A GARDEN IN VENICE 



richness. He must alter his whole scheme of 

 colour or go home. The next day it may be 

 worse, and he may wait for weeks for the effect 

 that he had not quite time to render. Thus it is 

 that finished studio-painted pictures of Venice so 

 rarely tell of Venice to the man who knows it, 

 whilst the quick sketches made by the artist who 

 can see, and is possessed of the hand that can 

 render, faithful to his eye and taste, are so very 

 lovely. 



To the idle man this change of mood and colour 

 is, or should be, perfection. He should never tire, 

 and rarely does so, of his fickle mistress. He is 

 floating to-day where he floated yesterday. The 

 lagoon, the island, the buildings are all the same, 

 but how different ! The Euganean Hills, or per- 

 haps the Alps, that spoke to him of Shelley, or 

 of snow, the distant line of terra-jirma that held, 

 as in a fine cut frame, the steely lagoon waters, 

 are now hidden in a mist of light. The Ducal 

 Palace, the Salute's dome, that yesterday appeared 

 clear and earthly, the grand Campanile of San 

 Marco — alas that it has fallen a victim to its own 



B 2 II 



