ittle
dogs think, when they see me in these splendid new things?'"

SEVENTEENTH EVENING.

"I have spoken to you of Pompeii," said the Moon; "that corpse of a
city, exposed in the view of living towns: I know another sight still
more strange, and this is not the corpse, but the spectre of a city.
Whenever the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they seem
to me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the spouting
water may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her fame! On
the surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and that is her widow's
veil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and his city are
his mausoleum! Dost thou know this city? She has never heard the
rolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her streets, through
which the fish swim, while the black gondola glides spectrally over
the green water. I will show you the place," continued the Moon, "the
largest square in it, and you will fancy yourself transported into the
city of a fairy tale. The grass grows rank among the broad flagstones,
and in the morning twilight thousands of tame pigeons flutter around
the solitary lofty tower. On three sides you find yourself surrounded
by cloistered walks. In these the silent Turk sits smoking his long
pipe, the handsome Greek leans against the pillar and gazes at the
upraised trophies and lofty masts, memorials of power that is gone.
The flags hang down like mourning scarves. A girl rests there: she has
put down her heavy pails filled with water, the yoke with which she
has carried them rests on one of her shoulders, and she leans against
the mast of victory. That is not a fairy palace you see before you
yonder, but a church: the gilded domes and shining orbs flash back my
beams; the glorious bronze horses up yonder have made journeys, like
the bronze horse in the fairy tale: they have come hither, and gone
hence, and have returned again. Do you notice the variegated splendour
of the walls and windows? It looks as if Genius had followed the
caprices of a child, in the adornment of these singular temples. Do
you see the winged lion on the pillar? The gold glitters still, but
his wings are tied--the lion is dead, for the king of the sea is dead;
the great halls stand desolate, and where gorgeous paintings hung of
yore, the naked wall now peers through. The _lazzarone_ sleeps under
the arcade, whose pavement in old times was to be trodden only by the
feet of high nobility. F