand trunks of elm trees, each ten feet in length. To-day, little shops are built along the bridge, leaving a passageway between them in the centre and one without on either side.

The Rialto seems prosaic in the glare of noon. But wave before it, for an instant, the magic wands of fancy and historical association, and we can picture to ourselves how it must have looked when on this Rivo-Alto, or "High Bank," which gives the bridge its name, Venetian ladies saw outspread before them the treasures of the Orient; when at this point the laws of the Republic were proclaimed; when merchants congregated here as to a vast Exchange; and when, on this same bridge, the forms of Shylock and Othello may have stood out in sharp relief against the sky; when, in a word, Venice, like Venus, had been born of the blue sea, possessing all the fascinating languor of the East, and yet belonging to the restless West. But to acquire that mental state in which these visions of Venetian splendor will recur to one, certain conditions are essential for the tourist: first, he must choose the moon for his companion; and, second, he must manage to arrive in the City of the Sea by night. Venice, though beautiful, shows marks of age. The glare of day is far too strong for her pathetically fair, but wrinkled, face. Pay her the compliment to see her at her best. In Venice make your nights and days exchange places. Sleep through the morning hours, and spend the afternoons reading books that tell of old Venetian glory. Then, when the daylight wanes, and the moon turns these streets into paths of shimmering gold, go forth to woo Venezia, and she will give you of her best.

The form of the Grand Canal is that of a huge letter "S." Whenever it is looked upon from an elevation, this "S" is suggestive of the Italian word Silenzio, for Venice is pre-eminently the City of Silence. No roar of wheels disturbs one here; no strident gongs; no tramp of horses' feet. Reclining on the cushions of a gondola, one floats in absolute tranquility upon a noiseless sea.

To go to another city after Venice is like removing from one's ears the fingers which for a little time had closed them to all sounds. No place is better for a weary brain-worker than Venice. His nerves relax in its restful stillness. The hand of Nature gently lifts the veil from his hot, wearied eyes; and he perceives at last that when a comfortable livelihood has been secured, to keep on toiling feverishly in the modern world, beneath a pall of soot and in the midst of noisy, heartless crowds, is not to live: it is merely preparing to die.

Upon a moonlit night these liquid corridors present a scene too beautiful for words. It is the Venice of one's dreams. According to the light or shade, we glide through alternating paths of glory and of gloom. All the defects which day reveals are, by moonlight, totally concealed or softened into indistinctness, like features hidden by a silvery veil. Here and there some lights are gleaming through the casements; but, as a rule, the city seems to sleep.

Occasionally, it may be, a boat full of musicians will appear, and, to the passionate throbbing of the harp or guitar, a score of voices chant the songs of Italy. Meanwhile, a dozen gondolas, with listening occupants, float in the shadows of the marble palaces. These, when the music ceases, approach the expectant singers, and silver coins fall into outstretched hands, which glisten phantom-like for a moment in the moonlight. Then each gondola, with swan-like grace, in silence disappears, leaving behind it a long furrow like a chain of gold.

When the visitor to Venice prepares to leave for a time his gondola, there is no need to say where he will land. There is one little area more important than all others, which every tourist longs to see and explore. It is a perfectly familiar scene, yet I have often noticed, with a thrill of sympathy, a tremor in the voice of the enthusiastic traveler who sees it for the first time, as he exclaims: "That building on the right is surely the Ducal Palace, and on the left is the entrance to the Piazzetta."

"That lofty tower is, of course, the Campanile. But where is St. Mark's?"

"It is just behind the Ducal Palace, and invisible from this point."

"And the famous Piazza?"

"That, too, is hidden behind the building on the left, but it is at right angles with the Piazzetta, and lies within the shadow of the Campanile."

As one draws nearer to the spot, how marvelously beautiful it all appears! Now one begins to appreciate the splendor of the Doge's Palace. Above it, like a constellation rising from the sea, glitter the domes of the Cathedral of San Marco. Presently the long landing-pier and the attractive Piazzetta are distinctly visible; and, turning one's astonished vision heavenward, one looks with admiration on the splendid bell-tower, three hundred and fifty feet in height, its pointed summit piercing the light clouds and its aerial balcony hung like a gilded cage against the sky. The traveler who beholds these scenes may have had many delightful moments in his life, but that in which he looks for the first time upon this glorious combination of the historic and the beautiful can hardly be surpassed. Like the names of the old Venetian nobles, it should be written in a "Book of Gold."

On the border of the Piazzetta are two stately columns. On landing, therefore, one naturally gives to them one's first attention. It is difficult to realize that these granite monoliths have been standing here for more than seven hundred years, but such is the fact, as they were erected in the year 1187. They were a portion of the spoils brought back by the Venetians from the treasure-laden East. Each upholds the emblem of a patron saint: one, a statue of St. Theodore, the other, the famous winged lion of St. Mark. Formerly, on a scaffold reared between these columns, state criminals were put to death—their backs turned toward the land which casts them from her, their faces toward the sea, symbol of eternity. But now the shadows of these ancient shafts fall on a multitude of pleasure-boats, and echo to the voices of the gondoliers. Close by these columns is the Ducal Palace,—that splendid symbol of Venetian glory,—a record of the city's brilliant history preserved in stone. This spot, for more than a thousand years, was the residence of the Doges, Five palaces preceded this, each in turn having been destroyed by fire. But every time a more magnificent building rose from the ashes of its predecessor. The present structure has been standing for nearly five hundred years, and from the variety of architectural styles mingled here from North, South, East and West, Ruskin called it, "The Central Building of the World."

Around it, on two sides, are long arcades of marble columns, the lower ones adorned with sculptures in relief, the upper ones ending in graceful circles pierced with quatrefoils. Above them is the crowning glory of the building,—a beautiful expanse of variegated marble, with intricate designs running diagonally over its surface. At every corner the twisted column of Byzantine architecture is observed, and on the border of the roof a fringe of pinnacles and pointed arches cuts its keen silhouette against the sky. The lower columns seem perhaps a trifle short, but this is because the building has gradually settled toward the sea, as if unable to support the burden of its years and memories.

By day this palace is superbly beautiful; but, in the evening, when illumined by the moon, or flooded with electric light, it is, perhaps, the most imposing structure in the whole of Europe. At such a time it looks like an immense sarcophagus of precious stone, in which the glories of old Venice lie entombed. The colonnades around the Ducal Palace give perfect shelter from the sun or rain, and hundreds stroll here through the day, having the somber palace on the one side, and, on the other, all the gaiety of the Grand Canal. But in the evening, when the adjoining St. Mark's Square is thronged with promenaders, and music floats upon the air, the arcade is to the Piazza what a conservatory is to a ball-room. Lovers invariably find such places, for not even the moonbeams can penetrate these shadows. At such a time the promenades seem shadowy lanes of love conducting from the gay Piazza to the waiting gondola.

To know the past of the Ducal Palace thoroughly would be to know the entire history of Venice, from its transcendent glories to its darkest crimes. For this was not alone the residence of the Doges; it was at different epochs the Senate-House, the Court of Justice, a prison, and even a place of execution. Fronting upon the courtyard, just beneath the roof, the tourist sees some small, round windows. They admit a little light to a few cells, known as the Piombi, or Leads, because they were located just beneath the lead roof of the palace. In summer the heat in them is almost unendurable. And yet in one of them the Italian patriot and poet, Silvio Pellico, seventy years ago, was kept a wretched captive, and he has related the sad story of his sufferings in his famous book, Le mie Prigioni, or "My Prisons."

It is but a step from the outer corridors into the courtyard of the palace. Four elegantly decorated marble walls enclose this, and one instinctively looks up to see the splendid robes of Senators light up the sculptured colonnades, and the rich toilettes of the Venetian ladies trail upon the marble stairways. But no! This square, whose walls have echoed to the footsteps of the Doges, now guards a solemn silence. In its pathetic, voiceless beauty, it is perhaps the saddest spot in Venice.

Two beautiful bronze well-curbs glitter in the foreground; but though the wells which they enclose contain good water, almost no life surrounds them, and to the modern visitor they now resemble gorgeous jewel-caskets, which years ago were rifled of their precious gems.

Beyond these, one observes a marble staircase leading to the second story. It is imposing when one stands before it. Above it frowns the winged lion of St. Mark, as if to challenge all who dare set foot upon these steps. Stationed like sentinels to the right and left are two colossal statues representing Mars and Neptune, which have indeed given the name, "The Giants' Staircase," to this thoroughfare of marble. Their stony silence is almost oppressive. Think of the splendid pageants and historic scenes which they have looked upon, but which their unimpassioned lips will ne'er describe! Between these figures, on the topmost stair, amid a scene of splendor which even the greatest of Venetian artists could only faintly represent, the Doges were inaugurated into sovereignty. Here they pronounced their solemn oath of office; and one of them, Marino Faliero, having betrayed his trust, was here beheaded for his crime. It will be remembered that Byron's tragedy of Marino Faliero closes with the line:

When one has passed these marble giants and entered the state apartments of the palace, despite the intimation given by the outer walls, one is astonished at the splendor here revealed. As the bright sunlight falls on the mosaic pavement, it is easy to imagine that one is walking on a beach whose glittering sands are grains of gold. The roof and walls are covered with enormous masterpieces set in golden frames. All of them have one theme—the glorification of Venice. One of them, finished by Tintoretto when he was more than three score years and ten, is seventy feet in length, and is the largest painting known to art. One trembles to think what fire could accomplish here in a single night, not only in this Ducal Palace, but in the equally marvelous buildings which adjoin it; for they could never be reproduced. They are unique in the world.

Each of these gold-enameled halls is like a gorgeous vase, in which are blooming fadelessly the flowers of Venetian history. What scenes have been enacted here, when on these benches sat the Councilors of the Republic wearing their scarlet robes! Upon their votes depended life and death; and here the die was cast for peace or war. Close by the door was placed a lion's head of marble, into the mouth of which (the famous Bocca di Lione) secret denunciations were cast. These were examined by the Council of Ten, all of whose acts were shrouded in profoundest secrecy; and such at last was their despotic power that even the Doge himself came to be nothing but the slave and mouthpiece of that group of tyrants, and was as little safe from them as those whose sentences he automatically signed.

While standing here, there naturally presents itself to one's imagination a scene in the old days when, as the Doge descended from his palace, he met some lowly suppliant presenting to him an appeal for mercy. Ah, what a glorious age was that for Venice!—when her victorious flag rolled out its purple folds over the richest islands of the Mediterranean and the Adriatic; when she possessed the largest armory and the most extensive dock-yards in the world (in which ten thousand beams of oak were always ready for the construction of new ships); when she could boast of having the first bank of deposit ever founded in Europe; when (Rome excepted) she was the first to print books in Italy; and when she sold in St. Mark's Square the first newspaper ever known to the world, demanding for it a little coin called gazetta, which has given us the word "gazette."

Recalling these Venetian exploits, I stood one evening in one of the most delightful places in all Venice,—the upper balcony of the Ducal Palace. Lingering here and looking out between the sculptured columns toward the island of San Giorgio, I thought of the old times when every year, upon Ascension Day, the Doge descended from this balcony and stepped upon a barge adorned with canopies of gold and velvet, and with a deck inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl. Then, to the sound of martial music, that splendid vessel swept out toward the sea, propelled by eighty gilded oars; till, finally, amidst the roar of cannon and the shouts of the assembled populace, the Doge cast into the blue waves a ring of gold, exclaiming solemnly: "We wed thee, O Sea, with this ring, emblem of our rightful and perpetual dominion."

But there was another side to this magnificent picture, which dimmed the splendor of Venetian palaces. For just behind the residence of the Doges, suspended over the canal,—"a palace and a prison on each hand,"—is one of the best known structures in the world,—the Bridge of Sighs. This is indeed a sad memorial of tyranny. True, recent scoffers at sentiment sneer at the associations of this bridge, and one has even called it a "pathetic swindle." But, whether or not the prisoners of Venice breathed through these grated windows a last sigh, as they relinquished life and liberty, certain it is that in the building on the right, far down below the water's edge, are some of the most horrible dungeons that human cruelty has ever designed; and any visitor to Venice may cross this bridge and grope his way down moldering flights of stone steps to behold them.

All who have done so will recollect those fetid cells, slimy with dampness, shrouded in darkness, and stifling from the exhausted air which filters to them through the narrow corridors. They will remember the iron grating through which was passed the scanty food that for a time prolonged the prisoner's life; the grooves of the old guillotine, by means of which, after excruciating torture, he was put to death; and then the narrow opening through which the body was removed at night and rowed out to a distant spot, where it was death to cast a net. Here, unillumined even by a torch, it sank, freighted with heavy stones, into the sea, whose gloomy depths will guard all secrets hidden in its breast until its waters shall give up their dead.

Connected with the Ducal residence is the world-renowned St. Mark's Cathedral. The old Venetians built not only palaces for men; they made their shrines to God palatial. I looked on this one with bewilderment. There is no structure like it in the world. Its bulbous domes and minaret-like belfries remind one of the Orient. It seems more like a Mohammedan than a Christian temple. If the phrase be permitted, it is a kind of Christian mosque. The truth is, the Venetians brought back from their victories in the East ideas of Oriental architecture which had pleased them, and were thus able to produce a wonderful blending of Moorish, Arabic, and Gothic art.

What a faÇade is this! Here, massed in serried ranks, are scores of variously colored marble columns, each one a monolith, and all possessing an eventful history. Some are from Ephesus, others from Smyrna, while others still are from Constantinople, and more than one even from Jerusalem. On one, the hand of Cleopatra may have rested; another may have cast its shadow on St. Paul; a third may have been looked upon by Jesus. St. Mark's is the treasure-house of Venice,—a place of pride as well as of prayer. Here was heaped up the booty which she gained from her repeated conquests. The Doge's Palace was the brain of Venice; the Grand Piazza was its heart; but this Cathedral was its soul.

The work of beautifying this old church was carried on enthusiastically for five hundred years. Each generation tried to outdo all that had preceded it. Again and again Venetian fleets swept proudly up the Adriatic, laden with spoils destined for this glorious shrine. Viva San Marco! was the watchword alike of her armies and her navies; and when the captains of Venetian fleets came homeward from the Orient, the first inquiry put to them was this: "What new and splendid offering bring you for San Marco?" The dust of ages, therefore, may have gathered on this building, but it is, at least, the dust of gold. Its domes and spires glisten with the yellow lustre. It even gilds the four bronze horses which surmount its portal. These are among the most interesting statues in the world. We know not who the sculptor was that gave them their apparent life; but it is certain that they were carried to Rome and there attached to Nero's golden chariot. In the fourth century after Christ the emperor Constantine, when he transferred the seat of empire from the Tiber to the Bosphorus, took them to Constantinople, where for nine hundred years they proudly stood beside the Golden Horn. Then, when that capital was plundered by the Venetians, they were brought hither, and for five hundred years they adorned the entrance to St. Mark's. Even here their travels had not ended; for, a century ago, Napoleon, when conqueror of Italy, caused them to be conveyed to Paris, where, in the shadow of the Tuileries, they watched the triumph of the modern CÆsar. But after Waterloo, Venice once more claimed them for her own.

It is an impressive moment when one passes beneath these gilded steeds and enters the interior of the cathedral. A twilight gloom pervades it, well suited to its age and the mysterious origin of all it contains. The walls and roof are so profusely covered with mosaics and precious marbles that it is easy to understand why St. Mark's has been called the "Church of Gold," and likened to a cavern hung with stalactites of precious stones. Some of these ornaments are of pagan origin; others have come from Christian shrines. All, however, have had to pay their contribution to St. Mark's. Thus Santa Sophia at Constantinople, though still a Christian church and dedicated to the Saviour, was plundered to embellish the Venetian shrine named after His apostle. Hence, it is the literal truth that, overflowing with the spoils of other cities and sanctuaries, St. Mark's is a magnificent repository of booty—a veritable den of thieves. In the most prominent position in the church is the receptacle guarded by the statues of the twelve apostles, where is kept, as the most precious of its treasures, the body of St. Mark. On one side is the pulpit from which the old Doge, Dandolo, when ninety-three years of age, urged his people to undertake the fourth crusade.

"Men of Venice!" he exclaimed, "I am old and weak, and I need rest, but I will go with you to rescue from the infidel the Holy Sepulchre, and I will be victorious or lose my life." Hearing these words, the assembled people made these walls resound with the cry: "So be it! Lead us on! For God's sake go with us!" Then the old Doge descended from the pulpit, and standing on the steps between the jasper columns, received the badge of the Crusaders, the Cross of Christ, a miniature reproduction of the colossal crucifix, which glittered then, as it still gleams to-day, above the place on which he stood.

On leaving this marvelous structure, one steps directly into the adjoining St. Mark's Square. If it be the hour of siesta, it will appear deserted. Yet this has been for centuries the Forum of Venetian life; the favorite place for her festivities; the beautiful, historic stage on which have been enacted most of the scenes connected with her glorious past. Around it are fine marble structures, which even now are used for offices of State. Within these long arcades are the most attractive shops in Venice, and, were there only a garden in the centre, the place would remind one of the Palais Royal at Paris, which was, in fact, built in imitation of this square. To-day the popularity of the Parisian square is waning, since many of its gorgeous shops have migrated to the Rue de la Paix. But owing to its situation, the attractiveness of the Venetian court can hardly be diminished. While Venice lasts, its glory must remain undimmed by Time.

On summer evenings, when the city wakes to life and music, the famous square bursts into the gaiety of a ball-room, and is the favorite rendezvous of all lovers and pleasure-seekers, whether natives or foreigners. Here, several times a week, fine military music floats upon the air, and hundreds of men and women stroll along these marble blocks, which in the moonlight seem as white as snow. Others, meantime, are seated beneath the neighboring arches, sipping coffee or sherbet, laughing and talking in the soft Venetian dialect, and, like the Japanese, seeming to appreciate the mere joy of living, an art which many of us, alas, have lost.

One pretty feature of this historic area is its pigeons. Their homes are in the marble arches of the adjoining buildings; and shortly after midday, every afternoon, they suddenly appear in great numbers; now rising in a pretty cloud of fluttering wings; now grouped together like an undulating wave of eider-down. Foreigners, in particular, love to feed them; and in return for the kindness they receive, the pigeons at times alight upon the shoulders of a stranger or courageously pick up crumbs from outstretched hands. It is not strange that Venice should guard these birds so tenderly. Six centuries ago, when the Venetians were blockading the island of Candia, the Doge's officers observed that pigeons frequently flew above their heads. Suspecting something, they contrived to shoot a few, and each was found to have beneath its wing a message to the enemy. Acting on information thus acquired, the Venetian admiral made his attack at once and captured the island in twelve hours. The carrier-pigeons which they found there were therefore taken home to Venice and treated with the utmost kindness, and their descendants have ever since been favorites of the people.

On walking from the Piazza toward the Grand Canal, one always finds at the extremity of the Piazzetta a line of waiting gondolas. At once a shower of soft Italian syllables falls musically on the air: "Una gondola, Signore! Commanda una gondola; Una barca, Signore; Una bellissima barca; Vuol' andare? Eccomi pronto!" The speakers are Venetian coachmen, and the contrast is a startling one between the liquid vowels of their speech and the rasping cries of our American drivers: "Want a cow-pay, lady?" "Want a kerridge?" "Want a hack—hack—hack?" As for the gondoliers themselves, how picturesque they look with their white suits and colored scarfs! Who can resist the impulse to enter one of these pretty barges and give oneself to the enjoyment of the hour?

Few things are more delightful than floating here in a gondola after the heat of a summer day. We say summer, for Venice should, if possible, be always visited in warm weather—the healthiest season here. Then only can one thoroughly enjoy its outdoor life. However sultry it may be on land, in Venice it is reasonably cool, and the broad bosom of the Adriatic, as it swells and falls, breathes through the streets of Venice the delicious freshness of the sea. At such a time, to idly float upon this beautiful expanse, dreaming of art and history (perchance of love), through the sweet, tranquil hours which bear upon their noiseless wings the hint of a repose still held in the unfolded hands of Night,—that is happiness,—that is rest! At such a time one loves to call to mind the scenes which must have often taken place upon the surface of this siren sea, when Venice had no less than thirty thousand gondolas, of which at least one-third were richly decorated, and vied with one another in their gilded draperies and carvings. To such an extent, indeed, did reckless competition in them go, that the Doge finally issued a decree that they should thenceforth have black awnings only. Since then Venetian gondolas have been prosaic in appearance, though their dark awnings have increased the opportunities for crime or intrigue, and they have often been the rendezvous of hate or love,—ideal vehicles for murder or elopement.

To the lover of the beautiful in Nature the most enchanting characteristic of this City of the Sea is its sunset glow. Italian sunsets are all beautiful; but those of Venice are the loveliest of all. Their softness, brilliancy and splendor cannot be described. The last which I beheld here, on a night in June, surpassed all others I had ever seen. The shadows were falling to the eastward; the hush of night was stealing on the world. The cares of life seemed disappearing down the radiant west together with the God of Day. Between us and the setting sun there seemed to fall a shower of powdered gold. The entire city was pervaded by a golden light, which yet was perfectly transparent, like the purest ether.

As we drew nearer to the Grand Canal the scene grew even more enchanting. In the refulgent light the city lay before us like a beautiful mirage, enthroned upon a golden bank between two seas,—the ocean and the sky. Her streets seemed filled with liquid sunshine. The steps of her patrician palaces appeared entangled in the meshes of a golden net. The neighboring islands looked like jeweled wreckage floating from a barge of gold. The whole effect was that of a poem without words, illustrated by Titian, and having for a soft accompaniment the ripple of the radiant waves. I have seen many impressive sights in many climes; but for triumphant beauty, crystallized in stone and glorified by the setting sun, I can recall no scene more matchless in its loveliness than that which I enjoyed, when, on this richly-tinted sea, I watched the Bride and Sovereign of the Adriatic pass to the curtained chamber of the night enveloped in a veil of gold.