And far away, perhaps, in the quainter squares of the more primitive
island villages--in Burano or Chioggia--before the Duomo, some reader
lies at full length in the brilliant moonlight under the banner of San
Marco, his "Boccaccio" open before him, repeating in a half-chant,
monotonous and droning, some favorite tale from the well-worn pages to
listeners who pause in groups in their evening stroll and linger until
another story is begun; this time it is some strophe from the
"Gerusalemme," to which a passing gondolier may chant the answering
strain--for this is the very poem of the people, echoing familiarly from
lip to lip, and tales from the Tasso are not seldom wrought into the
ebony carvings of their barks. Meanwhile the younger men and maidens, on
a neighboring fondamenta, keep step to the music of some strolling
player who lives, content, on the trifling harvest of these moonlight
festivities.
In the great Piazza of San Marco, with its hundreds of lights and its
hurrying throng, life is gayer than in the day.
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