written above these pages, it is not of the great Square that I
think, with its strange basilica and its high arcades, nor of the
wide mouth of the Grand Canal, with the stately steps and the
well- poised dome of the Salute; it is not of the low lagoon, nor
the sweet Piazzetta, nor the dark chambers of St. Mark's. I
simply see a narrow canal in the heart of the city--a patch of
green water and a surface of pink wall. The gondola moves slowly;
it gives a great smooth swerve, passes under a bridge, and the
gondolier's cry, carried over the quiet water, makes a kind of
splash in the stillness. A girl crosses the little bridge, which
has an arch like a camel's back, with an old shawl on her head,
which makes her characteristic and charming; you see her against
the sky as you float beneath. The pink of the old wall seems to
fill the whole place; it sinks even into the opaque water. Behind
the wall is a garden, out of which the long arm of a white June
rose--the roses of Venice are splendid--has flung itself by way
of spontaneous ornament. On the other side of this small water-
way is a great shabby facade of Gothic windows and balconies--
balconies on which dirty clothes are hung and under which a
cavernous-looking doorway opens from a low flight of slimy water-
steps. It is very hot and still, the canal has a queer smell, and
the whole place is enchanting.

[Illustration: A NARROW CANAL, VENICE]

It is poor work, however, talking about the colour of things in
Venice. The fond spectator is perpetually looking at it from his
window, when he is not floating about with that delightful sense
of being for the moment a part of it, which any gentleman in a
gondola is free to entertain. Venetian windows and balconies are