"Body of Bacchus, what potatoes! Here, in this trench to the right."

They set down the bier there, gladly. They strip away the coffin's gay
upper garment; they leave but the under-dress of black box, painted to
that favor with pitch. They shove it into the grave-digger's arms, where
he stands in the trench, in the soft earth, rich with bones. He lets it
slide swiftly to the ground--thump! _Ecco fatto!_

The two boys pick up the empty bier, and dance merrily away with it to the
riva-gate, feigning a little play after the manner of children,--"Oh, what
a beautiful dead!"

The eldest of the pleasant ruffians is all the pleasanter for
_sciampagnin_, and can hardly be persuaded to go out at the right
gate.

We strangers stay behind a little, to consult with mother spectator--
Venetian, this. "Who is the dead man, signore?"

"It is a woman, poor little thing! Dead in child-bed. The baby is in there
with her."

It has been a cheerful funeral, and yet we are not in great spirits as we
go back to the city.

For my part, I do not think the cry of sea-gulls on a gloomy day is a
joyous sound; and the sight of those theatrical angels, with their
shameless, unfinished backs, flying off the top of the rococo facade of
the church of the Jesuits, has always been a spectacle to fill me with
despondency and foreboding.