Waterbury evening Democrat., 1888-09-15
A DAY IN VENICE.
A TRAVELLERS GLIMPSE OF ITS
 DREAMY AND IOYLLlc LIFE.

Moonlight Scene - Music, Dark Eyed
 Maidens and Flowers.
 I am soon down stairs for simple break fase of coffee, rolls and omelet and out on my way to the Piazza As I pass over the Ponte della Paglia, the gondoliers are clean ing their boats and polishing the brass motAltings aud iron prows till they glisten in the sun like refined gold and silver. In the Piazza all is life, and yet that dreamy sort of life make Venice so idylhc; the shops are all open, and the cafes serving to natives and tourists the morning meal. The windows in the arcade flash out their brilliant setting of jewelry, gems lovely Venetian glass, rare curics and stu1fs from the e3st, like price less girdle around this matchless square of San Marco.
 Of course, my first duty and pleasure, as it is my monday and closing one, is to enter St. Marks church; to wander about within the aisles and arches; to sit for an hour in | some secluded corner, and contemplate its | marvellous architecture of piers, of vaults, of | domes; it's almost inconceivable riches of alabaster, of marbles, of porphyry, bronzes, | gold, silver, statuary and mosaics; to drink | 1t all in, and fill the soul with calm and satis- flying delight, and to return again and again and again day by day to the same feast, more like dream than reality
 From the Piazetta at the Molo a gondola takes me along the grand canal to visit the manufactories of mosaicS, glass; furniture and delightful Venetian iron work. Noon time comes all too soon, and so leaving my l gcndolier at the Rialto, with the admonition to be at the Molo at o'clock, I pass down through the Merceria and make my way on to the Piazza, stopping at one of the little shops in a side calle to get horn of corn for the pigeons; others before me, for the bell on the Torre delp Orologio has struck the | noon hour, and around the square many are engaged in the same charming occupation I stop beside young country woman within one of the arches who has score of these beautiful birds on her person, one, two, three, on top of each other, all pushing, pecking and cooing for the bright, golden grain which she holds in her dainty outstretched hands, and the happy smile on her fair face attests to the pure enjoyment she is having.
 A group of little ones, sitting on the pave ment, around the base of one of the bronze pedestals to the iagstaffs, with the birds all about them, in their laps, on their hands, is another pretty sight, till some one on the other side of the piazza coos to the birds. The pigeons simultaneously, from all direc- tions, rise and go sweeping and swirring down upon 1t en masse as it falls to the pave ment.
 After lunch, or dejeuner, visits to the l up the time till p. m., when I return to St.
 Marks to listen to the chanting of the choir.
 And what chorus it is Never before have
 1 heard such sacred music; the strong, clear
 voices of the young mingle with the deep
 tremor of the aged fathers; the grandly toned organ peals forth its stirring ac- compartment in delightful harmony.
 rest upon the marble seat within the
 shadow of the south aisle, and the music l Aa
 among the arches and domes and comes
 down in mellowed and subdued reflections, ? and dies away ill gentle and lingering echo which seems to love and caress the very air n it pulsates.
 Leaving St. Marks, find my gondolier
 punctual at the appointed time, and we start out for our daily drift up the Grand canal as ! far as the station and back again, which oc- cupies two hours, or till dinner time. 1 call it drifting, for that comes nearest to express 3 ing the silent, almost motionless gliding of
 this most fascinating of conveyances. The
 gondolier uses his oar, it is true, but the ac-
 ton is so graceful, the exertiou apparently so easy, the progress so dreamy and slow that it seems to be simply drifting, as if car ried along by some unseen current. Never
 before have I known what loafing, par ex-
 cellence ideal rest-from all physical and
 mental activity-meant; the cushions are soft as down, my gondoGer a most entertain ing fellow, my cigarette the finest Alexan-
 Gria, the afternoon simply perfect, the Grand
 canal a wonderland, all quiet and still, with
 not sound save the distant warning cry of some gondoIier at the entrance of a side
 canal; and as 1 lie back and throw aside my
 hat and let the refreshing breeze play
 through my hair, am content.
 Dinner being over, once more direct my
 steps to the Piazza. The lamps are all aglow,
 and, if possible, the square is more enchant- t ing by night than by day. Standing just to
 the right of the archway opening to the r Merceria, one gets the finest view Of the l. scene. The moon is midway up the eastern }; sky, just above St. Marks, her mellow light 4 dimming the lamps of the Piazza; the majes- '' tic Campanile is outlined in sharp silhouette, y its angel crowned spire seeming to reach up n and lose itself amid the shining stars; it }: casts full dark shadow the full length oi }. the Piazza in strong contrast to the white tt ness of the moon lit pavement.
 n The shops are all ablaze; diamonds, sap u Il phires, rubies, emeralds, pearls, corals, gold I and Genoese work flash back the fire from 6 V thousand lights. The Arcade is full of surg l. ing humanity; the tables at the entrances to k the cafes and out on the pavement are sur e rounded by almost every nationality, slipping 4 coffee and granita. The band stationed ir " the center of the square gives to the scene '' the added charm of fine music. Dark eyed
 Venetian maidens smile at one through (
 maze of soft black lace, mysteriously wound . about their heads, half concealing, half re ' vealing their beautiful faces Flower girls n laden with baskets or trays of exotics finG
 ready sales, for the custom is universal; anc t. Rosa, the fairest of them all, so deftly anG }; coQuettishly fixes a boutonniere in youl NJ lapel that one hasn't the heart to refuse tht '' few sous anyway.
 T. What a scene! One never to be forgoet ten It and as I write, the memory of it makes th' l. time seem thousand years till I am fortu
 nate enough to be once moro in Venice d We'll might Jacopo Foscari beg of his i'm ; placable judges to allow him to return to dit '' insVenice!-Cor. Boston Transcript
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