A GARDEN IN VENICE 



weight and Time's corrosion — the scarcely less 

 beautiful Campanile of San Giorgio, whose clean 

 outlines stood out so sharply in the atmosphere of 

 vivid blue, to-day all swim ethereal in a golden 

 haze. 'Tis all there, but a dream rather than a 

 reality, a spirit picture more than a motive for a 

 sketch. 



Alas ! to the most faithful come moments of 

 aberration. Man is never wholly contented. 

 Adam and Eve, I fancy, were perfectly sick of 

 Paradise before they sinned to leave it ; and I, a 

 petty descendant with inherited longing for action 

 and of change when I could do nothing, got tired 

 day after day of doing it. One's eyes got satiated 

 with the very beauty of palace and church, of 

 sky and of sea, and my nerves, ajar with the per- 

 fection of repose, broke out one afternoon more 

 lovely than its fellows, and said, " I'm sick of all 

 this water. I'm tired of pink and grey, of blue 

 and of red. I thirst for dry land and green trees 

 and shrubs, and flowers ; a garden." I was 

 answered, " A garden." You know we have 

 asked for one everywhere ; there's no such thing 



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