Far other be the doom of my own friends—­of pious bards and genial companions, lovers of natural and lovely things!  Nor for these do I desire a seat at Florian’s marble tables, or a perch in Quadri’s window, though the former supply dainty food, and the latter command a bird’s-eye view of the Piazza.  Rather would I lead them to a certain humble tavern on the Zattere.  It is a quaint, low-built, unpretending little place, near a bridge, with a garden hard by which sends a cataract of honeysuckles sunward over a too-jealous wall.  In front lies a Mediterranean steamer, which all day long has been discharging cargo.  Gazing westward up Giudecca, masts and funnels bar the sunset and the Paduan hills; and from a little front room of the trattoria the view is so marine that one keeps fancying oneself in some ship’s cabin.  Sea-captains sit and smoke beside their glass of grog in the pavilion and the caffe.  But we do not seek their company at dinner-time.  Our way lies under yonder arch, and up the narrow alley into a paved court.  Here are oleanders in pots, and plants of Japanese spindle-wood in tubs; and from the walls beneath the window hang cages of all sorts of birds—­a talking parrot, a whistling blackbird, goldfinches, canaries, linnets.  Athos, the fat dog, who goes to market daily in a barchetta with his master, snuffs around.  ‘Where are Porthos and Aramis, my friend?’ Athos does not take the joke; he only wags his stump of tail and pokes his nose into my hand.  What a Tartufe’s nose it is!  Its bridge displays the full parade of leather-bound brass-nailed muzzle.  But beneath, this muzzle is a patent sham.  The frame does not even pretend to close on Athos’ jaw, and the wise dog wears it like a decoration.  A little farther we meet that ancient grey cat, who has no discoverable name, but is famous for the sprightliness and grace with which she bears her eighteen years.  Not far from the cat one is sure to find Carlo—­the bird-like, bright-faced, close-cropped Venetian urchin, whose duty it is to trot backwards and forwards between the cellar and the dining-tables.  At the end of the court we walk into the kitchen, where the black-capped little padrone and the gigantic white-capped chef are in close consultation.  Here we have the privilege of inspecting the larder—­fish of various sorts, meat, vegetables, several kinds of birds, pigeons, tordi, beccafichi, geese, wild ducks, chickens, woodcock, &c., according to the season.  We select our dinner, and retire to eat it either in the court among the birds beneath the vines, or in the low dark room which occupies one side of it.  Artists of many nationalities and divers ages frequent this house; and the talk arising from the several little tables, turns upon points of interest and beauty in the life and landscape of Venice.  There can be no difference of opinion about the excellence of the cuisine, or about the reasonable charges of this trattoria.  A soup of lentils,