. Gondola days, by F. Hopkinson Smith; . ems in stone, — canvases that radiate,sombre forests, oases of olive and palm,Beethoven, Milton, and even the great Mi-chael himself, may have roused in you noquiver of delight nor thrill of feeling. But here, — here by this wondrous city ofthe sea, — here, where the transcendent god-dess of the night spreads her wings, radiantin the light of an August moon, her browstudded with stars, — even were your soul ofclay, here would it vibrate to the dignity,the beauty, and the majesty of her matchlesspresence. As you lie, adrift in your gondola, hung inmid ai
. Gondola days, by F. Hopkinson Smith; . ems in stone, — canvases that radiate,sombre forests, oases of olive and palm,Beethoven, Milton, and even the great Mi-chael himself, may have roused in you noquiver of delight nor thrill of feeling. But here, — here by this wondrous city ofthe sea, — here, where the transcendent god-dess of the night spreads her wings, radiantin the light of an August moon, her browstudded with stars, — even were your soul ofclay, here would it vibrate to the dignity,the beauty, and the majesty of her matchlesspresence. As you lie, adrift in your gondola, hung inmid air, — so like a mirror is the sea, so vastthe vault above you, — how dreamlike thecharm ! How exquisite the languor! Nowa burst of music from the far-off plaza, dyinginto echoes about the walls of San Giorgio;now the slow tolling of some bell from a dis-tant tower; now the ripple of a laugh, or asnatch of song, or the low cooing of a loversvoice, as a ghostly skiff with drawn curtainsand muffled light glides past; and now the. low plash of the rowers as some phantom Alight inship looms above you with bow-lights aglow, ^^?^^^crosses the highway of silver, and melts intoshadow. Suddenly from out the stillness there burstsacross the bosom of the sleeping wave thedull boom of the evening gun, followed bythe long blast of the bugle from the big war-ship near the arsenal; and then, as you holdyour breath, the clear deep tones of the greatbell of the Campanile strike the hour. Now is the spell complete ! The Professor, in the seat beside me, turnshis head, and, with a cautioning hand to Es-pero to stay his oar, listens till each echohas had its say; first San Giorgios wall, thenthe Public Garden, and last the low murmurthat pulsates back from the outlying islandsof the lagoon. On nights like these the Pro-fessor rarely talks. He lies back on theyielding cushions, his eyes upturned to thestars, the glow of his cigarette lighting hisface. Now and then he straightens himself,l
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookidgondoladaysbyfho00smit
