In the spring, two years after my visit to Malamocco, we people in Casa
Falier made a long-intended expedition to the island of Torcello, which is
perhaps the most interesting of the islands of the lagoons. We had talked
of it all winter, and had acquired enough property there to put up some
light Spanish castles on the desolate site of the ancient city, that, so
many years ago, sickened of the swamp air and died. A Count from Torcello
is the title which Venetian persiflage gives to improbable noblemen; and
thus even the pride of the dead Republic of Torcello has passed into
matter of scornful jest, as that of the dead Republic of Venice may
likewise in its day.

When we leave the riva of Casa Falier, we pass down the Grand Canal, cross
the Basin of St. Mark, and enter one of the narrow canals that intersect
the Riva degli Schiavoni, whence we wind and deviate southwestward till we
emerge near the church of San Giovanni e Paolo, on the Fondamenta Nuove.
On our way we notice that a tree, hanging over the water from a little
garden, is in full leaf, and at Murano we see the tender bloom of peaches
and the drifted blossom of cherry-trees.

As we go by the Cemetery of San Michele, Piero the gondolier and Giovanna
improve us with a little solemn pleasantry.

"It is a small place," says Piero, "but there is room enough for all
Venice in it."

"It is true," assents Giovanna, "and here we poor folks become landholders
at last."

At Murano we stop a moment to look at the old Duomo, and to enjoy its
quaint mosaics within, and the fine and graceful spirit of the