ANOTHER VIEW OF VENICE-THE AUSTRIAN RULE-CELEBRATION OF THE EMPEROR'S BIRTHDAY-ILLUMINATION FOR THE YOUNG PRINCE -HATRED OF THE PEOPLE TO THE OFFICERS-THE BOMBARDMENT AND POLITICAL EXECUTIONS.

VENICE, August 23, 1858.

A PLEASANT dream has often a sad awaking. The eye opens from visions of beauty and happiness to stern and harsh realities. The last week, we have been enjoying Venice as seen by the light of poetry and history. We have felt a mournful admiration for a city once so powerful, and still beautiful in its decay. We have admired its architecture and its paintings, and looked back with awe to its mighty dead, as we lingered in the Palace of the Doges, and beneath the winged lion of St. Mark. But even amid these reveries a harsh discord has occasionally jarred upon the ear, and startled us from our dream. Amid all the recollections of former glory, we have been forced to look upon some painful sights, which we could not regard without deep emotion. I refer, of course, to the political subjection of Venice, marked by so many signs of humiliation and slavery. Venice is in the dust, and the foot of the tyrant is on her neck.

We have chanced to be here on the occasion of two

political fêtes, which brought out in strong contrast the feeling of the Venetians and of their foreign masters— the conscious power and triumph of the one, the sullen silence and deep bitterness and hatred of the other. The very day that we arrived, we perceived the signs of an unusual stir. The troops were under arms, and were marching over the bridges and out of the city. Soon after, we heard the firing of cannon, which announced some unusual event. It was the birthday of the emperor, and his loyal army thus testified their rejoicing. At noon we went to the cathedral, and found it crowded with Austrian officers, listening to a solemn Te Deum, performed in honor of the day. The scene was highly imposing as they stood along the nave, their ranks glittering with gold. But sad memories clouded the scene. We could not think, without bitterness, of the old Church of St. Mark, where the ancient Venetians rendered public thanks to the Almighty for their wide dominion, now resounding with anthems in honor of a ruler of another race and language. We remembered the despair of the last of the Doges who, when forced to do homage to the Austrian emperor, fell senseless on the pavement. And we thought how often the same bitter feeling must have wrung the hearts of the true and brave. At this celebration we were struck with the absence of the people. The Italians are fond of public fêtes, and throng eagerly to such displays. Yet, except a few curious idlers, the church was filled only with foreigners.

We waited till the close of the ceremony, and saw the brilliant cortége issue from the church, with Prince. Lichtenstein at its head. The crowd in the square of St. Mark looked on in silence. Not a voice was heard from the multitude. In vain the drums beat, and the banners waved. Not a shout, not a cheer could be wrung from the soul of a crushed and indignant people. The conquerors were left to enjoy their triumph alone.

Yesterday, the city burst out again into a new display, more brilliant than before. The emperor had born to him a son, who would be the heir to the throne of Austria. The city was illuminated. Thousands of lights shone in the windows of palaces, and were reflected on the waters. Yet, as we sailed along the Grand Canal, we marked long ranges of palaces where not a taper shone. The bands of all the regiments, numbering several hundred performers, were mustered on the square of St. Mark, and tried to charm the sad and silent Italians. But all in vain. The square was thronged. All Venice was there. But the people kept walking up and down the pavement, but said not a word. Not a response was given to those wild Tyrolean airs which seemed enough to send a thrill through every vein.

This mutual dislike and hatred are so manifest to every observer as to be most painful. Of course it cannot break out into open collision. There are no plots nor insurrections. But the feeling of the people shows itself in a hundred little ways. If the Austrian officers frequent

a particular café, the Venetians keep aloof. A secret disdain is marked in their silence and reserve, and in their quiet, dignified repulse of all advances. A trifling incident will show how this feeling betrays itself. The other evening we were sitting on the Piazza of St. Mark, listening to the music. As it was in the open square, the crowd was a mixed one. At our side were a couple of officers sipping their coffee. In moving his chair, one of them overturned the little stand and precipitated his cup upon the dress of a lady who sat behind him. Instantly he sprang to his feet, with a humble apology for the unfortunate accident. The lady made no reply. She answered not a word. She did not even deign him a glance of her eye, nor bend her haughty neck. The officer blushed to his eyes. He was embarrassed and confused. But what could he do? It was impossible to pick a quarrel with a lady, or to resent her quiet scorn. There was nothing for him but to bear it as he might, and try to hide his mortification and `shame.

Some of my readers may say, It was good enough for him, and rejoice to hear of his mortified pride. I should feel so, had I not seen lately so much of the Austrian officers, and marked how painful is their position, and how keenly they feel it. My observation for the last. month has led me to form a very high opinion of the personnel of the Austrian army. Its order and discipline are admirable. In all the Austrian dominions I do not remember to have seen a single drunken soldier, nor one

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who was rude in his behavior. The officers whom we have met in Prague, Vienna, Trieste, and Venice, have been without exception polite and gentlemanly. In Italy it is evident that they feel the awkwardness of their position, as being quartered over a subject nation, and they seem to try to do everything to conciliate the good will of the people. But the wound cannot be healed by mere politeness and amiability. The trouble lies deeper. It is not in the want of kind dispositions on their part, but they are the instruments of an iron political system, which they can neither check nor control. It is the old plea of political necessity, the love of power and dominion, which forces Austria to keep her gripe upon Italy, and which sooner or later will lead to a deadly conflict. Painful as it is to see this mutual hatred of two peoples, both brave and worthy of respect, yet it cannot be otherwise. How can a native of Venice forget what his city has suffered from Austria ? The conflict is too recent to be forgotten. It is only nine years since Venice was bombarded. Often in visiting palaces we see round places in the pavement, where the balls fell crashing through the marble floor. These things are too fresh to be forgotten. This people cannot blot from their memories the horrors of war, nor the severities which followed.

In visiting the Champ de Mars-an open square a little without the city-our guide informed us that this was long a favorite resort of the Venetians, until after it