Thus a noble Venetian contrived to pass the night,
in alternations of excitement that in general left him sufficiently
serious for the morrow's council. For more vulgar tastes there was the
minstrel, the conjuror, and the story-teller, goblets of Cyprus wine,
flasks of sherbet, and confectionery that dazzled like diamonds. And
for every one, from the grave senator to the gay gondolier, there was
an atmosphere in itself a spell, and which, after all, has more to do
with human happiness than all the accidents of fortune and all the
arts of government.
Amid this gay and brilliant multitude, one human being stood alone.
Muffled in his cloak, and leaning against a column in the portico
of St. Marc, an expression of oppressive care and affliction was
imprinted on his countenance, and ill accorded with the light and
festive scene. Had he been crossed in love, or had he lost at
play? Was it woman or gold to which his anxiety and sorrow were
attributable, for under one or other of these categories, undoubtedly,
all the miseries of man may range. Want of love, or want of money,
lies at the bottom of all our griefs.
The stranger came forward, and leaving the joyous throng, turned down
the Piazzetta, and approached the quay of the Lagune. A gondolier
saluted him, and he entered his boat.
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