his wares and invite custom; and then of course one moves away in
terror.

Here, too, under the arcade, are the head-quarters of the cafés, which
do most of their business on the pavement of the Square. Of these
Florian's is the oldest and best. At certain hours, however, one must
cross the Square to either the Ortes Rosa or Quadri, or be roasted. The
original Florian was wise in his choice of site, for he has more shady
hours than his rivals opposite. In an advertisement of the café in the
musical programme it is stated that, "the oldest and most aristocratic
establishment of its kind in Venice, it can count among its clients,
since 1720, Byron, Goethe, Rousseau, Canova, Dumas, and Moor," meaning
by Moor not Othello but Byron's friend and biographer, the Anacreon of
Erin. How Florian's early patrons looked one can see in a brilliant
little picture by Guardi in the National Gallery, No. 2099. The café
boasts that its doors are never shut, day or night; and I have no doubt
that this is true, but I have never tested it in the small hours.

Oddly enough there are no restaurants in the Piazza, but many about its
borders on the north and west. The visitor to Venice, as a rule, eats in
his hotel; and I think he is wise. But wishing to be in Venice rather
more thoroughly than that, I once lived in rooms for a month and ate in
all the restaurants in turn. Having had this experience I expect to be
believed when I say that the restaurants of Venice are not good. The
food is monotonous, and the waiting, even at what is called the best,
the Bauer-Grünwald, say, or the Pilsen, is leisurely. Add to this that
the guests receive no welcome, partly because, all the places being
understaffed, no one can be spared for that friendly office, and partly
because politeness is not a Venetian foible. An immense interval then
elapses before the lista, or bill of fare, is brought, partly because