one depicting some miracle, in which several grave ecclesiastics are seen swimming about in the Grand Canal, while ladies look on from windows and balconies, which I convinced myself still exist there.  I must be equally brief with that place which no countryman of Shakspeare can avoid visiting, though the present Rialto is, after all, later than his time.  It is of a curious structure as a bridge; there being three rows of building along it, containing shops, with two roadways for passengers.  One crosses backwards and forwards, muttering:  ‘On the Rialto thou hast rated me,’ &c.; goes distractedly into a shop, to purchase a breastpin, as a memorial of the place; and then plunges down the stairs, to resume his place in the gondola.  We took a couple of hours to pay a visit to the Armenian monastery, on the island of San Lazzaro—­the place to which Byron resorted in order to study the Armenian language.  It is a curious old establishment, with some modern activity about it in the diffusion of literature; the monks having a printing-office in tolerable briskness, whence they issue books in various languages.  We were delighted with the flush of beautiful flowering, from the oleander bushes in the central court, and the vine-hung alleys in the garden behind.  I must not forget, in this hurried close of my adventure, the two moonlight sails we had through those mysterious watery streets, where, the associations of day and of the active world being shut out, we felt as if each light in the old palazzi illumined some scene of mediæval romance. That was like no other thing in our lives.  On the third evening, we left this dream-city by a means which we had studiously ignored all the time of our visit—­namely, a railway, which crosses from Venice to the mainland.  It was something of a wakener to find ourselves at ’the station,’ on the bank of one of the canals, and see a range of ‘omnibus gondolas,’ all duly labelled for their respective courses through the city, and ranked up in front like so many of the terrestrial machines which haunt the ordinary railway termini of this earth.  However, we had the consolation of reserving this to the close of our visit, when, of course, we must have awaked out of our Venetian feelings at anyrate.  The train brought us to Padua long before bedtime.

REALLY!  INDEED!  IMPOSSIBLE!

During a prolonged summer sojourn with kind friends resident in a quiet country town, we became quite interested in the tactics of the neighbours, and acquainted with their social condition.

‘I think we have almost exhausted our visiting round,’ said our hostess, Mrs Smith, one morning, as she replenished her card-case, ’with the exception of Really, Indeed, and Impossible, to whom we must introduce you.  You look puzzled! but I mean the three Misses Bonderlay, who are usually distinguished by these interjectional names.  We will forthwith send them an invitation to tea this very evening, and they shall be their own etymologists.’