d the corners of canals; and his acquaintanceship
with every soul in Venice makes a voyage with him an amusing
experience. And he often sings and is always good-humoured.

All gondoliers are not so. A gondolier with a grudge can be a most
dismal companion, for he talks to himself. What he says, you cannot
comprehend, for it is muttered and acutely foreign, but there is no
doubt whatever that it is criticism detrimental to you, to some other
equally objectionable person, or to the world at large.

The gondolier does not differ noticeably from any other man whose
business it is to convey his fellow creatures from one spot to another.
The continual practice of assisting richer people than oneself to do
things that oneself never does except for a livelihood would seem to
engender a sardonic cast of mind. Where the gondolier chiefly differs
from, say, the London cabman, is in his gift of speech. Cabmen can be
caustic, sceptical, critical, censorious, but they do occasionally stop
for breath. There is no need for a gondolier ever to do so either by day
or night; while when he is not talking he is accompanying every movement
by a grunt.

It is this habit of talking and bickering which should make one very
careful in choosing a lodging. Never let it be near a traghetto; for at
traghetti there is talk incessant, day and night: argument, abuse, and
raillery. The prevailing tone is that of men with a grievance. The only
sound you never hear there is laughter.

The passion for bickering belongs to watermen, although loquacity is
shared by the whole city. The right to the back answer is one which the
Venetian cherishes as jealously, I should say, as any; so much so that
the gondolier whom your generosity struck dumb would be an unhappy man
in spite of his windfall.

[Illustration: THE DOGANA (WITH S. GIORGIO MAGGIORE JUST VISIBLE)]

The gondolier assimilates to the cabman also in his liking to be
overpaid. The English and Americans have been overpaying him for so many
years that to receive now an exact fare from foreigners fills him with
dismay. From Venetians, who, however, do not much use gondolas except as
ferry boats, he expects it; but not from us, especially if there is a
lady on board, for she is always his ally (as he knows) when it comes to
pay time. A cabman who sits on a box and whips his horse, or a chauffeur
who turns a wheel, is that and nothing more; but a gondolier is a
romantic figure, and a gondola is a r