tan and not
too aristocratic visitor may get an excellent cup of coffee (for the
Venetians, thanks to their long connection with the East, know
what coffee is, and will not take chiccory or other such detestable
substitutes in lieu of it) for the modest charge of thirteen
centimes--just over two cents--and study as he drinks it the moving
and ever-amusing scenes enacted before his eyes. His neighbor perhaps
will be an old gentleman, the very type of the old "pantaloon" whose
mask was in the old comedy supposed to be the impersonation of
Venice. There are the long, slender and rather delicately-cut features
terminating in a long, narrow and somewhat protruding chin; the high
cheek-bones, the lank and sombre cheeks, the high nose, the dark
bright eye under its bushy brow. He is very thin, very seedy, and
evidently _very_ poor. But he salutes you, as you take your seat
beside him, with the air of an ex-member of "The Ten;" his ancient
hat and napless coat are carefully brushed; his outrageously high
shirt-collar and voluminous unstarched neckcloth, after the fashion of
a former generation, though as yellow as saffron, are clean; and his
poor old boots as irreproachable as blacking--which can do much, but,
alas! not all things--can make them. His expenditure of a penny will
entitle him not only to a cup of coffee, as aforesaid, but also to a
glass of fresh water, which has been turned to an opaline color by
the shaking into it of a few drops of something which the waiter drops
from a bottle with some contrivance at its mouth, the effect of which
is to cause only a drop or two of the liquor, whatever it may be, to
come out at each shake. Our old friend is also entitled, in virtue of
his expenditure, to occupy the chair he sits on for as many hours as
he shall see fit to remain in it. And after the coffee, which must
be drunk while hot, has been despatched, the sippings of the opaline
mixture aforesaid may be protracted indefinitely while he enjoys the
cool evening-breezes from the lagoon, the perfection of _dolce far
niente_, and the amusement the life of the Riva never fails to afford
him. An itinerant vender of little models of gondolas and bracelets
and toys made out of shells comes by, seeking a customer among the
folk assembled at the caffe. He does not address Pantaloon, for of
course he knows that there is nothing to be done in that line with
him. But spying with a hawk's glance a _forestiere_ among the crowd,
he stro