the Adriatic shore, with that beautiful expanse of water stretching beyond the limits of vision, and soothingly laving the sands at my feet. Upon returning, the sun was below the horizon, and the deep, pompous outline of the Tyrol rose commandingly in the distance; a rich glow suffused the face of the western sky, and the evening star gleamed peacefully. The still waters of the gulf reflected with beautiful distinctness the spires and adjoining buildings, and the few vessels in the port lay perfectly tranquil upon its bosom. At that hour, when the associations of Venice are so earnestly excited by its own quiet beauty, my old gondolier grew communicative. To-morrow, he said, was the anniversary of one of the most splendid festas of the republic. On that day, fifty years ago, the Doge, senators, nobility and distinguished strangers embarked in the golden barge, and when arrived at the lido, the former dropped a ring into the sea, and then the whole company repaired to a neighboring church to celebrate a solemn function, after which a grand fete was partaken of at the palace, and innumerable comfits distributed upon the piazza; thus, yearly, were observed the nuptials of the Adriatic. He had been in the service of Byron three years and a half, and during that time, had daily, after dinner, transported the poet to the shore, where he rode along the sands for some hours; and often had he followed him with the gondola as he swam or floated for miles upon the calm surface

of the bay. The little white house to which the curious repaired to see him mount his horse, and the convent which he daily frequented, were pointed out; and as an instance of his lordship's generosity, the bargeman bid us remember that when the printer whom he employed in Venice lost his establishment by fire, he privately sent him a hundred louis d'ors. As an evidence of the fallen fortunes even of the gondoliers, he declared that immediately prior to the downfall of the republic, he received forty francs per day from two Signori Inglesi, for fifteen days, beside a buonamano of a suit of clothes; while an eighth of that sum is the present stipend. I induced the old man to sing a stanza of Tasso, as I thus approached the city. The evening gun resounded, a band of music struck up, and silently contemplating the realization of my dreams of Venice, I touched the steps of the quay, and emerged from that silent solemnity upon the illuminated and gaily occupied Piazza of St. Marco -to feel with him of whom I was just conversing, that

"Beauty still is here;

States fall, arts fade, but nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear."

ITALIAN JOURNEYING.

"If in your memories dwell

A thought which once was his; if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain

He wore the sandal shoon and scallop shell."

ALTHOUGH called by the vetturino, on a January morning, at about half past two, I had cause, as usual, to regret my ready attention to his summons, for it was nearly six when I was actually moving on in the cabriolet of the carriage by the side of my compagnon de voyage. The thin scattered clouds which dimmed the sky of early day gathered more darkly as we proceeded, so that all means of avoiding direct contact with the rain were soon put in requisition. It was no small disappointment to me, when arrived at our first stopping-place, Albano, to find myself shivering at the scanty fire of the inn-kitchen, instead of roaming over the hill and about the lake which give so much celebrity to this village. One of the passengers, more hale, though I ween

not more zealous than myself, made a hurried visit to the spot, and returned quite wet, to complain of the littleness of the sheet of water dignified with the title of lake. When we again set out, the rain was pouring in torrents, and the utter gloominess of the scenery, and comparatively comfortless state of our feelings, made the slow riding of the few remaining hours of light uninteresting, to say the least. How the miserable dinner, cold quarters, and dreary aspect of our night's shelter were gone through with, every old traveller can imagine. Each bore the several privations according to his humor, though the chief consolation seemed to be derived from the idea of home-comfort which the contrast suggested.

A seemingly long, and equally dark ride brought us the ensuing morning to the borders of the Pontine Marshes, renowned for the antiquated attempt to drain them, and some circumstances of ancient history in connection with which they are mentioned. The quality which has rendered them somewhat formidable in modern times their pestiferous exhalations-was imperceptible, either from our confined situation, or the peculiar state of the atmosphere. We ran with great rapidity over the fine road which crosses them, extending twenty-four miles, and reached the Terracina Hotel, just as a little interval of temporary sunshine occurred. From a back window of this castle-like building, I could gaze