This dirty little village was the capital of the Venetian islands before
King Pepin and his Franks burned it, and the shifting sands of empire
gathered solidly about the Rialto in Venice. It is a thousand years since
that time, and Malamocco has long been given over to fishermen's families
and the soldiers of the forts. We found the latter lounging about the
unwholesome streets; and the former seated at their thresholds, engaged in
those pursuits of the chase which the use of a fine-tooth comb would
undignify to mere slaughter.

There is a church at Malamocco, but it was closed, and we could not find
the sacristan; so we went to the little restaurant, as the next best
place, and demanded something to eat. What had the padrone? He answered
pretty much to the same effect as the innkeeper in "Don Quixote," who told
his guests that they could have any thing that walked on the earth, or
swam in the sea, or flew in the air. We would take, then, some fish, or a
bit of veal, or some mutton chops. The padrone sweetly shrugged the
shoulders of apology. There was nothing of all this, but what would we say
to some liver or gizzards of chickens, fried upon the instant and ready
the next breath? No, we did not want them; so we compromised on some ham
fried in a batter of eggs, and reeking with its own fatness. The truth is,
it was a very bad little lunch we made, and nothing redeemed it but the
amiability of the smiling padrone and the bustling padrona, who served us
as kings and princes. It was a clean hostelry, though, and that was a
merit in Malamocco, of which the chief modern virtue is that it cannot
hold you long. No doubt it was more interesting in other times. In the
days when the Venetians chose it for their capital, it was a walled town,
and fortified with towers. It has been more than once inundated by the
sea, and it might again be washed out with advantage.