firm in voice. (Miss Hubbard, l think, her name.)
Apparently "a nice creature," as was remarked
before, and yet with a latent ferocity that can
manifest itself at any moment or at any notice.
Sometimes I come upon her in a passage,
miring against a platoon of frightened chamber-
maids, scolding, threatening, and yet so neat
and so charmingly dressed. The tone in the
great hall (Miss Hubbard always excepted) is
universal helplessness. Newspapers, telegrams,
old letters, and parcels for some four hundred
guests, lie on chairs or window-sills, unclaimed
and disowned. Helpless guests, with glassy
eyes, peer and poke through them, and get in
each other's way, and can find nothing. But
see the smiling young German in a Chocolat-
Menier uniform, to whom the special supervision
of newly-arrived mails is delegated—a
gay and La Fleur-like young fellow, but whose
English is wildly imperfect! This gentleman,
on being applied to by many guests for
contributions from his little post-office, begins to go
through his documents slowly, with a wise and
philological air, and finally announces that there
are none for Mr. Breeks. It is not until days
later that Mr. Briggs learns the practice of the
place, and the habits of the "knowing ones:"
which is, to snatch the pile of letters from the
smiling German, who makes no protest, look
through them yourself, and take what you want.

There are other helpless guests hanging about
a dark corner like a sentry-box, with a spiked
grating in front, as if a bear or panther were
kept inside. These guests look up at the ceiling,
or look at each other with candles in their
hands, but all have a piteously forlorn air, as
who should sav, "what do they wish to do witli
us next?" Through the bars is to be seen a
vast well, and running up the centre is a
round black post, conveying the notion that
bears are below, and that on the invitation
of a biscuit, one will come sprawling up in
the usual clumsy fashion. But instead, a
wheezing and a sad groaning is heard, which
brings the guest's mind into a suitable tone,
and presently glides down a little open box,
snugly furnished and carpeted, and which
looks like a sentry-box, when several of us get
into it, and indeed like my Uncle Toby's own
sentry-box, and as if we were all Uncle Tobys
and Widow Wadmans or Wadmen looking into
one another's eyes.

At night, with the peculiar creaking motion
and the lamps overhead, and the huddled look
of the passengers, the whole has the air
of a steam-packet cabin; yet it is invidious
to speak thus of this useful engine, which in
the Magnifico is a positive necessary of life.
Sometimes the lift gets disordered with cramps,
or breaks a bone very far below, and its action is
suspended until further notice. Then there is no
more dismal sight than to see strong men, in the
prime of life, struggling and gasping up the
eighteen or twenty flights of stairs; no more
heartrending spectacle than to pass an aged
widow utterly done up, suffering from incipient
palpitation of the heart, and sitting exhausted                                                        on a bench charitably provided at every landing,
for the spent and dying. Some of the strong
men start even gaily as if for "a lark;" but
very soon they begin to pant, and blow, and
press their chests. At a fair pace, it takes
—I have consulted a stop-watch—a good ten
minutes to get to the top of this Matterhorn.

In the great rambling sitting-room; where the
company sit and read the papers with a desperation
they never read with before; where you
enjoy the "retired advantages of the domestic
circle;" and where, by reason of the abundance
of ink and pens, humanely placed everywhere to
prevent monomania setting in, every one writes
quantities of letters with desperation;—in the
great sitting-room the universal despondency,
which obtains everywhere in the Magnifico,
set lies yet deeper and deeper on the human
heart. Old gentlemen go prowling about
greedy for their newspapers, and with spleen
and rage on their faces if disappointed; for such
passions doth the Magnifico foster. It is a
school for the worst and most earthy vices of
our nature. It fattens grumbling, envy,
discontent, and a morbid temper born of low
spirits. If I stay longer, I myself shall be
corrupted, so I shall demand my bill at once,
cast the dust of the Magnifico off my shoes, and
take to slippers in more home-like regions.

            A VENETIAN BRIDAL.

      She is dancing in the palace,
          In the palace on the sea;
      Down, far down, the sullen water
          Floweth silently.
      She is radiant in her beauty,
          Pearls her ebon ringlets twine,
      Rubies glisten on her finger
          Sapphires on her bosom shine.
      She is queen of every heart there,
          Envy of this beauteous train:
      On her looks are fiefdoms pending,
          Deadliest loss and loftiest gain.
       Princes for her sake are sighing;
          She is fairest, first of all
       Who are dancing in the palace
          At the Doge's festival.

     Dancing in the Doge's palace,
          In the palace on the sea;
     Down, far down, the turbid ware
          Rolleth sullenly.

     For her love a royal bosom
          Beats with fierce desire:
     Unrequited passion burning
          Like consuming fire.
     Wherefore doth she shrink and quiver
          When He breathes her name?
     Wherefore is her cheek and bosom
          Dyed with crimson shame?
     And her eager eye turns from him
          Glancing far astray
     For some absent one, regretful
          Of his long delay.
     Fix'd upon her with dark meaning,
          Glare those baleful eyes;
     Fast clench'd, by the wrist, he holds her;
          "Thou art mine! My prize!