and traduce the
state,' being compelled to regale a person with an English punch in the
guts which sent him as far back as the squeeze and the passage would
admit. He did not ask for another; but with great signs of
disapprobation and dismay, appealed to his compatriots, who laughed at
him."

Byron's first intention was to write nothing in Venice; but fortunately
the idea of _Beppo_ came to him, and that masterpiece of gay
recklessness and high-spirited imprudence sprang into life. The desk at
which he wrote is still preserved in the Palazzo Mocenigo. From _Beppo_
I quote elsewhere some stanzas relating to Giorgione; and here are two
which bear upon the "hansom of Venice," written when that vehicle was as
fresh to Byron as it is to some of us:--

Didst ever see a Gondola? For fear
You should not, I'll describe it you exactly:
'Tis a long covered boat that's common here,
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly.
Rowed by two rowers, each call'd "Gondolier,"
It glides along the water looking blackly,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe,
Where none can make out what you say or do.

And up and down the long canals they go,
And under the Rialto shoot along,
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow,
And round the theatres, a sable throng,
They wait in their dusk livery of woe,--
But not to them do woeful things belong,
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done.

Those useful ciceroni in Venice, the Signori Carlo and Sarri, seem to
have had Byron's description in mind. "She is all black," they write of
the gondola, "everything giving her a somewhat mysterious air, which
awakens in one's mind a thousand various thoughts about what has
happened, happens, or may happen beneath the little felze."

It is pleasant to think that, no matter upon what other Italian
experiences the sentiments were founded, the praise of Italy in the
following stanzas was written in a room in the Mocenigo Palace, looking
over the Grand Canal upon a prospect very similar to that which we see
to-day:--

With all its sinful doings, I must say,
That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the Sun shine every day,
And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree,
Festooned, much like the back scene of a play,
Or melodrama, which people flock to see,
When the first act is e