th metal fittings
curiously wrought, and all that bravery of pomp so dear to the Venetian
heart, which calls forth surly decrees from those stern Signori of the
Council--the much unloved "Provveditori alle Pompe," the sumptuary
officers of this superb Republic.

Meanwhile, in this narrow water-street, sunk a few feet below the paved
foot path that stretches to the doors of the dwellings, there are sudden
grumbling movements among the retainers of the patrician families, as
they steer their gorgeous gondolas from side to side, to avoid
humiliating contact with that slow procession of barges bringing produce
from the island gardens of Mazzorbo, there are other barges laden with
great, white wooden tubs of water from Fusina, fresh and very needful to
these cities of the sea, and the dark hulks of barks curiously entangled
with nets and masts and unwieldy tackle of sailor and fisher, show
flashes of brilliant color as the water plays through the netted baskets
swinging low against their sides, while the sunlight glances back from
the gold and silver glory of the scales of living fish, crowded and
palpitating within their meshes.

The fisherfolk who guide these barks are gray and gnomelike in their
coloring, tanned by sky and sea and ceaseless atmospheres of fish, into
a neutral tint,--less vivid in hues of skin and hair, with eyes less
brilliant, with less vivacity and charm of bearing than the gay
Venetians,--but they are the descendants of those island tribes from
which the commerce and greatness of Venice issued; there is almost a
show of stateliness in the aggravating slowness with which their heavily
freighted barks proceed, serenely occupying the best of the narrow
waterway. They are not envious of the hangers-on of those palaces of the
nobles, these free fisherfolk of the islands; they have only haughty
stares for the servile set of gondoliers in lacings of gold and
scarlet--who are not nobles nor fishers, nor people of the soil--and
they pass them silently, with much ostentation of taking all the
gondoliers of Murano into the friendliness of their jests and curses, as
the barges touch and clash with some swiftly gliding gondolier of their
own rank, who wears no bravery or armorial bearings.

Their homes--long, low, white-washed cottages--spread along the main
channel and reach in lessening, dotted lines far off into the sea, where
other islands lie in friendly nearness; but the Bridge, with the Lions
of St. Mark