As all the deeper channels of the Lagunes have been preserved, the city is intersected in every direction by passages, which from their appearance are called canals, but which, in truth, are no more than so many small natural branches of the sea.  On the margin of these passages, the walls of the dwellings arise literally from out of the water, since economy of room has caused their owners to extend their possessions to the very verge of the channel, in the manner that quays and wharfs are pushed into the streams in our own country.  In many instances the islands themselves were no more than banks, which were periodically bare, and on all, the use of piles has been necessary to support the superincumbent loads of palaces, churches, and public monuments, under which, in the course of ages, the humble spits of sand have been made to groan.

The great frequency of the canals, and perhaps some attention to economy of labor, has given to by far the greater part of the buildings the facility of an approach by water.  But, while nearly every dwelling has one of its fronts on a canal, there are always communications by the rear with the interior passages of the town.  It is a fault in most descriptions, that while the stranger hears so much of the canals of Venice, but little is said of her streets:  still, narrow, paved, commodious, and noiseless passages of this description, intersect all the islands, which communicate with each other by means of a countless number of bridges.  Though the hoof of a horse or the rumbling of a wheel is never heard in these strait avenues, they are of great resort for all the purposes of ordinary intercourse.

Gino issued into one of these thoroughfares when he quitted the private passage which communicated with the palace of his master.  He threaded the throng by which it was crowded, with a dexterity that resembled the windings of an eel among the weeds of the Lagunes.  To the numerous greetings of his fellows, he replied only by nods; nor did he once arrest his footsteps, until they had led him through the door of a low and dark dwelling that stood in a quarter of the place which was inhabited by people of an inferior condition.  Groping his way among casks, cordage, and rubbish of all descriptions, the gondolier succeeded in finding an inner and retired door that opened into a small room, whose only light came from a species of well that descended between the walls of the adjacent houses and that in which he was.

“Blessed St. Anne!  Is it thou, Gino Monaldi!” exclaimed a smart Venetian grisette, whose tone and manner betrayed as much of coquetry as of surprise.  “On foot, and by the secret door!  Is this an hour to come on any of thy errands?”

“Truly, Annina, it is not the season for affairs with thy father, and it is something early for a visit to thee.  But there is less time for words than for action, just now.  For the sake of San Teodoro, and that of a constant and silly young man, who, if not thy slave, is at least thy dog, bring forth the jacket I wore when we went together to see the merry-making at Fusina.”