out against the sky with Grecian clearness and grace. Looking
over the bow, the traveler has facing him the Grand Canal, with the
Custom House where the figure of Fortune veers with the wind above her
golden ball; beyond rise the double domes of the Salute with their great
reversed consoles, forming the most majestic entrance to this watery
avenue bordered by palaces.

He who comes for the first time to Venice by this route realizes a
dream--his only dream perhaps ever destined to be surpassed by the
reality; and if he knows how to enjoy the beauty of nature, if he can
take delight in silver-gray and rose-colored reflections in water, if he
loves light and color, the picturesque life of Italian squares and
streets, the good humor of the people and their gentle speech which
seems like the twittering of birds, let him only allow himself to live
for a little time under the sky of Venice, and he has before him a
season of happiness without alloy.

THE APPROACH BY TRAIN[43]

BY THE EDITOR

After leaving Padua the land for several miles is flat sand. No grass or
tree grows here. Lagoons and canals intersect the land. At the right are
marshes bordering the Adriatic. Along the horizon, light smoky clouds
blend imperceptibly with the water. Other clouds, floating overhead, are
reflected in the brown and waveless water. Far across this expanse
glides here and there a small boat, propelled by a man standing erect.
Through dim mists, settled over the bay, we sight flying birds that call
loudly as they increase their flight. Absolutely without motion is this
water. The sole objects that move are boats and birds. The water
shimmers and sparkles wherever the sun, passing in and out of clouds,
lights it up. The shallow bay broadens until our view includes no land.
Everywhere extends a realm of waveless waters, in which fishing stakes
stand erect, and tall plants grow.

How strangely all this differs from the blue Mediterranean we saw a
fortnight ago when riding from Genoa to Leghorn, under that cloudless
sky of blue; in that stirring breeze, and an almost tropical
temperature, tho it was late in December; along that rocky,
tunnel-pierced coast, with deep olive groves bordering the way; the sea
a boundless vision of water moving and resounding against the shore;
whitecaps everywhere visible on its broad expanse. Here on this road to
Venice is complete repose, lifeless, sleepy repose--as of the dead--not
without poetry, but