to the company, and one day at the restaurant some ladies, who had been
dining there, said "_Complimenti!_" on going out, with a grace that
went near to make the beefsteak tender. It is this uncostly gentleness of
bearing which gives a winning impression of the whole people, whatever
selfishness or real discourtesy lie beneath it. At home it sometimes seems
that we are in such haste to live and be done with it, we have no time to
be polite. Or is popular politeness merely a vice of servile peoples? And
is it altogether better to be rude? I wish it were not. If you are lost in
his city (and you are pretty sure to be lost there, continually), a
Venetian will go with you wherever you wish. And he will do this amiable
little service out of what one may say old civilization has established in
place of goodness of heart, but which is perhaps not so different from it.

You hear people in the streets bless each other in the most dramatic
fashion. I once caught these parting words between an old man and a young
girl;

_Giovanetta_. Revered sir! (_Patron riverito!_)

_Vecchio_. (With that peculiar backward wave and beneficent wag of
the hand, only possible to Italians.) Blessed child! (_Benedetta!_)

It was in a crowd, but no one turned round at the utterance of terms which
Anglo-Saxons would scarcely use in their most emotional moments. The old
gentleman who sells boxes for the theatre in the Old Procuratie always
gave me his benediction when I took a box.

There is equal exuberance of invective, and I have heard many fine
maledictions on the Venetian streets, but I recollect none more elaborate
than that of a gondolier who, after listening peacefully to a quarrel