like us, for our boastings. I am sure they would say to us, if they could,
"_Quando finira mai quella guerra? Che sangue! che orrore_!"
[Footnote: "When will this war ever be ended? what blood! what horror!" I
have often heard the question and the comment from many Italians who were
not cats.] The French tourist they distinguish by his evident skepticism
concerning his own wisdom in quitting Paris for the present purpose; and
the traveling Italian, by his attention to his badly dressed, handsome
wife, with whom he is now making his wedding trip.

I have found churches undergoing repairs (as most of them always are in
Venice) rather interesting. Under these circumstances, the sacristan is
obliged to take you into all sorts of secret places and odd corners, to
show you the objects of interest; and you may often get glimpses of
pictures which, if not removed from their proper places, it would be
impossible to see. The carpenters and masons work most deliberately, as if
in a place so set against progress that speedy workmanship would be a kind
of impiety. Besides the mechanics, there are always idle priests standing
about, and vagabond boys clambering over the scaffolding. In San Giovanni
e Paolo I remember we one day saw a small boy appear through an opening in
the roof, and descend by means of some hundred feet of dangling rope. The
spectacle, which made us ache with fear, delighted his companions so much
that their applause was scarcely subdued by the sacred character of the
place. As soon as he reached the ground in safety, a gentle, good-natured
looking priest took him by the arm and cuffed his ears. It was a scene for
a painter.



CHAPTER XII.