that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick-blooded
civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with other loiterers at
the caffe; not with the natty people who talk politics interminably over
little cups of black coffee; not with those old habitues, who sit forever
under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the tops of their sticks,
and staring at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness and
knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim eyes of age;
certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasagnone are the
Germans, with their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg-of-
mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not flourish in the best
caffe; he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not
rich. It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with a little
anisette, is the order over which he sits a whole evening. He knows the
waiter intimately, and does not call him "Shop!" (Bottega,) as less
familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty sure to be
named. "Behold!" he says, when the servant places his modest drink before
him, "who is that loveliest blonde there?" Or to his fellow-lasagnone:
"She regards me! I have broken her the heart!" This is his sole business
and mission, the cruel lasagnone--to break ladies the heart. He spares no
condition,--neither rank nor wealth is any defense against him. I often
wonder what is in that note he continually shows to his friend. The
confession of some broken heart, I think. When he has folded it, and put
it away, he chuckles _"Ah, cara!"_ and sucks at his long, slender
Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see him
read the papers,--neither the Italian papers nor the Parisian journals,
though if he can get "Galignani" he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a
knowledge of English, uttering upon occasion, with great relish, such
distinctively English words as "Yes" and "Not," and to the waiter, "A-
little-fire-if-you-please." He sits very late in the caffe, and he touches
his hat--his curly French hat--to the company as he goes out with a mild