Life_ of the Giardini Pubblici as
being an inevitable resort in the sixties; but they must, I think, have
lost their vogue. The Venetians who want to walk now do so with more
comfort and entertainment in S. Mark's Square.

At the Via Garibaldi entrance is a monument to the fine old Liberator,
who stands, wearing the famous cap and cloak, sword in hand, on the
summit of a rock. Below him on one side is a lion, but a lion without
wings, and on the other one of his watchful Italian soldiers. There is a
rugged simplicity about it that is very pleasing. Among other statues in
the gardens is one to perpetuate the memory of Querini, the Arctic
explorer, with Esquimaux dogs at his side; Wagner also is here.

In the public gardens are the buildings in which international art
exhibitions are held every other year. These exhibitions are not very
remarkable, but it is extremely entertaining to be in Venice on the
opening day, for all the State barges and private gondolas turn out in
their richest colours, some with as many as eighteen rowers all bending
to the oar at the same moment, and in a splendid procession they convey
important gentlemen in tall hats to the scene of the ceremony, while
overhead two great dirigible airships solemnly swim like distended
whales.

In the afternoon of the 1914 ceremony the Principe Tommaso left the
Arsenal in a motor-boat for some distant vessel. I chanced to be
proceeding at the time at a leisurely pace from S. Niccolo di Lido to S.
Pietro in Castello. Suddenly into the quietude of the lagoon broke the
thunder of an advancing motor-boat proceeding at the maximum speed
attainable by those terrific vessels. It passed us like a sea monster,
and we had, as we clung to the sides of the rocking gondola, a momentary
glimpse of the Principe behind an immense cigar. And then a more
disturbing noise still, for out of the Arsenal, scattering foam, came
four hydroplanes to act as a convoy and guard of honour, all soaring
from their spray just before our eyes, and like enraged giant
dragon-flies wheeling and swooping above the prince until we lost sight
and sound of them. But long before we were at S. Pietro's they were
furiously back again.

Beyond the gardens, and connected with them by a bridge, is the island
of S. Elena, where the foundry was built in which were recast the
campanile bells after the fall of 1902. This is a waste space of grass
and a few trees, and here the children play, and here, rec