he writer and the annoyance to the
reader almost equally great.

I have merely endeavored to avoid essentially modern words and forms of
speech.

INTRODUCTION:

"PIETRO GIUSTINIANI, merchant, of Venice." This was the signature affixed
to his receipt by the little antiquary in the city of St. Mark, from whom
I purchased a few stitched sheets of manuscript. What a name and title!

As I remarked on the splendor of his ancestry he slapped his pocket, and
exclaimed, half in pride and half in lamentation:

"Yes, they had plenty of money; but what has become of it?"

"And have you no record of their deeds?" I asked the little man, who
himself wore a moustache with stiff military points to it.

"Their deeds!" he echoed scornfully. "I wish they had been less zealous
in their pursuit of fame and had managed their money matters
better!--Poor child!"

And he pointed to little Marietta who was playing among the old books,
and with whom I had already struck up a friendship. She this day
displayed some strange appendage in the lobes of her ears, which on
closer examination I found to be a twist of thread.

The child's pretty dark head was lying confidentially against my arm and
as, with my fingers, I felt this singular ornament, I heard, from behind
the little desk at the end of the counter, her mother's shrill voice in
complaining accents: "Aye, Sir, it is a shame in a family which has given
three saints to the Church--Saint Nicholas, Saint Anna, and Saint
Eufemia, all three Giustinianis as you know--in a family whose sons have
more than once worn a cardinal's hat--that a mother, Sir, should be
compelled to let her own child--But you are fond of the little one, Sir,
as every one is hereabout. Heh, Marietta! What would you say if the
gentleman were to give you a pair of ear-rings, now; real gold ear-rings
I mean? Thread for ear-rings, Sir, in the ears of a Giustiniani! It is
absurd, preposterous, monstrous; and a right-thinking gentleman like you,
Sir, will never deny that."

How could I neglect such a hint; and when I had gratified the antiquary's
wife, I could reflect with some pride that I might esteem myself a
benefactor to a family which boasted of its descent from the Emperor
Justinian, which had been called the 'Fabia gens' of Venice, and, in its
day had given to the Republic great generals, far-seeing statesmen, and
admirable scholars.

When, at length, I had to quit the city and took leave of the
curiosity