angels, and exhibiting no traces of antiquity, that I felt little interest and derived little pleasure from the visit. The words vestustate restaurata"-dilapidated and restored—are inscribed upon a tablet over the door. All the ancient memorials have been taken to the great Gothic Hall, denominated the Salone, whither we followed them. The Hall is a monstrous shell, 300 feet in length, 100 in width, and as many in height to the arched roof, rudely constructed of wood, supported by iron rods running across from side to side, joined by others standing in a vertical position. It is in all respects a novelty. The walls are daubed with rude frescos, and lined with sepulchral monuments, among which is one to the memory of Livy. It occupies a conspicuous situation at the upper end of the hall, and is ornamented with the Roman emblem of the wolf and twin boys. The slab appears to have been taken from the family tomb of the historian, who died at Padua, at the age of 67, on the same day with Ovid.

Near this Gothic Hall is the University of Padua once the most celebrated in the world; but alas how fallen! Its walls are still venerable; and the double arcades surrounding the court are thickly hung with escutcheons, not of military renown, but of achievements in scholarship-with records of doctorates, professorships, and other literary honours, bestowed as a reward for profound erudition and distinguished merit. There are some thousands of these tablets. It was now vacation. The rooms were all closed; the officers and students were all absent; and the courts were silent as the grave. Our guide stated, that there are at present forty professors and fifteen hundred students. The number of the latter is said to have once amounted to eighteen thousand!

The last object of attention, though it can hardly be said, of attraction or interest, was what in order of time should have been first-the Tomb of Antenor. Risum teneatis ?The cicerone informed us with a grave countenance, that the bones of the Trojan traitor, refugee, and adventurer were actually enclosed in the sarcophagus, elevated on pillars like that of Petrarch at Arqua, and evidently of the same age. It stands at the corner of two streets, in the most ancient part of the city. There is an inscription on the front, in the old Saxon character, which we found it difficult to decipher; but enough was learned to satisfy us, that the tomb was really

intended for Antenor. It is probably a cenotaph, erected in the middle ages, in honor of the founder of the city.

At 1 o'clock in the afternoon, we left Padua in a vettura for Venice. The ride down the left bank of the Brenta was charming, with the river on one side, and a succession of splendid villas on the other. Several of the palaces were built by Palladio and other distinguished architects, for Ve netian noblemen, whose wealth and families have now disap peared, while their sumptuous mansions, whither they used to retire in the hot months, are inhabited by Austrians and other foreigners. The largest and most elegant belongs to the Archduke Ranieri, Viceroy of Italy. Its proportions are grand, and its grounds are in good taste, being laid out in the style of park scenery in England. The right bank of the Brenta is finely wooded, sprinkled with farm-houses and cottages. The stream itself is sluggish, and sufficiently large to be navigable with boats to Padua. Its shores in many pla ces are so wild and luxuriant, that the branches of the trees bathe themselves in the flood. There appeared to be much bustle, activity, and gaiety in the villages along the road. At 5 o'clock we reached Fusina, the point of embarkation for Venice. Our passports were retained, to be forwarded the next day. The custom-house officer was satisfied with a small fee, and did not open our trunks. A fleet of gondolas were moored in the Brenta, waiting for passengers, and a host of competitors more clamorous than coachmen or the runners for French hotels, beset us and proffered their services.

The gondola is about thirty feet in length, four and a half feet wide in the centre, built sharp fore and aft, very much in the form of an Indian canoe. It is constructed of substantial timbers, though light and buoyant, sitting beautifully upon the water, and calculated for extraordinary speed. The prow consists of a serrated sheet of iron, terminating in a beak or volutes at top, kept bright and having rather a mar tial aspect. To this appearance the glossy black colour in no small degree contributes, suggesting the idea of a pi ratical bark. In the middle of the boat is a pavilion, of the size and somewhat in the shape of the top of a carriage, with a window on each side, which may be opened or shut at pleasure, handsome curtains in front, aud seats furnished with fine cushions. A person is effectually protected from inclement weather, and may be as retired and comfortable, as

in a private chamber. The gondolier stands erect, and never shifts his oar. It is incredible with what dexterity and speed he drives his boat, which glides along the water in a noiseless manner, and without In crosany apparent effort. sing the Lagune two oarsmen are generally employed; but on the canals only one is required.

Comfortably seated, with our faces towards Venice, we descended the Brenta for a mile or two. The banks are here rural, quiet, and luxuriant in foliage. Shrubs and wildflowers are reflected from the glassy wave; and among the rest the hawthorn was in several instances observed to dip its red berries in the stream. On emerging from the mouth of the river, we came in full view of Venice, sitting upon the sea, lifting her hundred domes, towers, and palaces above the waves, and gilded by the declining sun. The magnificence of the picture and the feelings and associations it awakened, are wholly indescribable. All that chivalry has achieved—all that history has recorded, or poetry imagined, of this renowned and romantic city, came fresh over the mind. After the ecstacy of the moment had subsided, and the features in the coup d'oeil had been fixed, we plied the gondoliers with a thousand inquiries about localities, and the names of the more prominent objects. St. Mark's is another St. Peter's, and its dome is the first to attract the eye of the traveller. The sound of its bells tolling for vespers, and stealing across the waters, met us at a distance, and attuned the feelings to a pleasing melancholy.

We could not have crossed the Lagune, which is five miles in breadth and occupies about an hour and a half in the passage, at a more favourable season, or a more agreeable part of the day. The evening was bright and the bay tranquil, showing scarcely a ripple upon its surface. At first the sun set in all its glory upon the gilded battlements of the city, which were long reddened by the rich hues of the west. Then came an Italian twilight, in all its variety of tints, its softness and repose. At length the full moon again lighted up the skies, and poured her splendour upon the quiet waves of the Adriatic. The scene was constantly shifting, producing the most diversified combinations of light and shade.

Soon after leaving the mouth of the Brenta, we sportively asked the gondoliers to sing us some of the verses of Tasso, To our surprise, one of them so far complied, as to chant a passage from that poet. The other oarsman, taking the hint,

bawled himself hoarse and us deaf with his harsh notes, which he continued during the whole voyage. He seemed to sing from the mere love of music, and not to gratify his audience. His companion responded, when he was acquainted with the song, and when not, the other prompted. The unceasing strain at length became tedious, especially when objects of greater interest attracted attention.

In approaching the shore and entering the canals, the scene again changed and presented a new aspect. The city was by this time lighted up, and the long line of illuminated windows, appeared like beacons floating upon the water. In a word, it was difficult to realize a picture so entirely novel and unique, and we seemed to have been transported to a fairy land, where all was enchantment. Other gondolas shot by us with the fleetness and silence of spirits. Our own glided alternately through the deep shadow of buildings, five or six stories high, and gleams of moonlight breaking through between the successive ranges of palaces, which hang their flights of white marble steps to the very surface of the water. After threading a labyrinth of minor channels, we at length entered the Grand Canal, which is about three hundred feet in width, and winds through the city, in the shape of the letter S. Its borders are lined with proud structures, which the breadth of the channel in front enables the spectator to examine at a proper distance, and under the most favourable circumstances. Subsequent observation satisfied us, that Venice was made for the night, and that it appears much the best by moonlight, when the mud and sea-weed of its canals, the filth of its narrow lanes, the dilapidations of its buildings are concealed from the eye, and when alone any considerable portion of its inhabitants are awake and visible.

Reaching the centre of the city, we stepped from the boat into the very porch of the White Lyon, which is one of the best hotels that had been found in Italy, and afforded us excellent accommodations for eight or ten days. Its front windows command an extensive view of the Grand Canal, of the fleets of gondolas that darken its surface, of the palaces upon its shores, and of the Rialto, which spans its channel at the distance of perhaps fifty rods above. A first glimpse of this far-famed bridge, immortalized by the allusions of Shakspeare, was obtained on the evening of our arrival. The outlines could not be distinctly traced; but while we were gazing from the porch of the Bianca Leone, a person crossed with a

light, which described an arch against the horizon, corresponding with that of the Rialto. A solitary lamp was burning upon its top. At 9 or 10 o'clock a concert of voices proceeded from this rendezvous of the lower classes, and at length others responded on the shore below. Sometimes the parties joined in the same tune and kept exact time, though they were far apart. The effect was charming. There was a plaintive, pleasing melancholy in the music, which seemed to breathe an elegy over departed greatness and grandeur.

We began to think that all which has been recorded or sung of this romantic city, is strictly true, and that the half had not been told us. Had the gondola taken us back to terra firma on the same night, our excursion would have left an impression of a visit to an enchanted land, presenting scenes entirely out of the sphere of ordinary life, and unlike any thing else to be found on earth. A tourist would do well to select a bright moonlight evening, cross the Lagune at sunset, navigate the canals, pause a moment at the Rialto, visit St. Mark's, climb the Campanile, saunter amidst the circles of Venetian beauty beneath the arcades, take a turn or two in the Public Garden, row to the Lido, and return to the shore at the dawn of day, before the inhabitants have gone to sleep. Rich as the city is in the works of art and the monuments of former grandeur, an examination in detail will by no means support the first impression, and the visitant finds his enthusiastic admiration declining daily, till his dreams of romance have all vanished, and the mistress of the hundred Isles is left without any feelings of deep regret. Venice is like a woman with a pretty face, but destitute of intellect or heart. She may please the eye, without being able to win and chain the affections.