* * * * *
Venice is mad about campaniles. It has a dozen, I think, some of them leaning, like the tower at Pisa.
* * * * *
I must not forget the old rose of the clouds in the west.
* * * * *
A gondolier selling vegetables and crying his wares is pure music. At my feet white steps laved by whitish-blue water. Tall, cool, damp walls, ten feet apart. Cool, wet, red brick pavements. The sun shining above makes one realize how lovely and cool it is here; and birds singing everywhere.
* * * * *
Gondolas doing everything, carrying casks, coal, lumber, lime, stone, flour, bricks, and boxed supplies generally, and others carrying vegetables, fruit, kindling and flowers. Only now I saw a boat slipping by crowded with red geraniums.
* * * * *
Lovely pointed windows and doors; houses, with colonnades, trefoils, quadrifoils, and exquisite fluted cornices to match, making every house that strictly adheres to them a jewel. It is Gothic, crossed with Moorish and Byzantine fancy. Some of them take on the black and white of London smoke, though why I have no idea. Others being colored richly at first are weathered by time into lovely half-colors or tones.