da Ponte, the architect of the public prison. Oh, Venice! Venice! as we walk thy streets, how our thoughts roll back to the days of thy glory, when thy winged lion, which even now "Stands as in mockery of its withered power," years was an emblem of the sweep of thy magnificence and empire, to which, as to the monarch of the forest, the nations around thee bowed. I walk upon the quay of the Piazzetta, but no lordly procession meets my view, as in the days of the proud pontiff, Alexander the third. It was here the Suabian sued, here the proud ecclesiastic knelt upon his neck-it is here the Austrian eagle hovers, and triumphs over the impotency of thy power. I trace thy history, and I find that, not only now, but even in thy greatness, thou wast a slave a slave through thy three hundred of stormy democracy-a slave beneath thy close, hereditary aristocracy-a slave beneath the despotism of the succeeding oligarchy, and more a slave then than I enter the "Sala del Gran Consiglio" of thy ducal palace-I see the proud old portraits of each doge. Gazing upon me, they interest not my attention; they claim not my admiration. That black vacancy, intended for disgrace, is a more noble memorial than all; the "Locus Marini Falieri Decapitati," is a noble evidence that one Venetian once lived, who sought to free his country from the now. bonds of slavery. Yet, Venice, thy name inspires associations of splendor, and a brilliancy gathers over even thy slavery, as we think of thee-when we think of the aspirations of Galileo; how the gray-haired and venerable old man watched the silent planets from thy Campanile-of Paul Veronese, and Titian, and the Palmas, and Tinteretto, who called forth the images which breathe on their canvass beneath thy skies of Petrarch, who sung of Laura amid thy crowded buildings; and thou hast in thy territory his dust; he sleeps at Arqua. Thy glorious churches, thy statues, thy immortal tombs, and thy gondoliers, stealing like shadows over the waters--although "In Venice, Tasso's strains are heard no more," | all these are thy glory, and thy glory they must ever remain, more elevated than others; and it was upon these obscure and sequestered spots that Venice eventually raised her glory and renown. Venice presents to the mind an aspect partially of venerable antiquity, partially of modern European pre-eminence; it is, in point of fact, as Sismondi remarks in his "History of Italian republics," "the link which connects ancient and modern history;" and when we think or read of Venice, a dreamy grandeur and a solemn sublimity gathers over the page and before the eye; when all the elements of government, if government such a state of policy can be called, were riding like miserable wrecks on the billowy commotion of the storm, and ignorantly elevating the conductor which was to call the lightning that eventually struck them. At that moment Venice rose, and her eye glanced along the future and the past. The western Rome was her parent; she saw each dying struggle for the returning triumph, and the last laurels withered in her eye. She saw the eastern empire first wave its sceptre; alternately its friend and its foe, she accelerated or retarded its glory; she triumphed at last over its disgrace, and in its death-pangs divided the spoil with the strong. She saw the French power rise when Clovis conquered Gaul. The Ostrogothic and the Visigothic powers, their glory and their gloom were alike beheld by her. The continent seemed shaken; she alone seemed to stand iminovable; at last she fell; the proud republic gave way, "and the state," says Sismondi," which linked the present with the past, and joined the two eras of the world's civilization, ceased to exist." We annex an account of the gondola, or boat, employed in traversing the marine streets or canals of Venice. The length of this beautiful boat is nearly thirty feet, and the breadth about five; and it affords accommodations for six passengers, beside the two rowers. Some, however, are much smaller, and is flat-bottomed, and its sides slope away are rowed by one person. The gondola considerably, particularly toward the after part, which, when the boat is empty, rises high out of the water. The seats, which THE CITY ON THE SEA. are placed at a distance of something less than two thirds the length of the boat from its head, have a tilt over them, with windows and curtains. This tilt, which is extremely light and elegant, and removeable at pleasure, is of frame-work, covered with black cloth, ornamented with tufts of the same color. The head is furnished with a flat iron beak or prow, of the form shown in the engraving, which is similar to what is seen in the representation of the ancient galleys; this is never painted, but kept highly polished: the stern has a wooden beak, not so elevated as that at the head. The seats usually have cushions covered with plush, and the floor is furnished with carpets. The gondolas of private persons, as well as those which are let for hire, are invariably painted black. Formerly the Venetians vied with each other in the splendor of their gondolas, but so much inconvenience was found to result from this rivalry, that a sumptuary law was issued, prescribing the size, form, and color, in which the gondola still appears. The black color gives them a very sombre, funereal appearance, and their first effect on strangers is at variance with our notions of Venetian gayety and elegance. Our sailors call them "floating coffins," "queer craft," and indeed they have something of a hearse-like character about them. When the black is allowed to become brown and rusty, as is now, owing to Venetian poverty, too often the case, they look particularly shabby and still more dismal. In such a city as Venice, intersected in every part by canals, and where there are few parts where people can walk a hundred yards without coming to a high, steep bridge, built nearly always, not in inclined planes, but in steps rising over an arch, carriages and horses would be of no use. The gondola is the sole equipage of the noble Venetian. In this he is carried on his visits, for his amusement, or to his business, and in this a considerable part of his time is passed. His head gondolier is to him what the head coachman and the groom are to an English gentleman, and something more. When he wishes to go out, he does not order "the horses to be put to," but the gondola to be got ready. As the fares 215 are low, even the poorest people make frequent use of these boats, and on a saint's day, or other holyday, they are seen gliding in all directions, their occupants sometimes conversing or listening to stories, more frequently playing at tarocco, a game at cards. In rowing, the gondoliers stand on the extreme edge of the vessel: the master, or principal gondolier, on the right side, with his face toward the head of the boat, and his companion on the left side, behind the company. On the after part, where the back rower is placed, there is a flat piece added over the gunwale of the boat, on which he stands. Thus placed, the gondoliers seem, to strangers, in imminent danger of falling overboard. But this is an event which rarely happens. They balance themselves with apparent ease, and even elegance, pushing their oars forward, and giving them, by the action of the wrist, a turn in the water, resembling what is called with us" feathering." The oars are made of a very light sort of fir; the blade is not bent, as in the English oar, but more in the form of a paddle. They do not use rowlocks, but employ a single fixed thowell, of a crooked form, and about a foot long, against which they hold the oar by pressure only. Previous to turning a corner, from one canal into another, the gondoliers have a peculiar cry, rather musical and agreeable, designed to give warning to gondolas which may be approaching in an opposite direction. The gondoliers were formerly a very interesting portion of the Venetian population, and enjoyed a degree of consideration beyond that which persons in a similar station of life receive among ourselves. They still are a civil and wellbehaved body of men, and act as ciceroni to travellers in showing them the curiosities of Venice, and even go with them to the opera-house, and conduct them to their boxes. Formerly they made the city vocal; for in gliding through its canals, and at other times, they sang to one another, in alternate stanzas, passages chiefly from Tasso, translated into the Venetian dialect. The verses they sang were almost invariably taken from Tasso, and rarely from Ariosto or any other poet. The motives for this decided preference have been THE OCELOT. reasonably assigned by several writers to the circumstance of Tasso's "epic," relating to the wars of the Crusades, where the crescent of Mohamet was made to wax pale before the Christian cross, and to the antipathy, arising from long warfare, both by land and sea, both in Europe and Asia, that has existed between the Venetians and the Turks. Shakspere's Othello will show, as well as any historical record could do, how violent was this feeling. To this may be added that the Venetians, even down to our own day, have continued an intimate intercourse with Syria, the Holy Land, Turkey, and all the Levant, and are thus the better prepared to enjoy Tasso's brilliant and beautiful pictures of the "orient." The melody thus sung was calculated for remote effect; and when the gondoliers of distant vessels sung to each other in alternate verses, the sound, as it came "by distance made more sweet," was singularly pleasing. Speaking of this vocal performance, it is said, in a note to the fourth canto of "Childe Harold": "It suits particularly well with an idle, solitary mariner, lying at length in his vessel, at rest on one of these canals, waiting for his company or for a fare, the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror; and as all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot passengers: a silent gondola glides now and then by him, of which the splashings of the oars are scarcely to be heard. At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the two strangers; he becomes the responsive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for verse: though the song should last the whole night through, they entertain themselves without fatigue, and the hearers, who are passing between the two, take part in the amusement." But this interesting practice has declined with the prosperity and independence of Venice. THE OCELOT. 217 HIS beautiful animal is a native of Chili and Mexico. The ocelot was known to the natives of South America by the name of tlalocelotl, from which, by abbrevia tion, we have derived a cognomen less difficult to pronounce, and which, at the same time does not much differ from the original designation. In size the ocelot is about three feet in length and eighteen inches in height. The legs are long; ears somewhat broad, and sometimes tipped with a few hairs. Upon a gray ground are oblong, fawn-colored patches of a dark color, surrounded with a border perfectly black. At the top of the back there is a continuous, dark line, and the tail is beautifully spotted. The under part of the body is white, with spots of fawn which extend to the feet. The skin of the male ocelot exceeds that of the tiger in beauty and variety, and in brightness and regularity of the spots it is much superior to the leopard. In this respect, the panther or the ounce can not be compared to the ocelot, so that in appearance it is more elegant than those of its tribe which inhabit the old world. In the female the colors of the skin are comparatively dull, and the spots less regular. The ocelot, like most animals of the cat tribe, is distinguished in its wild state by considerable ferocity, though specimens which have been brought to Europe have exhibited a subdued character. A male and female were brought to Paris in 1764 by M. Lescot, who had taken them when quite young. It rarely attacks man, and fears dogs, and when pursued, seeks safety in flight, endeavoring to elude its assailants by mounting a tree. The ocelot passes the day in its retreat, but night it prowls about in quest of prey, and under cover of the darkness, it approaches human habitations and enters the farmyard. It sometimes awaits the approach of its prey concealed amid the branches of a tree, and when they are sufficiently near, it springs upon them with unerring aim. It sucks the blood of |