an expedition to the Holy Land in search of the true
cross. Three crosses were found. In order to ascertain the veritable
one, a sick lady of quality was touched by all; two were without
efficacy, but the third instantly healed her. It is fortunate that the
two spurious ones were tried first. Part of the true cross Helena left
in the Holy Land for periodical veneration; another part she gave to
her son the Emperor Constantine for Constantinople for a similar
purpose. One of the nails she had mounted in Constantine's diadem and
another she threw into the Adriatic to save the souls of mariners.
Helena died in Rome in 326 or 328, and most of the records agree that
she was buried there and translated to Rheims in 849; but the Venetians
decline to have anything to do with so foolish a story. It is their
belief that the saint, whom Paul Veronese painted so beautifully, seeing
the cross in a vision, as visitors to our National Gallery know, was
buried on their green island. This has not, however, led them to care
for the church there with any solicitude, and it is now closed and
deserted.

The adjoining island to S. Elena is that of Castello, on which stand the
church of S. Pietro and its tottering campanile. This church was for
centuries the cathedral of Venice, but it is now forlorn and dejected
and few visitors seek it. Flowers sprout from the campanile, a beautiful
white structure at a desperate angle. The church was once famous for its
marriages, and every January, on the last day, the betrothed maidens,
with their dowries in their hands and their hair down, assembled on the
island with their lovers to celebrate the ceremony. On one occasion in
the tenth century a band of pirates concealed themselves here, and
descending on the happy couples, seized maidens, dowries, bridegrooms,
clergy and all, and sailed away with them. Pursuit, however, was given
and all were recaptured, and a festival was established which continued
for two or three hundred years. It has now lapsed.

Venice is fortunate indeed in the possession of the Lido; for it serves
a triple purpose. It saves her from the assaults of her husband the
Adriatic when in savage moods; it provides her with a stretch of land
on which to walk or ride and watch the seasons behave; and as a bathing
station it has no rival. The Lido is not beautiful; but Venice seen from
it is beautiful, and it has trees and picnic grounds, and its usefulness
is not to be exaggerated. The