from disillusionizing experience; and though his remark took away something of the glamour that surrounded the gondolier in my fancy, there proved to be a measure of truth in it. As it is not my practice to withhold a customary pourboire, I never really tested the gondolier's capabilities as an artist in vituperation. The gondolier who took me from the railway station to the hotel was, indeed, extremely polite, perhaps in the expectation of favors to come; he was evidently a man of parts and a good judge of nationalities, for he began at once to call attention in broken English to the many famous places that were passed on the Grand Canal, laying special emphasis on the palaces that were occupied by Lord Byron and by Browning; and as the destination was neared, he said, in wheedling tones, "Ze signor will gif ze gondolier a drink of wine?" I did not then know, as I learned later from a physician of Venice, that the Venetian water is most excellent and helps to make Venice one of the healthiest cities of the world; I therefore responded somewhat generously, and received the gondolier's hearty thanks in return. Other experiences, however, made me realize that my German friend was right in asserting that the gondoliers as a class are very insistent on getting all that is coming to them and something besides, and do not hesitate to speak freely if their demands are not fully satisfied. Fortunately, though, they do not use English objurgations, and the flowing Italian syllables of abuse might well be mistaken by the economical traveler for a blessing.

The average gondolier is a picturesquelooking fellow, but the smartest and handsomest ones seem always to be in the service of the old Venetian families. A pair of these, in their costumes of white, bending in unison over the oars of a fine private gondola on the Grand Canal, make a spirited moving picture. But most visitors find the gondolas themselves disappointing in their uniformity. Except in the matter of fittings, they seem all alike. Why must they all be painted a dead black? Why should they not appear in all the colors of the rainbow, like the painted piles

un

before the palaces, which to an romantic companion of one of my expeditions suggested barber's poles, though they are said really to bear the colors of the coats of arms of the owners? Tradition ascribes the black gondolas to the great plague which decimated. the population of Venice in the seventeenth century, and the consequent requirement that the gondolas should be dressed in mourning. Tradition also ascribes the wearing of black shawls by the women of Venice to the same blighting pestilence. Some deep-seated feeling must be behind these customs, for the black gondolas are somber and the black shawls are inconvenient as well as lugubrious. These shawls have a knotted fringe, which often catches on the buttons of the passer-by. This happened to me once while I was walking, in company with an acquaintance who spoke Italian, on one of the innumerable narrow streets in the poorer quarter of the town. As the woman thus accidentally entangled stopped to disengage herself, she said to me smilingly in fluent Italian, “I don't think I owe you anything, Signor, but you seem to have caught me." There was no expression of annoyance at the stranger's awkwardness in catching the fringe on his sleeve; in fact, I observed that the entanglement frequently happened where both catcher and caught were Venetians.

66

Various stories had been told me about the sweet singing of the gondoliers at night on the Grand Canal. I heard nothing of this on my first night in Venice. The next day I asked the hotel porter whether I should not hear any of these romantic songs from the gondoliers. 'Oh, no," he said; they will not disturb you at all. It is very quiet here, and you will not be annoyed by any noises on the Canal." I learned, however, from another source, that during festival times the gondoliers are more musical than when about their ordinary day's-or night's-work.

It certainly seems sad to think that the fine old houses of the princely Venetians are some of them turned into boarding-houses and hotels; but then it gives one a thrill to realize that he is dining in the richly decorated hall of an

old palace, with frescoes on the walls and ceiling, and a loggia at one end for the musicians. And when I went out. from my hotel the first evening to go to the Piazza di San Marco, I realized in an instant that I could be in no other place than Venice. For nowhere else could one cross a foot-bridge and see such a church as confronted me. Too many statues and too much ornament it may have had-I later found that it is characterized as 66 rococo "--but it was old, and time-worn, and so different from our New York churches, and in the twilight it seemed beautiful to me, even if it was called the Church of St. Mosessomehow it jars one to hear Moses called a saint, meek though he may have been. And when one passes on through an archway and comes out into the famous Square, with the crowds and the lights and the music and the wonderful old Byzantine Church of St. Mark's before him, it seems almost a sacrilege to sit down at a table there, in the open air, and order an ice! But then it is a warm summer evening, and the ice is delicious and, for a wonder, cheap-only half a franc, though it is at the famous Florian's-and it all combines to give one a quarter of an hour of most delightful rest and meditation.

The Venetians are art-lovers, if the people of any city are, but are they sure that the new campanile that they are building in the Piazza di San Marco is entirely worthy of its place? The vast bulk of yellow brick that is slowly rising in the great Square seems to many observers to be out of harmony with its surroundings. It dwarfs St. Mark's itself. Built on sixteen thousand piles, it will doubtless stand as long as its predecessor, a thousand years or more; and age may mellow it to something like harmony with with the time stained palaces and churches. It will undoubtedly lend distinction to the city in a distant view; but as one looks at it in the Square itself to-day, it seems huge, massive, and un-Venetian. The ultimate effect, however, one hopes, may be happier, for barely a third of the tower is completed. At present it is the At present it is the reverse of ornamental.

After seeing St. Mark's Square every

one goes to the Rialto Bridge. One has a curious feeling at seeing in reality what has long been familiar in picturesa feeling something like that one might have in waking from a pleasant dream and finding it true. There stands the famous bridge, throwing its matchless curve of marble across the wide Canal. Only it looks older, larger, and of more solid construction than one has imagined. And who had thought of its being crowded with shops! Not very fine ones, to be sure, but that again shows that Venice is more interested in its own life than in making a show for visitors. The Rialto is near the markets, and is a kind of fair in itself. All sorts of cheap stuffs are sold in its shops, and the foot-path way is gay with calicoes and other dress goods, housefurnishing things, and hardware, all displayed in front of the double row of small stores that line the central promenade of the noble bridge. Hawkers of green figs and other fruits have their baskets here and there, and ply their trade unmolested by Venice's police-if it has any. And then one can leave the busy center of the bridge and go to the promenade on either side and watch the passing gondolas and other craft. As one leans his arms on the broad marble railing, he notices that the near side of this railing has received a high polish from the contact with countless thousands of other arms that have leaned there, their owners bent on a similar diversion. Truly this bridge has had a history and was not built the day before yesterday !

Those who have not visited the City of the Sea often think of it as a place whose streets are all canals, and the means of intercommunication exclusively by water; whereas the fact is that Venetians commonly get about their city by walking, just as people everywhere else do. The gondola is a cab or carriage, an expensive means of transit, a luxury not often indulged in by the masses. For the gondola costs a franc a trip; a steamboat will carry one, in less romantic fashion, a long distance on the Grand Canal for a penny; but it is cheaper still to walk. So the Venetian generally walks. Everywhere there are bridges and streets-or rather alleys-providing