te against the filmy, shimmering horizon. Form and colour
have disappeared in light-irradiated vapour of an opal hue. And yet
instinctively we know that we are not at sea; the different quality
of the water, the piles emerging here and there above the surface, the
suggestion of coast-lines scarcely felt in this infinity of lustre,
all remind us that our voyage is confined to the charmed limits of an
inland lake. At length the jutting headland of Pelestrina was reached.
We broke across the Porto di Chioggia, and saw Chioggia itself
ahead--a huddled mass of houses low upon the water. One by one, as
we rowed steadily, the fishing-boats passed by, emerging from their
harbour for a twelve hours' cruise upon the open sea. In a long
line they came, with variegated sails of orange, red, and saffron,
curiously chequered at the corners, and cantled with devices in
contrasted tints. A little land-breeze carried them forward. The
lagoon reflected their deep colours till they reached the port. Then,
slightly swerving eastward on their course, but still in single file,
they took the sea and scattered, like beautiful bright-plumaged birds,
who from a streamlet float into a lake, and find their way at large
according as each wills.

The Signorino and Antonio, though want of wind obliged them to row the
whole way from Venice, had reached Chioggia an hour before, and stood
waiting to receive us on the quay. It is a quaint town this Chioggia,
which has always lived a separate life from that of Venice. Language
and race and customs have held the two populations apart from those
distant years when Genoa and the Republic of S. Mark fought their duel
to the death out in the Chioggian harbours, down to these days, when
your Venetian gondolier will tell you that the Chioggoto loves his
pipe more than his _donna_ or his wife. The main canal is lined
with substantial palaces, attesting to old wealth and comfort. But
from Chioggia, even more than from Venice, the tide of modern luxury
and traffic has retreated. The place is left to fishing folk and
builders of the fishing craft, whose wharves still form the liveliest
quarter. Wandering about its wide deserted courts and _calli_,
we feel the spirit of the decadent Venetian nobility. Passages from
Goldoni's and Casanova's Memoirs occur to our memory. It seems easy to
realise what they wrote about the dishevelled gaiety and lawless
license of Chioggia in the days of powder, sword-knot, and _soprani_.