side up when it has got upside down. The writing is a kind of pugilism--
the strokes being made straight out from the shoulder. The account-book is
always carried about with her in a fathomless pocket overflowing with the
aggregations of a housekeeper who can throw nothing away, to wit:
matchboxes, now appointed to hold buttons and hooks-and-eyes; beeswax in
the lump; the door-key (which in Venice takes a formidable size, and
impresses you at first sight as ordnance); a patch-bag; a porte-monnaie;
many lead-pencils in the stump; scissors, pincushions, and the Beata
Vergine in a frame. Indeed, this incapability of throwing things away is
made to bear rather severely upon us in some things, such as the continual
reappearance of familiar dishes at table--particularly veteran
_bifsteca_. But we fancy that the same frugal instinct is exercised
to our advantage and comfort in other things, for G. makes a great show
and merit of denying our charity to those bold and adventurous children of
sorrow, who do not scruple to ring your door-bell, and demand alms. It is
true that with G., as with every Italian, almsgiving enters into the
theory and practice of Christian life, but she will not suffer misery to
abuse its privileges. She has no hesitation, however, in bringing certain
objects of compassion to our notice, and she procures small services to be
done for us by many lame and halt of her acquaintance. Having bought my
boat (I come, in time, to be willing to sell it again for half its cost to
me), I require a menial to clean it now and then, and Giovanna first calls
me a youthful Gobbo for the work,--a festive hunchback, a bright-hearted
whistler of comic opera. Whether this blithe humor is not considered
decent, I do not know, but though the Gobbo serves me faithfully, I find
him one day replaced by a venerable old man, whom--from his personal
resemblance to Time--I should think much better occupied with an
hourglass, or engaged with a scythe in mowing me and other mortals down,
than in cleaning my boat. But all day long he sits on my riva in the sun,
when it shines, gazing fixedly at my boat; and when the day is dark, he