On the evening of the fatal day, Amalia stood upon the terrace of her palace, overlooking the grand canal. She contemplated with pleasurable melancholy the calm and even course of the moon, whose modest light shone in the cloudless sky. Her thoughts were of Alvise. To divert them, she turned to gaze on a long procession of illuminated gondolas, from which she heard a strain of plaintive music, as if of prayers for the dead, A dreadful presentiment seized her heart; she inquired the purpose of the procession, and heard, with unspeakable terror, that it was the solemnization of the funeral rites of a Venetian nobleman, who had been beheaded for high treason. "His name?" cried the breathless girl, in almost unintelligible accents: "Alvise Sanuto."
She fell, as if shot; and striking her head in the fall upon a projecting part of the terrace, was mortally wounded, and expired.—Lettere su Venezia—Translated in the Oxford Literary Gaz.
THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.
INDEPENDENCE
Is the word, of all others, that Irish—men, women, and children—least understand; and the calmness, or rather indifference, with which they submit to dependence, bitter and miserable as it is, must be a source of deep regret to all "who love the land," or feel anxious to uphold the dignity of human kind. Let us select a few cases from our Irish village—such as are abundant in every neighbourhood. Shane Thurlough, "as dacent a boy," and Shane's wife, as "clane-skinned a girl," as any in the world. There is Shane, an active, handsome-looking fellow, leaning over the half-door of his cottage, kicking a hole in the wall with his brogue, and picking up all the large gravel within his reach to pelt the ducks with—those useful Irish scavengers. Let us speak to him. "Good morrow, Shane!" "Och! the bright bames of heaven on ye every day! and kindly welcome, my lady—and won't ye step in and rest—it's powerful hot, and a beautiful summer, sure—the Lord be praised!" "Thank you, Shane. I thought you were going to cut the hayfield to-day—if a heavy shower comes, it will be spoil'd; it has been fit for the sithe these two days." "Sure, it's all owing to that thief o' the world, Tom Parrel, my lady. Didn't he promise me the loan of his sithe; and, by the same token, I was to pay him for it; and depinding on that, I didn't buy one, which I have been threatening to do for the last two years." "But why don't you go to Carrick and purchase one?" "To Carrick!—Och, 'tis a good step to Carrick, and my toes are on the ground (saving your presence,) for I depindid on Tim Jarvis to tell Andy Cappler, the brogue-maker, to do my shoes; and, bad luck to him, the spalpeen! he forgot it." "Where's your pretty wife, Shane?" "She's in all the woe o' the world, Ma'am, dear. And she puts the blame of it on me, though I'm not in the faut this time, any how: the child's taken the small pock, and she depindid on me to tell the doctor to cut it for the cow-pock, and I depindid on Kitty Cackle, the limmer, to tell the doctor's own man, and thought she would not forget it, becase the boy's her bachelor—but out o' sight out o' mind—the never a word she tould him about it, and the babby has got it nataral, and the woman's in heart trouble (to say nothing o' myself;) and it the first, and all." "I am very sorry, indeed, for you have got a much better wife than most men." "That's a true word, my lady—only she's fidgetty like sometimes, and says I don't hit the nail on the head quick enough; and she takes a dale more trouble than she need about many a thing." "I do not think I ever saw Ellen's wheel without flax before, Shane?" "Bad cess to the wheel;—I got it this morning about that too—I depinded on John Williams to bring the flax from O'Flaharty's this day week, and he forgot it; and she says I ought to have brought it myself, and I close to the spot: but where's the good? says I, sure he'll bring it next time." "I suppose, Shane, you will soon move into the new cottage, at Clurn Hill. I passed it to-day, and it looked so cheerful; and when you get there, you must take Ellen's advice, and depend solely on yourself." "Och Ma'am, dear, don't mintion it—sure it's that makes me so down in the mouth, this very minit. Sure I saw that born blackguard, Jack Waddy, and he comes in here, quite innocent like"—"Shane, you've an eye to 'Squire's new lodge," says he. "Maybe I have," says I. "I am y'er man," says he. "How so?" says I. "Sure I'm as good as married to my lady's maid," said he; "and I'll spake to the 'Squire for you, my own self." "The blessing be about you," says I, quite grateful,—and we took a strong cup on the strength of it; and depinding on him, I thought all safe,—"and what d'ye think, my lady? Why, himself stalks into the place—talked the 'Squire over, to be sure—and without so much as by y'er lave, sates himself and his new wife on the laase in the house; and I may go whistle." "It was a great pity, Shane, that you didn't go yourself to Mr. Clurn." "That's a true word for ye, Ma'am, dear; but it's hard if a poor man can't have a frind to DEPIND on."—Sketches of Irish Character, by Mrs. S.C. Hall.
THE GATHERER.
"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."