We sit in the cushioned carriage-body of a cabin, with the curtains

drawn, and smoke, or read, or look out upon the passing boats, the

houses, the bridges, the people, and enjoy ourselves much more than we

could in a buggy jolting over our cobble-stone pavements at home. This

is the gentlest, pleasantest locomotion we have ever known.

But it seems queer--ever so queer--to see a boat doing duty as a private

carriage. We see business men come to the front door, step into a

gondola, instead of a street car, and go off down town to the

counting-room.

We see visiting young ladies stand on the stoop, and laugh, and kiss

good-bye, and flirt their fans and say "Come soon--now do--you've been

just as mean as ever you can be--mother's dying to see you--and we've

moved into the new house, O such a love of a place!--so convenient to the

post office and the church, and the Young Men's Christian Association;

and we do have such fishing, and such carrying on, and such

swimming-matches in the back yard--Oh, you must come--no distance at

all,

and if you go down through by St. Mark's and the Bridge of Sighs, and cut

through the alley and come up by the church of Santa Maria dei Frari, and

into the Grand Canal, there isn't a bit of current--now do come, Sally

Maria--by-bye!" and then the little humbug trips down the steps, jumps

into the gondola, says, under her breath, "Disagreeable old thing, I hope

she won't!" goes skimming away, round the corner; and the other girl

slams the street door and says, "Well, that infliction's over, any way,

258

The Innocents Abroad