to hoist a sail and help himself along.  After breakfast, when the crew for my gondola had been assembled, Francesco and I followed with the Signora.  It was one of those perfect mornings which occur as a respite from broken weather, when the air is windless and the light falls soft through haze on the horizon.  As we broke into the lagoon behind the Redentore, the islands in front of us, S. Spirito, Poveglia, Malamocco, seemed as though they were just lifted from the sea-line.  The Euganeans, far away to westward, were bathed in mist, and almost blent with the blue sky.  Our four rowers put their backs into their work; and soon we reached the port of Malamocco, where a breeze from the Adriatic caught us sideways for a while.  This is the largest of the breaches in the Lidi, or raised sand-reefs, which protect Venice from the sea:  it affords an entrance to vessels of draught like the steamers of the Peninsular and Oriental Company.  We crossed the dancing wavelets of the port; but when we passed under the lee of Pelestrina, the breeze failed, and the lagoon was once again a sheet of undulating glass.  At S. Pietro on this island a halt was made to give the oarsmen wine, and here we saw the women at their cottage doorways making lace.  The old lace industry of Venice has recently been revived.  From Burano and Pelestrina cargoes of hand-made imitations of the ancient fabrics are sent at intervals to Jesurun’s magazine at S. Marco.  He is the chief impresario of the trade, employing hundreds of hands, and speculating for a handsome profit in the foreign market on the price he gives his workwomen.

Now we are well lost in the lagoons—­Venice no longer visible behind; the Alps and Euganeans shrouded in a noonday haze; the lowlands at the mouth of Brenta marked by clumps of trees ephemerally faint in silver silhouette 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.