k fire-rimmed clouds. The Euganean hills stand like stupendous
pyramids, Egyptian, solemn, against a lemon space on the horizon. The
far reaches of the lagoons, the Alps, and islands assume those tones
of glowing lilac which are the supreme beauty of Venetian evening.
Then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter on the Zattere. The
quiet of the night has come.

Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetian
sunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the
west breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear
turquoise heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the
zenith, and unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step over
step, stealing along the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs.
Or, again, after a fair day, a change of weather approaches, and
high, infinitely high, the skies are woven over with a web of
half-transparent cirrus-clouds. These in the afterglow blush crimson,
and through their rifts the depth of heaven is of a hard and gemlike
blue, and all the water turns to rose beneath them. I remember one
such evening on the way back from Torcello. We were well out at sea
between Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy arches overhead were reflected
without interruption in the waveless ruddy lake below. Our black boat
was the only dark spot in this sphere of splendour. We seemed to hang
suspended; and such as this, I fancied, must be the feeling of an
insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled rose. Yet not these
melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even more exquisite,
perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys, with just
one touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples here and
there on the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and evening
come. And beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather, when
sea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the lagoon
grass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon the
surface. There is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of
light and colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way into
our hearts.

VII.--AT THE LIDO

Of all these afternoon excursions, that to the Lido is most frequent.
It has two points for approach. The more distant is the little station
of San Nicoletto, at the mouth of the Porto. With an ebb-tide, the
water of the lagoon runs past the mulberry gardens of this hamlet like
a river. There is her