of the Orient and of mystics, rather than of
Provence, or the Ligurian shore and active, stalwart men.

We sight in the distance over the lagoon, the white walls and roof line
of Venice. The railway starts on its long course over one of the noblest
bridges in the world. It is more than two miles long. Some 80,000 piles
were used in its foundations, the superstructure entirely of stone, with
arches of 33 feet span each, and 222 in number. Along the roadway, on
either side is a stone balustrade. At each pier a balcony curves
outward. For four years a thousand men were engaged in building this
viaduct, and the total cost was $10,000,000. Having crossed, we reach an
island; then cross another, but shorter, bridge and pass to another
island. Our train thereafter comes to a stop for we have reached Venice
and enter a magnificent station, built of stone, with high semi-circular
roof, lofty waiting rooms, mosaic floors. We pass out through a spacious
doorway, and directly below, and in front, see the Grand Canal, bordered
on its farther shore by palaces and other noble structures of white
marble. A wide and broad plaza here fronts the water, and a stairway at
its edge leads downward to where are waiting a score of gondolas.

We step into one of these boats, and begin our first gondola ride in
Adriatic waters. It is late afternoon. The western sun lies dying in a
mass of yellow and soft brown clouds. On the high walls of the great
white station its rays fall with startling brightness and cast long
shadows of waiting gondoliers upon the plaza floor. The white palaces
opposite are shrouded in somber hues. A warm mist seems to rise from the
water. All is still as in the mid-Atlantic. When a sound is made, echoes
sharp and clear come from shore to shore.

Our boat glides away from this scene. Adjusting ourselves to its motion,
we roll from side to side in our little house of glass on a downy seat
and could pass the whole night here contentedly. Such rest, such
appalling silence, we never knew before. Those gondoliers do their work
with consummate skill. They have all the ease that comes of practise in
any calling however difficult. The sharp cut of an oar as it enters the
water is for a moment heard, but never a splash. The boat rolls
constantly, but we feel no strain. It moves as if it were a toy swan
drawn by a magnet in a child's hand.

From the Grand Canal we enter a narrow street. Sharp corners are turned
quickly, swift-mov