Peter's Church in Rome; and, in a corner--the corner nearest the
rack where the old flintlocks hung--a busy merry populous scene,
entitled: _St. Mark's Square in Venice_. This picture, from the
first, had singularly taken little Tony's fancy. His unformulated
criticism on the others was that they lacked action. True, in the
view of St. Peter's an experienced-looking gentleman in a
full-bottomed wig was pointing out the fairly obvious monument to a
bashful companion, who had presumably not ventured to raise his eyes
to it; while, at the doors of the Seraglio, a group of turbaned
infidels observed with less hesitancy the approach of a veiled lady
on a camel. But in Venice so many things were happening at
once--more, Tony was sure, than had ever happened in Boston in a
twelve-month or in Salem in a long lifetime. For here, by their
garb, were people of every nation on earth, Chinamen, Turks,
Spaniards, and many more, mixed with a parti-coloured throng of
gentry, lacqueys, chapmen, hucksters, and tall personages in
parsons' gowns who stalked through the crowd with an air of mastery,
a string of parasites at their heels. And all these people seemed to
be diverting themselves hugely, chaffering with the hucksters,
watching the antics of trained dogs and monkeys, distributing doles
to maimed beggars or having their pockets picked by slippery-looking
fellows in black--the whole with such an air of ease and good-humour
that one felt the cut-purses to be as much a part of the show as the
tumbling acrobats and animals.
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