VENICE,

FROM THE ENTRANCE TO THE GRAND CANAL.

Drawn by J. D. Harding, from a Sketch by Lady Scott.

THE scene represented in this engraving is rather of Venice in its glory, than in this its day of degradation: these gondolas and gaieties are of other times; now Melancholy pervades this city, and marks it for

her own:

"In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored-
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood,
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power,
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower."
Childe Harold, canto iv. st. 3 and 11.

This feeling will prevail in the mind of every traveller, if he reflect, while he looks upon Venice, and contemplates what she was. Some one has written of Venice that it is " a huge pleasure-house:" his feelings must be strangely constituted who thinks that a gleam of sun-light on a tomb is a pleasurable object.

This city is full of strange anomalies; and they have been thus cleverly sketched by an author in "The Gem," an annual for 1829:

"Venice was always an unintelligible place, and is still unintelligible. I knew before that it was situated on many islands; that its highways were canals; that gondolas were its hackney-coaches; that it had Saint Mark's, and the Rialto, and the Doge's palace; and I know no more now. It was always a dream, and will continue a dream for ever. A man must be born, or live long enough to become endeared to it, before he will either understand or feel at home at Venice. It is a glorious place for cripples, for I know of no use that a gentleman has for his limbs; they are crutches to the bed-ridden, spectacles to the blind. You step out of your gondola into your hotel, and out of your hotel into a gondola; and this is all the exertion that is becoming. The Piazza di S. Marca, and the adjoining quay, are the only places where you can stretch a limb; and if you desire to do so, they carry you there, and bring you home again. To walk requires predetermination,

VENICE.

and you order your gondola, and go on purpose. To come to Venice, is to come on board; and it only differs from ship-board, that there is no danger of sea-sickness. The Canal Grande is nearly three hundred feet wide. Other canals are wide enough, but the widest street in the city is not more than ten or twelve feet from house to house, and the majority do not exceed six or eight. To wind and jostle through these irregularities is intolerable, and all but impossible; no one thinks of doing so; and who would that had a gondola at command? The gondola is all that is dreamy and delightful; its black funereal look in high imaginative contrast with its internal luxury. You float on without sensible motion; its cushions were stolen from Mammon's chambers, blown up, not stuffed;' you seat yourself upon one of them, and sink, sink, sink, as if it were all air; you throw your leg upon another, and if you have occasion for it, which is rare at Venice, must hunt after it-lost, sunk.

"Travellers, and Canaletti's Views, which are truth itself, give you a correct idea of Venice, but no idea of the strangeness of a first visit. It is not merely that there are canals and gondolas, but it is all canal and gondola. I know nothing to liken it to, but a large fleet wind-bound; you order your boat, and row round; and all that are at leisure do the same. Saint Mark's,

of an evening, that attracts all in the same direction, is

but a ball on board the Commodore. If you laugh at this as extravagant, you will be right; but it is only extravagant because there is nothing real to compare with it. The fleet wind-bound is truth itself, and you have only to change the Redentore into the Spitfire, and the Salute into the Thunderer bomb, and it is real in feeling. Every thing is in agreement with this. If the common people want a peach or a pomegranate, they hail a boat; for the very barrow-women (if you will keep me to the reality, and drive me to the absurdity of such phrases) go floating about, and their cry is that half song, with the long dwelling on the final syllable, with which sailors call Boat a-hoy!' With all this, there is no place you would so much like to spend a winter at; and because of all this; it is so strange, new, and perplexing. The Venetians are said to be the most delightful people, and at Venice is said to be the pleasantest society, in Europe. It is impossible to doubt it. Society is the sole purpose for which they come here. They live on the continent, and Venice is but a huge pleasure-house."

In the distance of the view here given, is the church of Santa Maria della Salute. It is exuberantly laden with ornament on the exterior; within, though its arrangements are rich and splendid, they are in better

taste.

The church was erected from the designs of Baldis