Canal. The barges used to be rowed in rhythmic strokes, but now
they are towed by the steamer. The coloured lamps, the vocalists
before the hotels, are not to my sense the greatest seduction of
Venice; but it would be an uncandid sketch of the Canalazzo that
shouldn't touch them with indulgence. Taking one nuisance with
another, they are probably the prettiest in the world, and if
they have in general more magic for the new arrival than for the
old Venice-lover, they in any case, at their best, keep up the
immemorial tradition. The Venetians have had from the beginning
of time the pride of their processions and spectacles, and it's a
wonder how with empty pockets they still make a clever show. The
Carnival is dead, but these are the scraps of its inheritance.
Vauxhall on the water is of course more Vauxhall than ever, with
the good fortune of home-made music and of a mirror that
reduplicates and multiplies. The feast of the Redeemer--the great
popular feast of the year--is a wonderful Venetian Vauxhall. All
Venice on this occasion takes to the boats for the night and
loads them with lamps and provisions. Wedged together in a mass
it sups and sings; every boat is a floating arbour, a private
cafe-concert. Of all Christian commemorations it is the
most ingenuously and harmlessly pagan. Toward morning the
passengers repair to the Lido, where, as the sun rises, they
plunge, still sociably, into the sea. The night of the Redentore
has been described, but it would be interesting to have an
account, from the domestic point of view, of its usual morrow. It
is mainly an affair of the Giudecca, however, which is bridged
over from the Zattere to the great church. The pontoons are laid
together during the day--it is all done with extraordinary
celerity and art--and the bridge is prolonged across the
Canalazzo (to Santa Maria Zobenigo), which is my only warrant for