Florian's to do; but I really know none of these things to this day. Some
men in Venice spend their noble, useful lives in this way, and it was the
proud reply of a Venetian father, when asked of what profession his son
was, "_E in Piazza!_" That was, he bore a cane, wore light gloves,
and stared from Florian's windows at the ladies who went by.

At the Caffe Quadri, immediately across the Piazza, there was a scene of
equal hopefulness. But there, all was a glitter of uniforms, and the
idling was carried on with a great noise of conversation in Austrian-
German. Heaven knows what it was all about, but I presume the talk was
upon topics of mutual improvement, calculated to advance the interests of
self-government and mankind. These officers were very comely, intelligent-
looking people with the most good-natured faces. They came and went
restlessly, sitting down and knocking their steel scabbards against the
tables, or rising and straddling off with their long swords kicking
against their legs. They are the most stylish soldiers in the world, and
one has no notion how ill they can dress when left to themselves, till one
sees them in civil clothes.

Further up toward the Fabbrica Nuova (as the Imperial Palace is called),
under the Procuratie Vecchie, is the Caffe Specchi, frequented only by
young Italians, of an order less wealthy than those who go to Florian's.
Across from this caffe is that of the Emperor of Austria, resorted to
chiefly by non-commissioned officers, and civilian officials of lower
grade. You know the latter, at a glance, by their beard, which in Venice
is an index to every man's politics: no Austriacante wears the imperial,
no Italianissimo shaves it. Next is the Caffe Suttil, rather Austrian, and
frequented by Italian _codini_, or old fogies, in politics: gray old
fellows, who caress their sticks with more constant zeal than even the
elders at Florian's. Quite at the other end of the Procuratie Nuove is the