n; up the winding Rio di S. Maria
Formosa, and then into the Rio dei Mendicanti with a glimpse of the
superb Colleoni statue and SS. Giovanni e Paoli and the lions on the
Scuola of S. Mark; under the bridge with a pretty Madonna on it; and so
up the Rio dei Mendicanti, passing on the left a wineyard with two
graceful round arches in it and then a pleasant garden with a pergola,
and then a busy squero with men always at work on gondolas new or old.
And so beneath a high bridge to the open lagoon, with the gay walls and
sombre cypresses of the cemetery immediately in front and the island of
Murano beyond.

Many persons stop at the Campo Santo, but there is not much profit in so
doing unless one is a Blair or an Ashton. Its cypresses are more
beautiful from the water than close at hand, and the Venetian tombstones
dazzle. Moreover, there are no seats, and the custodian insists upon
abstracting one's walking-stick. I made fruitless efforts to be directed
to the English section, where among many graves of our countrymen is
that of the historical novelist, G.P.R. James.

[Illustration: THE RIO TORRESELLE AND BACK OF THE PALAZZO DARIO]

Murano is interesting in art as being the home of that early school of
painting in which the Vivarini were the greatest names, which supplied
altar-pieces for all the Venetian churches until the Bellini arrived
from Padua with more acceptable methods. The invaders brought in an
element of worldly splendour hitherto lacking. From the concentrated
saintliness of the Vivarini to the sumptuous assurance of Titian is a
far cry, yet how few the years that intervened! To-day there are no
painters in Murano; nothing indeed but gardeners and glass-blowers, and
the island is associated purely with the glass industry. Which is the
most interesting furnace, I know not, for I have always fallen to the
first of all, close to the landing stage, and spent there several
amusing half-hours, albeit hotter than the innermost pit. Nothing ever
changes there: one sees the same artificers and the same routine; the
same flames rage; glass is the same mystery, beyond all conjuring, so
ductile and malleable here, so brittle and rigid everywhere else. There
you sit, or stand, some score of visitors, while the wizards round the
furnace busily and incredibly convert molten blobs of anything (you
would have said) but glass into delicate carafes and sparkling vases.
Meanwhile the sweat streams from them in rivulets, a