shade of the vine and the fig-tree, but still more frequently old women, who look angry and evil, like old witches. The dialect of the people is difficult to understand, and it sounds unmelodious to the ear of a stranger. The words are abbreviated in a manner which makes them unintelligible. For instance, instead of saying Signor, they say merely jor; instead of Napoli, merely Napo; instead of momento, momo; instead of lume, lu; instead of fragole (strawberry) fra, and so on, out of pure laziness and carelessness, these good people seem to be approaching nearer and nearer to an animal language of the simplest sounds.
The names of persons are much more poetical than they themselves. Thus our little maid at the Villa Pisani, is called Maria Grazia, but is as little akin to the Graces as possible; and a young girl in the next garden, called Philomene, sings, it is true, but with a voice as hard as copper. Even the donkeys on the island have poetical names; one is called mezza notte, another grotta Sabina, and so on. These animals are good and safe for riding, the best of their kind with which I have yet become acquainted. We have received a good impression only of the people in our neighborhood. As a boatman on our little sea excursions, we have taken an elderly sailor, Francesco, who is pious and well-mannered, and always satisfied with what we give him, for which reason he gets more than others less good-humored and contented would do. The moment we make our appearance in the evening, on the shore, a loud cry is heard from the people there, “Francesco! Francesco!” and no one would think it right to offer his services before he
