But it is not Florian’s alone which is thus a trespasser on the domain of the public.  The other less celebrated caffes do the same thing.  One immediately opposite to Florian’s, on the other side of the piazza—­Quadri’s—­has almost as large a spread of chairs and tables as Florian himself.  But it is a curious instance of the permanence of habits at Venice, that though at Quadri’s the articles supplied are quite as good, and the prices exactly the same, the fashionable world never deserts Florian’s.  The only difference between the two establishments, except this one of their customers, that is perceptible to the naked eye, is that at Quadri’s beer is served, while Florian ignores the existence of that plebeian beverage, which assuredly was never heard of in Venice in the days when he began his career and formed his habitudes.

I am tempted to endeavor to give the reader some picture of the scene on the piazza on a night when (as is the case almost every other evening) a military band is playing in the middle of the open space, and the cosmopolitan crowd is assembled in force—­to describe the wonderful surroundings of the scene, the charm of the quietude broken by no sound of hoof or of wheel, the soft and tempered light, the gay clatter, athwart which comes every fifteen minutes the solemn mellow tone of the great clock of St. Mark with importunate warning that another pleasant quarter of an hour has drifted away down the stream of time.  It is a scene that tempts the pen.  But the well-dressed portion of mankind is very similar in all countries and under all circumstances, and perhaps my readers may be more interested in a few traits of the popular life of Venice, which the magnificent Piazza of St. Mark is not the best place for studying, for some of the most characteristic phases of it are absolutely banished thence.  The strolling musician or singer, who may be heard every night in other parts of the city, never plies his trade on the piazza.  Mendicancy, which is more rife at Venice, I am sorry to say, than in any other Italian city, except perhaps Naples, is not tolerated on the piazza.

But if we wish for a good specimen of the truly popular life of Venice, it will not be necessary to wander far from the great centre of the piazza.  Coming down the Piazzetta, or Little Piazza, which opens out of the great square at one end, and abuts on the open lagoon opposite the island of St. George at the other, and turning round the corner of the ducal palace, we cross the bridge over the canal, which above our heads is bridged by the “Bridge of Sighs,” with its “palace and a prison on each hand,” as Byron sings, and find ourselves on the “Riva dei Schiavoni”—­the quay at which the Slavonic vessels arrived, and arrive still.  The quay is a very broad one, by far the broadest in Venice, paved with flagstones, and teeming with every characteristic form of Venetian life from early morning till late into the night.  There are two or three hotels