that the air to which they sing is monotonous: so it is; yet well adapted to recitation. The antagonists stood on the Piazzetta, at the verge of the laguna, surrounded by other gondolieri—the whole scene lighted up by the moon. They chanted the favourite passage, the death of Clorinda. I could only follow the general sense, as they recite in Venetian; but the subject of the verse, high and heroic, the associations called up—the beauty of the spot—a sort of dignity in the gestures of the elder boatman, and nothing harsh, though it might be monotonous, in their chaunt—the whole thing gave me inexpressible pleasure—it was a Venetian scene, dressed in its best; and the imagination was wrapped in perfect enjoyment.
The weeks pass away, and we are soon, I am sorry to say, about to leave Venice. We have taken our sight-seeing quietly, and each day has had a novel pleasure. It is one of our amusements to visit the piazza of San Marco at two in the afternoon, when, on the striking of the hour on the great clock, the pigeons come down to be fed. These birds are sacred to Saint Mark, and it is penal to kill any. They lead a happy life, petted by all the citizens. Now and then they may be served up at the dinner of a poor man; but they are too many not to spare,
