EXERCISE CLX.

THE BRIDES OF VENICE. Rogers.

It was St. Mary's Eve; and all poured forth, As to some grand solemnity. The fisher Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves His wife and little one; the husbandman From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, Crowding the common ferry. All arrived; -And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened, – So great the stir in Venice. Old and young Thronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk, Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, In yellow hat and threadbare gabardine, Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, The noblest sons and daughters of the state, They of patrician birth, the flower of Venice, Whose names are written in the "Book of Gold," Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.

At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd,
Rising and rolling on, announced their coming;
And never from the first was to be seen

Such splendour or such beauty. Two and two,
(The richest tapestry unrolled before them,)
First came the brides in all their loveliness;
Each in her veil, and by two bridemaids followed,
Only less lovely, who behind her bore
The precious caskets that within contained
The dowry and the presents. On she moved,
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand
A fan, that gently waved, - of ostrich-feathers.
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer,

Fell from beneath a starry diadem;

And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,
Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;

A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath,
Wreathing her gold brocade.

Before the church,

That venerable pile on the sea-brink,

Love, that watched my early years
With conflicting hopes and fears;
Love, that through life's flowery May
Led my childhood, prone to stray;
Love, that still directs my youth
With the constancy of Truth,
Heightens every bliss it shares,
Softens and divides the cares,
Smiles away my light distress,
Weeps for joy, or tenderness:

May that love, to latest age,
Cheer my earthly pilgrimage;
May that love, o'er death victorious,
Rise beyond the grave, more glorious!
Souls, united here, would be

One to all eternity!

When these eyes, from native night, First unfolded to the light, On what object, fair and new, Did they fix their fondest view? On my Mother's smiling mien; All the mother there was seen. When their weary lids would close, And she sang me to repose, Found I not the sweetest rest On my Mother's peaceful breast?

When my tongue from hers had caught

Sounds to utter infant thought,

Readiest then what accents came?

Those that meant my Mother's name.

When my timid feet begun,
Strangely pleased, to stand or run,
'Twas my Mother's voice and eye
Most encouraged me to try,

Safe to run, and strong to stand,
Holding by her gentle hand.

Time, since then, hath deeper made Lines where youthful dimples played; Yet to me my Mother's face Wears a more angelic grace: And her tresses thin and hoary, Are they not a crown of glory?

Cruel griefs have wrung that breast,
Once my paradise of rest;
While in these I bear a part,
Warmer grows my Mother's heart;
Closer our affections twine;
Mine with hers, and hers with mine.
- Many a name, since hers I knew,
Have I loved with honour due;
But no name shall be more dear
Than my Mother's to mine ear.
-Many a hand that Friendship plighted
Have I clasped, with all delighted,

But more faithful none can be
Than my Mother's hand to me.

Thus by every tie endeared,
Thus with filial reverence feared,
Mother! on this day, 'tis meet
That, with salutation sweet,
I should wish you years of health,
Worldly happiness and wealth,
And when good old age is past,
Heaven's eternal peace at last!
But with these I frame a vow
For a double blessing now;
One, that richly shall combine
Your felicity with mine;

One, in which, with soul and voice,
Both together may rejoice;
Oh! what shall that blessing be?
- Dearest Mother! may you see
All your prayers fulfilled for me!

THE day I paid my visit to the Tower of London, I was accompanied by a young French nobleman; and he was highly amused at the pompous gravity of the men who exhibited the curiosities. Every time that a thumb-screw, toe

screw, leg-screw, nose-screw, or any other article, was pointed out to our inspection, with the unavoidable comment,- the Frenchman turned to me, and exclaimed - "Ah! here are the Spaniards yet!" This was repeated a great number of times; and I was really put to the blush, when I considered how very flagitious my countrymen had been. At last, we came to a room where we were shown something similar to the above taken from the French. I then turned to my companion, and retorted on him.

We had already given several shillings, and were coming away, when I perceived a board stuck up at the door, on which some words were written to the following purpose, or something like it: "It is expected that visitors will compliment the warden."

This was the cause of a very ludicrous mistake. My French companion was not very conversant with the English language, at the time, and having read the above inscription, most innocently took the thing in a literal sense. Accordingly, while the plump and grave warden was, in becoming silence, expecting the "compliment," the Frenchman, remarkable for politeness, could not be neglectful of complying with what he conceived was enjoined by the inscription. He made, therefore, a graceful bow to the formal warden, and, in broken English, began to compliment the warden on his civil attentions. The man, addressed in this novel way, stared, for some time, in astonishment. A friend who was with us, burst out into laughter. — I did little less; and this tended to heighten the effect of the scene.

The warden, conceiving that it was a joke, and probably not being partial to such things, put on a most demure aspect. Indeed, he so far increased his natural stock of dull gravity, that he looked formidable. The Frenchman perceiving that his most elegant and well-bred compliments were received not merely with indifference, but had evidently offended, began to stare in turn, and ended, no doubt, by attributing the affair to his inexperience of the English tongue. But his understanding was soon enlightened. I slipped half-a-crown into the hand of the warden, which made him unbend from his rigidity; whilst a few words from my friend Stanley set our companion right concerning his strange mistake. "The mischief!" cried the young Frenchman smiling. "This is what the English mean by compliments!'" As we retraced our steps, this scene afforded ample matter for comment and mirth. The Frenchman now and then

our system, which is no less than eighteen hundred millions of miles from the sun.

Is light material? I have no knowledge of it but what is obtained through the medium of sight; no other sense recognizes it; we cannot taste it; we cannot smell it; and it makes no impression on the nerves of touch. But I can learn, that it is not only compounded of three primary coloured rays, but also of others not connected with colour at all; of calorific and of oxidizing and deoxidizing rays. I can see, that it is necessary to vegetation; that plants, deprived of its presence, lose their green colour; that it effects various chemical decompositions; and that it is subjected to certain fixed laws, which form the basis of the science of optics. From these circumstances I infer that it is matter, that it is a substance. But how subtile must be the nature of a substance whose particles can move in every direction, without interfering with each other; which can travel ninetyfive millions of miles in eight minutes, and yet not exert the least perceptible force of collision; which will pass through the hardest crystal, or the purest diamond, with as much ease as through air or water!

Light is imponderable, and wants various properties which philosophers have thought to be essential to matter; but, in fact, we can seldom tell what is essential to any thing. We see objects and light by the eyes: that you will admit; and you will adınit, also, that without organs of vision, we could have no knowledge of light and colours. But is it the eye that sees? Consider now. You say, Yes: I say, No.

When you take up a telescope, and look at the moons of Jupiter, you see those moons, which, without the telescope, you could not see. But does the telescope see them? You laugh, perhaps you think the question childish. It is not so. Suppose a card were slipped in between your eye and the eye-glass, you would then neither perceive the planet nor his satellites.

Now, the eye is to vision what the telescope is: it is an optical instrument; it serves to form an image; but the eye itself does not see: it is the organ of communication with light, and is necessary to vision; but the sensation lies in the brain, or rather, I should say, in the mind which inhabits it. Cut off the communication between the eye and the brain; and the same result follows as when a card is placed between the eye and the telescope: all is dark. The optic