With regard to common chat, I have heard many a liberal and eloquent
disquisition upon the state of Europe in general, and of Venice in
particular, from several agreeable friends at their own Casino, who did
not appear to have more fears upon them than myself, and I know not why
they should. Chevalier Emo is deservedly a favourite with them, and we
used to talk whole evenings of him and of General Elliott; the
bombarding of Tunis, and defence of Gibraltar. The news-papers spoke of
some fireworks exhibited in England in honour of their hero; they were
"vrayment _feux de joye_" said an agreeable Venetian, they were not
_feux d'artifice._

The deep secrecy of their councils, however, and unrelenting steadiness
of their resolutions, cannot be better explained than by telling a
little story, which will illustrate the private virtue as well as the
public authority of these extraordinary people; for though the tale is
now in abler hands (intending as I am told, to form a tragedy upon its
basis), the summary may serve to adorn my little work; as a landscape
painter refuses not to throw the story of Phaeton's petition for
Apollo's car into his picture, for the purpose of illuminating the back
ground, though Ovid has written the story and Titian has painted it.

Some years ago then, perhaps a hundred, one of the many spies who ply
this town by night, ran to the state inquisitor, with information that
such a nobleman (naming him) had connections with the French ambassador,
and went privately to his house every night at a certain hour. The
_messergrando_, as they call him, could not believe, nor would proceed,
without better and stronger proof, against a man for whom he had an
intimate personal friendship, and on whose virtue he counted with very
particular reliance. Another spy was therefore set, and brought back the