other social festivals of the people, how the crowd amused itself with any
thing--music, dancing, walking, talking--any thing but the great northern
pastime of gluttony. Knowing the life of the place, I make quite sure that
Venetian gayety is on few occasions connected with repletion; and I am
ashamed to confess that I have not always been able to repress a feeling
of stupid scorn for the empty stomachs everywhere, which do not even ask
to be filled, or, at least, do not insist upon it. The truth is, the North
has a gloomy pride in gastronomic excess, which unfits her children to
appreciate the cheerful prudence of the South.

Venetians eat but one meal a day, which is dinner. They breakfast on a
piece of bread with coffee and milk; supper is a little cup of black
coffee, or an ice, taken at a caffe. The coffee, however, is repeated
frequently throughout the day, and in the summertime fruit is eaten, but
eaten sparingly, like everything else. As to the nature of the dinner, it
of course varies somewhat according to the nature of the diner; but in
most families of the middle class a dinner at home consists of a piece of
boiled beef, a _minestra_ (a soup thickened with vegetables, tripe,
and rice), a vegetable dish of some kind, and the wine of the country. The
failings of the repast among all classes lean to the side of simplicity,
and the abstemious character of the Venetian finds sufficient comment in
his familiar invitation to dinner: "_Venga a mangiar quattro risi con
me_." (Come eat four grains of rice with me.)

But invitations to dinner have never formed a prime element of hospitality
in Venice. Goldoni notices this fact in his memoirs, and speaking of the
city in the early half of the last century, he says that the number and
excellence of the eating-houses in the city made invitations to dinner at
private houses rare, and superfluous among the courtesies offered to
strangers.