open air, that the architects look out for a market-place to overarch. And there is no question that this huge vaulted space produces quite a peculiar effect. It is an enclosed infinity, which has more analogy to man's habits and feelings than the starry heavens. The latter takes us out of ourselves; the former insensibly brings us back to ourselves.
For the same reason, I also like to stay in the Church of St. Justina. This church, which is eighty-five feet long, and high and broad in proportion, is built in a grand and simple style. This evening I seated myself in a corner, and indulged in quiet contemplation. Then I felt truly alone; for no one in the world even if he had thought of me for the moment, would have looked for me here.
Now everything ought to be packed up again; for to-morrow morning I set off by water, upon the Brenta. It rained to-day; but now it has cleared, and I hope I shall be able to see the lagunes and the Bride of the Sea by beautiful daylight, and to greet my friends from her bosom.
VENICE.
On my page in the Book of Fate, there was written that on the evening of the 28th of September, by five o'clock, German time, I should see Venice for the first time, as I passed from the Brenta into the lagunes, and that soon afterward I should actually enter and visit this strange island-city, this heaven-like republic. So now. Heaven be praised! Venice is no longer to me a bare and a hollow name, which has so long tormented me,—me, the mental enemy of mere verbal sounds.
As the first of the gondoliers came up to the ship (they come in order to convey more quickly to Venice those passengers who are in a hurry), I recollected an old plaything, of which, perhaps, I had not thought for
