color, a law being in force to this effect, to prevent any extravagance on the part of the boatmen. They are not so pretty as those on the waters of the Mediterranean, in the harbor of Marseilles and Genoa. They are propelled by one or two men, who, as they pull along, warble some soft Venetian lay, which, echoing over the waters, steals gently to the senses with the most pleasing sadness.

As we rowed on, other gondolas passed us and hurried by, some filled with gay, laughing girls, on some pleasing errand; others crowded with men; and others, still, loaded with baggage. The fares, the number of passengers, and the amount of baggage to be carried, are all regulated by government, and each gondolier carries his tariff of fares in his pocket, or in the saloon of his little vessel. We went about two miles, and drew up to the door of a hotel, the steps of which were washed by the blue waves. While my companions were negotiating for apartments, I amused myself in catching a large shell fish on the steps of the house, and pulling the bunches of moss and seaweed from the front of the building. Having made arrangements for a day's stop, we went out to see the city, and enjoy a sail up and down the streets, whose pavements are liquid waves, and whose carriages are black and sombre gondolas.

Venice is built upon seventy-two islands, and is connected by three hundred and six bridges, scarcely any of which can be crossed by a carriage. We went to several academies of art, to the churches, in one of which is the tomb of Titian and the monument of Canova; to the Cathedral of San Marco, up into the high tower, from which a view of the city is obtained; through St. Mark's Square, up and down, down and

up; by the doge's palace and giant's stairs; now gazing on the arch of the Rialto, and then upon the Bridge of Sighs, over which no prisoner passed but once. All the time I was in Venice, I seemed to be in a dream; and to this day I cannot make that fairy city appear to me as a reality. At night, as I sat down at my window in the hotel, below me, in the long canal, was heard the splash of the oars, and the earnest conversation of the boatmen, as their gondolas glided along. The first object I saw in the morning, as I gazed out, was a load of vegetables and flowers bound for the market of the city, rowed by a woman, who cheerily sang as she dipped her oar in the yielding wave.

The government of Venice has always been notoriously cruel. The halls of justice and the dungeons of torture have ever been near each other, and an accusation has always been equivalent to conviction. The priest and the tyrant have ruled the "Queen of the Sea;" and deeds of night have been perpetrated here, such as would make humanity shudder. The instruments of torture yet remain to tell the story of deep and horrid cruelty, and all the waters of the Adriatic are not sufficient to wash out the stains. An instance of the intolerance of the irresponsible government has been made, by Byron, the theme of one of his most beautiful works, the particulars of which are given by a recent traveler.1

"Wearied with the cares of state, and foreseeing troubles ahead, the old doge had once and again asked permission to retire from his office; but so far from granting his request, the council exacted of him an oath to retain it for life. Three of his four sons were

'Rev. Robert Turnbull.

already dead, "hunted down" by the fell adversaries of his house. Giacomo, young, beautiful, and brave, was his only pride and hope. He had formed a splendid alliance with the noble family of the Contarini, and was one of the greatest favorites among the Venetians. But four years from his marriage he was accused of having received presents from foreign potentates-a high crime in Venice; and in the presence of his own father, he was subjected to the rack, and when a confession was extorted from him in his agony, that father was compelled to pronounce his sentence of banishment for life.

"Some years after, an assassination occurred in the streets of Venice. The chief of the Ten, Donato, was murdered on his return from a sitting of the council, at his own door, by unknown hands. A victim was demanded for this monstrous offence; and the coadjutors of the slain magistrate eagerly caught at the slightest clew which might lead to the detection of the offender. A servant of Giacomo Foscari had been seen in Venice on the evening of the murder; and it was said that, on being met by the chief of the Ten in a boat off Mestre, the next morning, he had, in answer to the question, 'What news?' reported the assassination some hours before it was generally known. The servant was arrested, examined, and barbarously tortured; but even the eightieth application of the strappado failed to elicit a word which might justify their suspicion. And yet the young Foscari was recalled, placed on the rack vacated by his servant, tortured in his father's presence, and condemned, although he persisted to the last in asserting his innocence. On this he was banished to a more distant and painful exile. In the mean while, Niccolo Erizzo, a noble infamous

for his crimes, confessed on his death bed that it was under his dagger that the murdered councillor had fallen. And yet Giacomo Foscari suffered no remission of his punishment!

"But the love of home was strong upon the exile. Day and night he dreamed of his wife and children, until his brain reeled, and he resolved that he would procure his recall at any risk. So, writing to the Prince of Milan, imploring his good offices with the senate, he left the letter where it would easily be found by the spies, who watched him even in his exile. result was a hasty summons to Venice, to answer for the heavy crime of soliciting foreign intercession with his native government.

The

"For a third time Francesco Foscari listened to the accusation of his son, who calmly avowed his offence, but stated that he had committed it for the sole purpose of being recalled. But there was no flesh' in the obdurate hearts of his judges. Thirty times was he raised on the accursed cord,' and yet no false confession came from the quivering lips of the sufferer. Torn, bleeding, and senseless, he was carried to the apartments of the doge, firm in his original purpose. But the judges were equally firm in theirs, and again renewed his sentence of exile, with the addition that its first year should be spent in prison. Before his departure, one interview was permitted with his family. The doge, his father, was now old and decrepit; and when he came, supported by his crutch, into the chamber, he spoke with great firmness, so that it might appear as if he was addressing another than his sonhis only son! Go, Giacomo,' was his reply, when entreated for the last time to solicit mercy, submit to the will of your country, and seek nothing further.'

It was too much for the old man; when he retired, he swooned in the arms of his attendants.. His son again departed into exile, and was soon afterwards relieved by death."

But we leave Venice, where floods are dashing against the door steps of the finest palaces, and men are fishing from their windows. The city is fast losing its glory and vitality. The palaces are being deserted, and one can be rented at a small cost. The buildings, though noble, now seem falling into decay, and the once proud "Mistress of the Hundred Isles" is becoming a slave to the house of Hapsburg.

A ride of four hours brought us to Verona, a rather mean city between Venice and Milan. During the time which expired before we could "go ahead," we went to the Amphitheater, which is in a tolerable state of preservation, and gives a fine idea of such ancient structures. The seats remain, and only a part of the wall is broken down. In the arena is a small wooden building for circus purposes-a striking illustration of the degeneracy and decay of the city. The little rude building in the arena, and the noble Amphitheater itself, form a striking emblem of the Verona of the present, and the Verona of the past.

We had read Shakspeare, and wished to see the tomb of Juliet, which is here. Our romantic ideas had a fall; and what a fall! We entered a narrow passage, in which a man was washing the dirty wheels of a carriage, and where were several horses, which nearly trampled us as we passed on, and knocked at a rude door, which was opened by a woman with a child in her arms. She was an Italian woman, with dark skin, coal black eyes, piercing and glistening, and a form as graceful as a sibyl. Giving her babe to another, she