architecture of its buildings, its diversified population, a tribute from every shore of the midland sea, and where the noble Venetian, in his robe of crimson silk, and long white peruque, might be jostled by the Sclavonian with his target, and the Albanian in his kilt, while the Turk, sitting cross-legged on his Persian carpet, smoked his long chibouque with serene gravity, and the mild Armenian glided by him with a low reverence, presented an aspect under a Venetian moon such as we shall not easily find again in Christendom, and, in spite of the dying glory and the neighbouring vice, was pervaded with an air of romance and refinement, compared with which the glittering dissipation of Paris, even in its liveliest and most graceful hours, assumes a character alike coarse and commonplace.

It is the hour of love and of faro; now is the hour to press your suit and to break a bank; to glide from the apartment of rapture into the chamber of chance.  Thus a noble Venetian contrived to pass the night, in alternations of excitement that in general left him sufficiently serious for the morrow’s council.  For more vulgar tastes there was the minstrel, the conjuror, and the story-teller, goblets of Cyprus wine, flasks of sherbet, and confectionery that dazzled like diamonds.  And for every one, from the grave senator to the gay gondolier, there was an atmosphere in itself a spell, and which, after all, has more to do with human happiness than all the accidents of fortune and all the arts of government.

Amid this gay and brilliant multitude, one human being stood alone.  Muffled in his cloak, and leaning against a column in the portico of St. Marc, an expression of oppressive care and affliction was imprinted on his countenance, and ill accorded with the light and festive scene.  Had he been crossed in love, or had he lost at play?  Was it woman or gold to which his anxiety and sorrow were attributable, for under one or other of these categories, undoubtedly, all the miseries of man may range.  Want of love, or want of money, lies at the bottom of all our griefs.

The stranger came forward, and leaving the joyous throng, turned down the Piazzetta, and approached the quay of the Lagune.  A gondolier saluted him, and he entered his boat.

‘Whither, signor?’ said the gondolier.

‘To the Grand Canal,’ he replied.

Over the moonlit wave the gondola swiftly skimmed!  The scene was a marvellous contrast to the one which the stranger had just quitted; but it brought no serenity to his careworn countenance, though his eye for a moment kindled as he looked upon the moon, that was sailing in the cloudless heaven with a single star by her side.

They had soon entered the Grand Canal, and the gondolier looked to his employer for instructions.  ‘Row opposite to the Manfrini palace,’ said the stranger, ‘and rest upon your oar.’

The blinds of the great window of the palace were withdrawn.  Distinctly might be recognised a female figure bending over the recumbent form of a girl.  An hour passed away and still the gondola was motionless, and still the silent stranger gazed on the inmates of the palace.  A servant now came forward and closed the curtain of the chamber.  The stranger sighed, and waving his hand to the gondolier, bade him return to the Lagune.