VV’tyv. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
3«3 ] 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
[We oopy the following beautiful, little poem from Bat- 
aiid Tatlok's recently Issued work entitled “ Poems of 
the Orient;”] 
CAMADEVA 
Tub sun, the moon, the mystic planets seven. 
Shone with a purer and sorenor Came, 
And there was joy on Earth and joy in Heaven 
When Camadeva came. 
The birds, upon the tufted tamarind spray, 
Sat side by side and cooed in amorous Came; 
The lion sheathed his claws and left hisprey 
When Camadeva came. 
The sea slept, pillowed on the happy shore; 
The mountain-peaks were bathed in rosy Came; 
The clouds wont down the sky—to mount no more 
When Camadeva came. 
The hearts of all men brightened liko the morn; 
The poet's harp then first deserved its fame, 
For rapture sweeter than he sang was born 
When Camadeva came. 
All breathing life a newer spirit quaffed, 
A second life, a bliss beyond a name. 
And Death, half-conquered, dropped libs idle shaft 
When Oa:nad6va came. 
THE LITTLE SISTERS. 
“ You were not here yesterday,” said the 
gentle teacher of the little village school, as 
she placed her hand kindly on the curly head 
of one of her pupils. It was recess time, but 
the little girl addressed had not gone to frolic 
away the ten minutes, not even left her seat, 
but sat absorbed in what seemed a fruitless 
attempt to make herself mistress o( a sum in 
long division. 
Her face and neck crimsoned at the remark 
of her teacher, but looking up, she seemed 
somewhat re-assured by the kind glance that 
met her, and answered,—“ No, ma’am, I was 
not, but sister Nelly was.” 
“ I remember there was a little girl who 
called herself Nelly Gray, came in yesterday, 
but I did not know she was your sister. But 
why did you not come? You seem to love to 
study very much.” 
“ It was not because I didn't want to,” was 
the earnest answer, and then she paused and the 
deep flush agaiiHiuged that fair brow; “ but,” 
she continued after a moment of painful em¬ 
barrassment, “ mother cannot spare both of us 
conveniently, aud so we are going to take turns. 
I’m going to school one day and sister the next, 
and to-night I’m to teach Nelly all 1 have 
learned to-day, and to-morrow night she will 
teach me all that she learns while here. It’s 
the only way we can think of getting along, 
and we want to study very much, so as to 
sometime keep school ourselves, and Lake care 
of mother, because she has to work very hard 
to take care of us.” 
With genuine delicacy Miss M-forbore 
to question the child further, but sat down be¬ 
side her, aud in a momout explained the rule 
over which she was puzzling her young brain, 
so that the difficult sum was easily finished. 
“You had better go out and take the air a 
few moments, you have studied very hard to¬ 
day,” said the teacher, as the little girl put 
aside the slate. 
“1 had rather not —I might tear my dress 
—I will stand by the window and watch the 
rest.” 
There was such a peculiar tone in the voice 
of her pupil as she said, I might tear my dress, 
that Alias M-was led instinctively to notice 
it. It was nothing but a ninepenny print of a 
deep hue, but it was neatly made and had nev¬ 
er yet been washed. And while looking at it, 
she remembered that during the whole previ¬ 
ous fortnight Mary Gray had attended school 
regularly, she had never seen her wear but that 
one dress. “She is a thoughtful little girl,” 
said she to herself, and does not want to make 
her mother any trouble. “ I wish I had more 
such scholars.” 
The next morning Alary was absent, but her 
sister occupied her seat. There was some¬ 
thing so interesting in the two little sisters, the 
one eleven, aud the other eighteen months 
younger, agreeing to attend school by turns, 
that Miss M-could not forbear observing 
them very closely. They were pretty faced 
children, of delicate forms, and fairy like hands 
and feet—the elder with dark lustrous eyes and 
chestnut curls, the other with orbs like the sky 
of June, her white neck veiled by a wealth of 
golden ringlets. She observed in both, the 
samo close attention to their studies, and as 
Mary tarried within during tho play time, so 
did Nelly; and upon speaking to her as she 
had to her sister, she received the same an¬ 
swer, “/ might tear my dress.'' 
The reply caused Mis3 M-to notice the 
garb of her sister. She saw at once that it 
was of the same piece as Mary’s, and upon 
scrutinizing it very closely, she became certain 
that it was the same dress. It did not fit quite 
so’pretty on Nelly, and was too long for her, 
too, and she was evidently ill at ease when she 
noticed her teacher looking at tho bright pink 
flowers that were so thickly set on the white 
ground. 
The discovery w r us one that could not but 
interest a heart so benevolent as that which 
pulsated in tho bosom of that village school 
teacher. She ascertained the residence of their 
mother, and though sorely shortened herself 
by a narrow purse, that same night, having 
tound at the only store in the place a few yards 
of the samo material, purchased a dress for lit¬ 
tle Nelly, and sent it to her in such a way that 
the donor could not bo detected. 
* * * * * 
Very bright and happy looked Mary Gray 
on Friday morning, as she entered tho school 
at an early hour. She waited only to place 
her books in neat order in her desk, ere she 
approached Miss M-, and whispering in 
a voice that laughed in spite of her efforts to 
make it low and deferential—“After this week 
sister Nelly is coming to school every day, and 
oh, I am so glad ! ” 
“ That is very good news," replied the teach¬ 
er kindly. “ Nelly is fond of her books, T see, 
and I am happy to know that she can have an 
opportunity to study them every day.”— 
Then she continued, a little good natured mis¬ 
chief encircling her eyes and dimpling her 
sweet lips— “ But how can your mother spare 
you both conveniently?” 
“ O, yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, she can now. 
Something happened she didn’t expect, and 
she is as glad to have us come as we are to do 
so." She hesitated a moment, but her young 
heart was filled to the brim with joy, and 
when a child is happy it is as natural to tell 
the cause as it is for a bird to warble when 
the sun shines. So out of the fullness of her 
heart she spoke aud told her teacher this little 
story. 
She and her sister were the only children of 
a very poor widow, whose health was so deli¬ 
cate that it was almost impossible to support 
herself and daughters. She was obliged to 
keep them out of school all winter, because 
they had no clothes to wear, but she told them 
that if she could earn enough by doing odd 
chores for the neighbors to buy each of them 
a new nress, they might go in the spring.— 
Very earnestly had the little girls improved 
their stray chances, and very carefully hoarded 
the copper coins which usually repaid them.— 
They had each nearly saved enough to buy a 
calico, when Nelly was taken sick, and as the 
mother had no money beforehand, her own 
treasure had to be expended in the purchase 
of medicine. 
“ 0, I did feel so bad when school opened 
and Nelly could not go, because she had no 
dress,”said Mary. “I told mother I wouldn’t 
go either, but she said I had better, for I could 
teach sister some, and it would be better than 
no schooling. I stood it for a fortnight, but ; 
Nelly’s little face seemed all the time looking 
at me on the way to school, and I couldu’t be 
happy a bit, so I finally thought of a way by 
which we could both go, and I told mother I 
would come one day, and the next I would 
lend Nelly my dress and she might come, and 
that’s the way we have done this week. But 
last night, don’t you think somebody sent sis¬ 
ter a dress just like mine, and now she can 
come too. 0, if I only knew who it was, I 
would get down on my knees and thank them, 
and so would Nelly. But we don’t know, and 
so we’ve done all we could for them— we've 
prayed for them —and 0, Miss M-, we 
are all so glad now. Ain’t you, too?” 
“ Indeed I am,” was the emphatic answer.— j 
And when on the following Monday, little j 
Nelly, in the new pink dress, entered the 
school-room, her face radiant as a rose in sun-1 
shine, and approaching the teacher’s table, ex¬ 
claimed, in tones as musical as those of a freed 
fountain, “ I am coming to school every day, 
and 0, I am so glad ! ” Miss M-felt as 
she had never done before, that it is more 
blessed to give that to receive. No million¬ 
aire, when lie saw his name in public prints, 
lauded for his thousand dollar charities, was 
ever so happy as the poor school teacher who 
wore her gloves half a summer longer than 
she ought, and thereby saved enough to buy 
that little fatherless girl a calico dress. 
A MOTHER’S LOVE. 
Bright upon the altar ef every heart should 
burn the holy fire of a Mother’s love. Akin 
is it to that of Deity itself, tilling the soul with 
holy aspirations, which lead us heaven-ward, 
and teach us that beyond the darkness of the 
; sombre grave, its fullness shall be only felt. 
Black, indeed, is that soul that has not 
3ome time known the soothing comfort of a 
Mother’s love. When bowed down by care, 
or racked with pain, has not the gentle voice 
of thy sainted Mother whispered sweet comfort 
and ministered like an angel of mercy to thy 
relief? In moments of reflection, and when 
alone, has not memory brought back the gen¬ 
tle echos of her voice, which, falling upon thine 
ear, like the murmuring of the gentle brooklet, 
beneath the calm soft moon-light; or the dul¬ 
cet strains of the seolian’s softest cadences— 
bathed thy soul in bliss, and given thee a 
peep into the brightness of Heaven, which she 
awaits to share with thee? 
Gentle reader, if thy mother live, love, cher¬ 
ish, honor and obey her; and by acts of kind¬ 
ness smooth her path to the “grave, whither 
thou goest!” 
If she live in eternity, remember her undy¬ 
ing love for thee! Remember her sainted look 
as she knelt by thy bedside and poured out 
at the throne of the Everlasting, her heart’s 
most earnest prayer for thy happiness, present 
and to come! Remember this, and show by 
every act of thine that thy mother “being 
1 dead, yet speaketh ” unto thee with a voice of 
I an unsullied mid translated soul! 
Marriage. — Wo celebrate tho wedding, 
and make morry over tho honeymoon. Tho 
poet paints tho beauties and blushos of tho 
blooming bride; and tho bark of matrimo¬ 
ny, with its freight of untestod love, is 
launched on tho uncertain ocean of experi¬ 
ment, amid kind wishes and rejoicings.— 
But on that precarious sea are many storms, 
and oven tho calm has its porils; and only 
when the bark has woathored these, and 
landed its cargo in tho haven of domestic 
peaco, can wo pronounce the voyage pros¬ 
perous, and congratulate the adventurer on 
his meritod and enviable reward. 
scaups 
WRITTKaI FOR THK RURAL, TO ILLUSTRATE THE 0(77, BY K. TTKBSTBR. 
Pkackkiti. slumbering on Che oceac, 
Night aad silence reign around ; 
Scaree a zephyr’s gentle motion, 
Stirs the tide with rippling sound 
Luna’s disk in radiance beaming, 
Half concealed in floating cloud, 
Lights with raja liko silver seeming. 
Tapering moat, and spar, and shroud 
Darkness, from her presence flying, 
Hides itself in caves afar; 
While the deep blue vault o’er lying 
Gleams with many- a radiant star. 
Throughout Nature's wide dominion, 
Not a sound of life is hoard; 
Folded is the downy pinion 
Of the ocean’s restless bird. 
Who would dream the gentle zephyr 
E’er could change to howling blast ? 
Or that murky cloud could ever 
O’er the sky like night be cast ? 
Sleeping waters tossed in surges, 
By the wavs compelling storm, 
TUI the barque its fury urges 
Meets with wreok in direful form f 
Thus too oft in peucefui slumbers. 
Life’s broad ocean seems to rest; 
While the barques, in countless numbers. 
Floating on its quiet breast, 
Soon by swift tornadoes scattered, 
Wildly tossed on maddened wave, 
Sink at last, all wrecked and shattered, 
Deep into an ocean grave. 
t f? A (I 'Y VV ft H C place visittd travelers, is the only spot of 
I i) t t i 4 it li t U 11 sS ♦ ground, of any size in Venice. It is in the 
iorm of a parallelogram, with the Ohnrch of 
* the Rural N^-'-YorkoT.]" ^ St Mark at one extremity; the other three 
REFLECTIONS OF VENICE, ® d ? s ure , b ° rd ![ ed tbe DucaI Palace > or 
_ I alace or the Doges, and other splendid edi- 
Leaves from a Traveler's Note Book.—No. IY. fices of a similar style of architecture. In front 
" of St. Mark’s Church are three bronze pedes- 
Thkr. 3 -.s a glorious city tn the sea,— . . 1 
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, tah, in .\ .uch are inserted t.iree lofty masts of 
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-woed a flaming red color, which were placed there to 
Clings to the marble of her palaces. celebrate the victories obtained by the Vene- 
**«**« tians over Cyprus, Candia and the Morea: from 
« And from the land we went these masts once proudly floated the gold and 
As to a floating city—steering in, ... , ... 
. , silken banners that represented the three 
And gliding up h*r streets as in a dream, # A *' U1TC 
So smoothly—silently. —Rogers. j provinces of the Republic of Venice ; the flags 
It is impossible to conceive anything more ! Austria have unfortunately displaced them, 
singular and astonishing, or more beautiful and ! fbe Church or Cathedal of San Marco is a 
sublime, than the appearance of Venice when singular and grotesque combination of oppo- 
viewed for the first time from the sea. All site styles, the beautiful Gothic and the rude 
the euconiuius that have ever been lavished Oriental being inharmoniously blended—what 
upon the splendor of the scene, do not express fr tecks, however, in taste and elegance it makes 
one-half the beauty it presents: rising, as it up in richness and novelty. Beautiful mosaics, 
does, like a gorgeous exhalation, so gradually splendid columns of rare and costly marble, 
and majestically from the waters of the Lagoon, exquisite arabesques and richly sculptured 
it appears not like a reality, but rather like the basso-relievos are jumbled together with but 
phantasm of a beautiful dream — like an en- little regard to style or harmony. But when 
chanted city in a fairy land. But as you fr considered that the church is built of the 
approach nearer to its sea-girt palaces, the fragments of different splendid edifices brought 
splendor of the novel scene begins to fade, borne by the ancient Venetians from the dif- 
although the interest and wonder grows; all ferent countries they had conquered, it does 
that history has recorded, and poetry sung or n °t appear at all singular that the building 
imagined of this romantic city, comes fresh to presents the curious medley that it does; 
tho memory, awakening feelings and associa- some of the columns are Grecian, some Moor- 
tions that are wholly indescribable; its palaces, ’ s * 1 > some Gothic, surmounted with Doric, 
though majestic, appear forlorn, and their time- tonic or Corinthian capitals; some of them 
worn, crumbling facades serve but to remind are 'wliitc, some of black and some of vein- 
one that its former realm of enchantment has ed mar ble of different hues, while a portion 
passed away, that its ancient Doges have long are termed oi bronze, porphyry, verd-antique, 
ceased to exist, and that this “proud and serpentine, and other precious materials. 'Lhe 
[ For the Rural New-Yorker.] 
REFLECTIONS OF VENICE, 
Leaves from a Traveler’s Note Book.—No. IY. 
Thkrs is a glorious city in the sea,— 
The sea ia in the broad, the narrow streets. 
Ebbing and flowing; and ihe salt sea-wood 
Clings to the marble of her palaces. 
* * And from the land we went 
As to a floating city—steering ia, 
And gliding up h*r streets as in a dream, 
So smoothly—silently. —Rogers. 
the hall where the Council of Ten held their 
meetings and concocted some of the foulest 
crimes that ever blackened the pages of 
history. 
The Palace is separated from the Oarceri, 
or public prison, by a narrow canal. The 
prison is a fine yet dark and gloomy building, 
which in appearance corresponds well with 
the use to which it was devoted. It is con¬ 
nected with the Palace by a covered bridge, 
elevated about twenty feet above the level of 
the canal—the celebrated Ponte del Sospiro, 
or Bridge of Sighs. Over this bridge, in for¬ 
mer times, criminals, after receiving their con¬ 
demnation from the Council of the Ten, were 
conducted to a cruel confinement or mysterious 
death. Well may it bo called the Bridge of 
Sighs ! Even now, it is impossible to cress it 
without shuddering at the remembrance of 
the many wretched victims that have passed 
over it never to return. 
Crossing the bridge, you enter at once into 
the Prison, aud, conducted by a guide, descend 
with lighted tapers to the dungeons below in 
which the prisoners of state were confined.— 
They are exceedingly small and so constructed 
that not a ray of light, even the faintest, could 
enter them. Some of the cells, reeking with 
damp odors, are below the surface of the 
water. In the passage-ways that lead to them 
are several niches with iron bars across them, 
upon which the miserable victims were sus¬ 
pended until dead. In one of the rooms, in 
which the criminals were drawn and quartered, 
there are several small holes in the pavement, 
communicating with the canal; they have 
grooved gutters leading to them, through 
which the blood of the butchered convicts 
was discharged. A door opens upon the canal 
from this apartment, from which, no doubt, the 
dead bodies were cast inlo boats, to be carried 
to the main land for burial. 3 . m. h. 
Rahway, N. J., Nov. 1354. 
THE PRINCESS AND THE TUTOR. 
Ax emperor’s daughter, who was delighted 
with the profound learning, the lively wit, aud 
the strict adherence to the precepts of morali¬ 
ty and religion, which characterized her tutor, 
one day inadvertently made this remark to 
him: 
“ What a pity that so fine a soul as yours is 
not in a more agreeable body!” He made in 
reply, the following inquiry: 
“ In what sort of vessels, madam, is your 
father’s wine preserved?” 
“ In earthen vessels,” was the answer. 
“ Gan that be possible?” replied he. “ Why, 
every citizen preserves his wine in earthen ves¬ 
sels; I should have thought gold or silver ones 
would have been more suitable to the dignity 
of an ecipcx-or. ’ 
“You are right!” exclaimed the princess, 
“ and henceforth this mark of respect shall not 
be omitted.” 
In a few days, however, she again accosted 
her tutor on this subject, saying: 
“In the gaudy vessels you recommended, 
my father’s wine was spoiied; the spirit evapo¬ 
rated; while that wine which was placed in 
earthen ones improved in quality.” 
“ Very possible,” rejoined the philosopher. 
“So also with virtue and knowledge; the more 
humble the exterior of that in which they are 
contained, the more luxuriantly they will flour¬ 
ish, and the. more forcibly excite our admira¬ 
tion.” 
ceased to exist, and that this “proud and serpentine, ana ouier precious materials, lne 
floating city of the sea” has become but a redc3 presened in the church are numerous, 
manacled slave, for the only banners that now and were tbc - v ucd ' ra ^ ier apocryphal would 
float over it are, alas! those of Austria, and its : bo inca teulable value. Among them are a 
only glory is that of the past ! P^ce ot the robe of our Saviour, some ol the 
Entering the city, one cannot help noticing ! ear * b that was saturated with the blooa that 
the strange and solemn stillness that pervades ! ‘tewed trom Lis wounds at the time of his em¬ 
it. No rattling carriages rumble over stony j ctexiori, a small fragment ol the pillar to which 
pavements, no sounds of the trampling hoofs of | be wus k°und when he was scourged, and of 
horses fill the air.—the silence is alone broken covrse ter no collection would be complete 
by the melancholy cry of the gondoliers and the w ^ bou ^ b ,l P‘ eoe 01 the true cross; but 
splash of their oars, coupled with the murmur- raorc P recdcm s than any oi all of these, are the 
iug sound of human voices. remains of St. Mark himself whose ashes 
The gondola is the sole means of convey- were brought from Alexandria and deposited 
ance; it ia a row-boat about twenty-five or within the church ! 
thirty-feet in length, sharp at each extremity, Close to the Cathedral is tLe Campanile, or 
like an Indian canoe. In the centre of the i bed tower, an enormous brick structure about 
finest of them is a covered pavilion with win¬ 
dows in the side, that can be opened or closed | 0601 to the BUmmit 0Iie wdl for the 
as the occupant wills. The gondolier stands ! laborious task, as a tiulv magnificent view is 
upright, and rows with his oar always and only j thu3 gained ol Venice, with its numerous 
upon one side, guiding the boat with astonish-1 labyrinthine canals. Conspicuous above all 
ing dexterity, aud forcing it rapidly along the i ‘hem i 3 the Grand Canal that winds through 
water of the boat-thronged canals. The gon-1 the c *ty * n tbe ^ orm °* an Verted letter S. 
dolas have always a sombre, gloomy appear¬ 
ance, the paint, furnishing and everything ap¬ 
pertaining to them being black. Why this 
particular color is selected it is impossible to 
sav, although several curious surmises concern- 
„ ___ The Ducal Palace that bounds one side of 
y appear- . 
thing ap- the p * a zza is built in the form of a square, 
Whv this with its front supported upon a double range 
ossible to of arcbes - The rooni3 within the Palace are 
concern- splendidly decorated, and the greater portion 
Tiik love of admiration is tho canker upon 
tho heart of many a lovely woman. It is 
vanity in its worst form. It insinuates it¬ 
self into tho moral nature, and either makes 
tho woman an object of vulgar stare or pub¬ 
lic notorioty. When her beauty is gono, the 
absenco of tho stimulant to her weakened 
nature leaves her irritable and disappoint¬ 
ed. Beauty is a dangerous inheritance, and 
requires a special duty from the ownor of 
it. The destiny of a beautiful woman is no¬ 
bler than to bo stared at by a vulgar crowd, 
or flattered by heartless socioty. 
Goon nature, like tho bee, collects sweetuess 
from every herb. Ill-nature, like tho spider 
collects poison from honeyed flowers. 
ing it have boon made. Btnos’s description of of thera beautiful paintings 
a gondola is inimitable: "I™ the ' ,aUa “ l ' n 8 3 b >' ttc m06 ‘ «**- 
1 brated artists of the Venetian school. Pre- 
a gondola is inimitable: 
il Dids’t ever a gondola ? for , 
You should not, rn describe it you exactly : j eminent Among them are those of 1 INTOHETTO, 
’Tin a long covered boat, that’s common hct» TlTIAN, and PAUL VERONESE. Nearly all the 
Curved at the prow; built liglitlv but compactly, j ; nti rcpre sent the battles, victories and 
Rowed by two rowers, each called gondolier, 1 or 
it glides along the waters, looking biuckiy, other nit/momblo incidents connected with the 
Just like a coffin oiapt in a canoe, Republic. In the Grand Council Room is a 
Wh.ro uono can make out what you say or do. beautiful representation of Paradise, by Tin- 
“ And U P &nd do ' T " 010 lon s eanal,i the - r 8°> toretto— the largest picture ever painted up- 
And under the Rialto shoot along . . r . T . , 
By night and day, all paces, swift and slow ; CauVOSS, being Clghty-four feet in length 
And roqnd the Theatres, ft sable throng, by thirty-four in width. The ancient Senate 
They waitintheir dusk livery of woe;- R oom of the Three Hundred, as it is called, 
But not to them do woeful things belong, . , . , „ : 
For sometimes they contaiu a deal of fun, IS extremely interesting, .101X1 »Lc iRCt that all 
Like mourning couches when the funeral’s done.” the affairs of the Republic were deliberated 
Tho Piazza San Marco, usually tho first upon and arranged within it. Adjoining it is 
relics preserved in the church are numerous, THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE CHILD. 
and were they not. rather apocryphal would - 
be of incalculable value. Among them are a \ rim .osofhsr once asked a little girl if 
, - o • „ , she had a soui. She looked up into his face 
piece of the robe of our Saviour, some ot the with an aj r cf astonishment and offended dig- 
earth that xvas saturated with the blood that nity, and replied: 
flowed from his wounds at the time of his cru- “To be sure I have.” 
cifixion, a small fragment of the pillar to which “ ^ makes you think you have?" 
he was bound when he was scourged, and of “ Pecause I have, she promptly replied. 
. .. * , J “But how do \ou know you have a soul? 
coyisc toi no collection would be complete “ Because I do kuow,” she answered again. 
without it—a piece of the true cross: but It was a child’s reason; but the philosopher 
more precious than any or all of these, are the could hardly have given a better. 
remains of St. Mark himself whose ashes “ ^ then, said he, utter a moment’s con- 
were brought from Alexandria and deposited sider ; lt , i 1 0!1 ’ “ if ? ou k,10 ’ v J.°. u bave a 80ul - caQ 
° 1 you tell me what your soul is? 
within the church. “ Why,” said she, “I am six years old, and 
Close to the Cathedral is the Campanile, or don’t you suppose that 1 know what my soul is?” 
bell tower, an enormous brick structure about “ Perhaps yon do. If you will tell me I 
three hundred and fifty feet in height. An as- stexil find out whether you do or not. 
, v .. _ „ „ “ Then voutuink I dont know, she replied, 
cent to the summit repays one well for the „ but x do *. it - s thinkr P 
laborious task, as a truly magnificent view is “ Your think f said the philosopher, aston- 
thus obtained of Venice, with its numerous ished in his turn; “who told you so?” 
labyrinthine canals. Conspicuous above all “Nobody. I should be ashamed if I did 
of them is the Grand Canal that winds through n<d knovv t without being told. . < 
.. .. . - p . i u a Ihe philosopher had puzzled hi3 bram a 
lhe city m the form of an inverted letter S. great ^ abo J at the J bat he conld not 
'I he Ducal Palace that bounds one side ot haxre given a better definition of it in so few 
the Piazza is built in the form of a square, words.— Reaper. 
with its front supported upon a double range ——---» • »• «- 
of arches. 'I he rooms within the Palace are American Benevolence.—T here is no ele- 
splendidly decorated, and the greater portion meat of the American character that seem3 to 
of them ornamented with beautiful paintings 8 tond out in bolder relief than the disposition 
.u a, ... j ^.;i;„ i. . . to succor the unfortunate. It matters not how 
upon the trulls and cethngs by the most cele- TioI(mt fte Mctenent ofparl? Btrife , or what 
brated artists ot tho \ enetian school. Pre- sectional diversity of opinion may exist, the 
eminent among them are those of Tintoretto, moment that it becomes known that a sister 
Titian, and Paul Veronese. Nearly all the cit J is stricken down by pestilence or by fire, 
paintings represent ihe battles, victories and f ensues as to who shall come earliest 
V, to the rescue. 1 ms is, indeed, a noble trait m 
olner memorable incidents connected with the x j ie character of our people and shows that, 
Republic. In the Grand Council Room is a however much we may be i*eproached for lust 
beautiful representation of Paradise, by Tin- of acquisition, there is still a redeeming spirit 
toretto— the largest picture ever painted up- °* fraternal kindness which soars above the sel- 
on cuuvasa, being dghty-fonr feet in length » BordidnM usually incident to frail human- 
, „. , . .,f m • . o x fry .—national Intelligencer. 
by thirty-four in width. The ancient feenate _ 
Room of the Three Hundred, as it is called, , . 
in extremely interring, from the thet that a„ 
the affafrs of the Republic were deliberated of him who is mean and cringing under a doubt- 
upon and arranged within it. Adjoining it is ful and uuprosperous fortune. 
