(Among the master-spirits who have commemorated the olden glories of Venice, but more especially her association with our dramatic literature, must not be forgotten Lord Byron: 

  But unto us she hath a spell beyond
  Her name in story, and her long array
  Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
  Above the dogeless city’s vanish’d sway;
  Our’s is a trophy which will not decay
  With the Rialto:  Shylock and the Moor,
  And Pierre cannot be swept away—–­
  The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
  For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

* * * * *

  I lov’d her from my boyhood—­she to me
  Was as a fairy city of the heart,
  Rising like water-columns from the sea,
  Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart;
  And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare’s art
  Had stamp’d her image in me, and ever so,
  Although I found her thus, we did not part,
  Perchance even dearer in her day of woe
  Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.

Returning to the “Sketches,” we must observe that we beg to differ with the Editor in merely applying the epithets “coarse and boisterous,” to Otway’s play, and pointing to “coups de Theatre” as its only merits.  He surely ought not to have omitted its originality of whatever order it may be.

The volume before us brings the history of Venice to her subjection to Austria in 1798.  It is throughout spiritedly executed.  The illustrations, antique and modern, are precisely of this character, being from Titian, and our contemporary artist, Prout.)

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

* * * * *

Sir Hercules Langreish and his Friend.—­We found him in his study alone, poring over the national accounts, with two claret bottles empty before him, and a third bottle on the wane; it was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the butler, according to general orders when gentlemen came in, brought a bottle of claret to each of us.  “Why,” said Parnell, “Sir Heck, you have emptied two bottles already.”  “True,” said Sir Hercules.  “And had you nobody to help you?” “O yes, I had that bottle of port there, and I assure you he afforded me very great assistance!”—­Sir Jonah Barrington.

The Irish Bar.—­They used to tell a story of Fitzgibbon respecting a client who brought his own brief, and fee, that he might personally apologize for the smallness of the latter.  Fitzgibbon, on receiving the fee, looked rather discontented.  “I assure you, counsellor,” said the client (mournfully) “I am ashamed of its smallness; but in fact it is all I have in the world.”  “Oh! then,” said Fitzgibbon, “you can do no more:—­as it’s all you have in the world—­why—­hem—­I must take it.”