Foreigners soon discern, however, that there is no bloodshed in such
encounters, and enter into them with a zeal as great as that of natives,
though with less skill. I knew one American who prided himself on such
matters, and who haughtily closed a certain bargain without words, as he
called it. The shopman offered several articles, for which he demanded
prices amounting in all to ninety-three francs. His wary customer rapidly
computed the total and replied "Without words, now, I'll give you a
hundred francs for the lot." With a pensive elevation of the eyebrows, and
a reluctant shrug of the shoulders, the shopman suffered him to take them.

Your Venetian is _simpatico_, if he is any thing. He is always ready
to feel and to express the deepest concern, and I rather think he likes to
have his sensibilities appealed to, as a pleasant and healthful exercise
for them. His sympathy begins at home, and he generously pities himself as
the victim of a combination of misfortunes, which leave him citizen of a
country without liberty, without commerce, without money, without hope. He
next pities his fellow-citizens, who are as desperately situated as
himself. Then he pities the degradation, corruption, and despair into
which the city has fallen. And I think his compassion is the most hopeless
thing in his character. That alone is touched; that alone is moved; and
when its impulse ceases he and every thing about him remain just as
before.

With the poor, this sensibility is amusingly mischievous. They never speak
of one of their own class without adding some such ejaculation as "Poor
fellow!" or, "Poor little creature!" They pity all wretchedness, no matter
from what cause, and the greatest rogue has their compassion when under a
cloud. It is all but impossible to punish thieves in Venice, where they
are very bold and numerous for the police are too much occupied with
political surveillance to give due attention to mere cutpurses and