"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this wave. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." These words realized a description of the view before us, which no painter, not even Claude Lorraine, could have done. "Do you not think," said Violet, "it would be a design worthy of some great mind, to embody Shakspeare's scenes and characters, which paint so graphically in so few words? There is not a play but might furnish forth a gallery itself." But Harry answered: "No. I think the attempt would be futile, for several reasons: because Shakspeare excels chiefly in those fine and minute delineations of character which no artist can render; because he leaves so much to the reader's own imagination, the very silence of his heroes, more especially of his heroines, often giving us as much insight into their character as their speeches; and because he presses sound into his service more frequently than sight. Scarcely any, if any, of his pictures, graphical as they are, would be complete without those sounds which no painter could embody. Even the scene from which I have just quoted, would not be perfect without the music of the spheres; and Miranda's island would be nothing without the melody that crept over the waters and allayed their fury. VENETIAN FUNERAL. Of all melancholy sights that we have seen, since leaving home, none has, I think, struck us so much as a Venetian funeral, which we chanced one morning to see from our favourite balcony. A long procession of friars, bearing, as usual, incense, torches, and banners, came to the water's edge, accompanying the coffin of a deceased nobleman, which was splendidly decorated. They were there met by a small gondola, rowed by one man only, who was dressed in black. The coffin was disrobed of its rich covering, and placed in the gondola; all the crowd, torches, banners, incense, friars, and mourners retraced their steps, and the little black gondola rowed slowly away to the sound of faint music. It looked exceedingly like the passage of the soul over the melancholy Styx. "And so, this is to be our last evening at Venice!” was the mournful exclamation of more than one of our party, as we assembled for the last evening, in the large old-fashioned salon of the Leone Bianco. Our stay in the city of the waters had been long enough to induce us to unpack sundry articles endeared by long association, which gave the room a very homeish appearance. May's pet work-box, her Indian work-box of carved ivory, which she never uses, but loves as much as if she were the most notable lady in the land, stood on a small side-table by the fire-place, in a similar nook to the one which it used to occupy in our pleasant sitting-room in Regent's Park. Violet's writing-desk, disencumbered of its travelling dress, had resumed its wonted station on the library table. Harry's portfolio, without which he confesses he is but a lost man, rested tranquilly by its side; and books, English, French, and Italian, of which we had here taken in a fresh supply, were strewn about in every corner. Even my own dear myrtle, which has travelled all the way with us from England was there; the rigour of the season was pleaded as an excuse for its admittance, but the fact was that I liked to have it near me-to see it when I looked up from my work or book; for I cherish that myrtle very fondly for the sake of the giver, and woman-like, must look on what I love, although the sight should sometimes draw forth tears of agony:-so there it stood the rough basket-work in which, for the convenience of travelling, it was packed, being quite concealed by the large China vase, in which it was, for the time, ensconced, it contributed not a little, in my opinion, to ornament the apartment. : Then the room itself was one, the like of which we had not seen for many a long day: large and lofty enough to suit the most patrician taste, for the Leone Bianco, like most of the Venetian hotels, was formerly the palace of a proud noble, and still, in the size of its rooms, its gilt mouldings and the carved tracery of its balconied windows, shows vestiges of ancient grandeur; yet did it not look comfortless; on the contrary, a profusion of dark rich damask drapery, M the old fashioned folding screen which half encircled the bright hearth; the massive folding doors of ebony, on which the martyrdom of St. Stephen (an enlivening subject by the bye) stood out in bold bas relief; the grand piano drawn into the centre of the room, and covered with songs of every nation under heaven; the lesser articles of individual taste and comfort, which I before mentioned; and last, though not least, the group of bright happy faces that assembled round the hearth itself, as the merry time of evening drew on, gave to the old salon an appearance of comfort and animation, that was truly delightful. Well might we mournfully exclaim, "And this is our last happy evening at Venice!" "Yes, indeed, and when shall we meet with such snug quarters again?" observed Sir Mark with a most pathetic shrug. "Dieu sait!" "No more whiling away the evening in the balcony," said Harry, watching the long lines of lights as they seem to spring up from the dark waters, and spread out in every direction, tracing so beautifully the outlines of the city. "No more Byronizing in Byron's very own gondola, talking sentimentals to Byron's own gondolier!" Here the speaker looked round at Violet; but she was so exceedingly intent on finishing the sprig of pomegranate on her work-bag, that she hoped we did not see the deep blush that mantled to her very temples. "No more sonnetizing to the moon, that most legitimate object of a lady's idolatry, seeing that it has many bad qualities of changeableness, coldness, &c., in common with her! No more moralizing over the Bridge of Sighs! Alas the day!" "No more watching Punch and his drolleries on the Rivage des Esclavons!" sighed Sir Mark. "No more of dear Mr. Caramel's evening visits," chimed in little Agnes, "with his tray full of candied fruits!" Really the subject was becoming too mournful; I was trying to find some cause of grief, yet unnamed, when Lady Julian drew forth her reading table, and changed our wailing into sounds of joy. "Our last evening here," she said cheerfully, "shall not be spent in unavailing regrets: let us examine our budget. But where is Emily?" May and I went to seek her. Truth to tell, May is half afraid to traverse this great ghosty house, as she calls it, alone; whether she fears the dark-eyed cavaliers who frown from every panel of the gallery, or the grim stone lion that keeps guard on the top of the staircase, I am not quite sure. We peeped into the corridore to see if the child was amusing herself there with a pas seul,-all was silent-on we went, bravely, for there were two of us,-passed through the rows of bending statues, slipped by the lion, down the broad steps, till we came to a side door, belonging to the room occupied by the family; and there we stopped, for the sounds of merriment within were so hearty, that I could not resist joining in the chorus, and my companion, with an effort of yet stronger sympathy, pushed open the door, and we beheld a scene which I will attempt to sketch. Little Carlino, our hostess's young son, was thumping away with all his might at a spinet, old enough to have borne the name of Tubal Cain upon |