who have not good voices, and I am scarcely inclined to regret the silence
which long ago fell upon them. I am quite satisfied with the peculiar note
of warning which they utter as they approach the corner of a canal, and
which meaning simply, "To the Right," or "To the Left," is the most
pathetic and melancholy sound in the world. If, putting aside my own
comfort, I have sometimes wished for the sake of a dear, sentimental old
friend at home, who loves such idle illusions with an ardor unbecoming his
years, that I might hear the voice

"of Adria's gondolier,
By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep,"

I must still confess that I never did hear it under similar circumstances,
except in conversation across half a mile of lagoon, when, as usual, the
burden of the lay was polenta or soldi.

A recent Venetian writer, describing the character of the lower classes of
Venice, says: "No one can deny that our populace is loquacious and
quickwitted; but, on the other hand, no one can deny that it is regardless
of improvement. Venice, a city exceptional in its construction, its
customs, and its habits, has also an exceptional populace. It still feels,
although sixty-eight years have passed, the influence of the system of the
fallen Republic, of that oligarchic government, which, affording almost
every day some amusement to the people, left them no time to think of
their offended rights.... Since 1859 Venice has resembled a sepulchre of
the living,--squalor and beggary gaining ground with each day, and
commerce, with few exceptions, converted into monopoly; yet the populace
remains attached to its old habits, and will have its pleasure. If the
earnings are little, what then? Must one die of ennui? The caffe is
depopulated: not so the drinking-house. The last day before the drawing of