zzi_ were broken in a gale, or _sciroccale_, not very long ago.
Lying awake in Venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the sea
thundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses God for the _murazzi_. On
such a night it happened once to me to dream a dream of Venice
overwhelmed by water. I saw the billows roll across the smooth lagoon
like a gigantic Eager. The Ducal Palace crumbled, and San Marco's domes
went down. The Campanile rocked and shivered like a reed. And all along
the Grand Canal the palaces swayed helpless, tottering to their fall,
while boats piled high with men and women strove to stem the tide, and
save themselves from those impending ruins. It was a mad dream, born of
the sea's roar and Tintoretto's painting. But this afternoon no such
visions are suggested. The sea sleeps, and in the moist autumn air we
break tall branches of the seeded yellowing samphire from hollows of the
rocks, and bear them homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobs of
Indian-corn.

Fusina is another point for these excursions. It lies at the mouth of
the Canal di Brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh and meadows,
intersected by broad renes. In spring the ditches bloom with
fleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisies
and the delicate sea-lavender. Scores of tiny plants are turning scarlet
on the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behind the Euganean
hills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on these shallows, muddy
shoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts the common earth into a
fairyland of fabulous dyes. Purple, violet, and rose are spread around
us. In front stretches the lagoon, tinted with a pale light from the
east, and beyond this pallid mirror shines Venice--a long low broken
line, touched with the softest roseate flush. Ere we reach the Giudecca
on our homeward way, sunset has faded. The western skies have clad
themselves in green, barred with dark fire-rimmed clouds. The Euganean
hills stand like stupendous pyramids, Egyptian, solemn, against a lemon
space on the horizon. The far reaches of the lagoons, the Alps, and
islands assume those tones of glowing lilac which are the supreme beauty
of Venetian evening. Then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter on
the Zattere. The quiet of the night has come.

Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetian
sunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the west
breaks suddenly into a l