e sat down and wrote her a long letter,
beginning "Dear Madam," and proposing they should join company, "for
the sake of good fellowship, and the _bit of chat_ they might have on
their way." Of course she took no notice of this strange billet, "from
which," added he with ludicrous simplicity, "I supposed she would
rather travel alone."

Truly, "Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." After this
specimen, sketched from life, who will say there are such things as
caricatures?

* * * * *

We visited to-day the Giant's Staircase and the Bridge of Sighs, and
took a last farewell of St. Mark--we were surprised to see the church
hung with black--the festoons of flowers all removed--masses going
forward at several altars, and crowds of people looking particularly
solemn and devout. It is the "Giorno dei morte," the day by the Roman
Catholics consecrated to the dead. I observed many persons, both men
and women, who wept while they prayed, with every appearance of the
most profound grief. Leaving St. Mark, I crossed the square. On the
three lofty standards in front of the church formerly floated the
ensigns of the three states subjects to Venice,--the Morea, Cyprus,
and Candia: the bare poles remain, but the ensigns of empire are gone.
One of the standards was extended on the ground, and being of immense
length, I hesitated for a moment whether I should make a circuit, but
at last stepped over it. I looked back with remorse, for it was like
trampling over the fallen.

We then returned to our inn to prepare for our departure. How I regret
to leave Venice! not the less because I cannot help it.

_Rovigo, Nov. 3._ We left Venice in a hurry yesterday, slept at Padua,
and travelled this morning through a most lovely country, among the
Enganean hills to Rovigo, where we are very uncomfortably lodged at
the Albergo di San Marco.

I have not yet recovered my regret at leaving Venice so unexpectedly;
though as a residence, I could scarce endure it; the sleepy canals,
the gliding gondolas in their "dusk livery of woe"--the absence of all
verdure, all variety--of all _nature_, in short; the silence,
disturbed only by the incessant chiming of bells--and, worse than all,
the spectacle of a great city "expiring," as Lord Byron says, "before
our eyes," would give me the horrors: but as a visitor, my curiosity
was not half gratified, and I should have liked to have stayed a few
days longer--perhaps