A FETE IN VENICE.

FOR the first time in a century, Venice, escaped from the dominion of Austria (which had lasted seventy years), celebrated its annexation to Italy by a series of fetes equal in richness to those of the republic. In the early part of November, 1866, Victor Emanuel made his triumphal entry into Venice. The men-of-war in the harbor saluted him with their guns; and the Grand Canal, along which he passed, was draped with the most graceful tapestries. A golden vessel awaited him at the depot; it was carpeted with red velvet, with a golden lion at its prow, and was similar in every respect to the one once used in wedding the sea.

Unfortunately for the pageant the day proved misty, and though I had a good lookout from one of the men-of-war in the harbor, I could with difficulty perceive his landing on the steps of the ducal palace directly opposite me. The evening was devoted to the illumination of the Grand Canal. After dark I took a gondola and floated out to see it.

In front of my hotel a fine church, shaped like a basilica, was constantly illumined by Bengal lights, which clearly defined its silhouette without giving any distinct idea of its architecture. I floated to the harbor in front of the Doges' palace.

Towards the sea the ships had long lines of lanterns hung from their masts. Behind them, on the little island, the lights of the Armenian cloister were faintly seen. On the land side the two columns brought from the East were wreathed with light; a single band of white defined the arches of the ducal palace, and two or three perpendicular bars of red the columns. The Corinthian custom-house at the entrance of the Grand Canal, and forming one horn of the crescent-shaped harbor, was all ablaze; its body was red, the lines of its architecture were white.

As far as the eye could see down the Canal, the successive lines of light, rising from the water's edge to the top of the palaces, pointed out their cornices and windows. In the city a single light from the top of the Campanile seemed like a rising star, while above it all the dim light reflected from the water against the sky seemed like a halo.

The mist, which still remained, gave the scene an unsubstantial, dreamy look, reminding me of the fantastic stories of the Arabian Nights.

Now my gondola carries me down the Canal in silence, only broken by the cry of some gondolier, shooting out from the shadow into the Canal. He looks like some Charon in the gloomy light of the candles looming through the mist. Soon the hum of many voices breaks on me, and, turning a bend, I come on the Rialto, which is one mass of fire.

The houses on each side are covered with lights and transparencies, bearing the arms of the house of Savoy and the royal monogram? The bridge itself is ablaze with the national colors, red, green, and white. A mass of people on the bridge, on the embankment, and on the Canal itself, surge to and fro; some shouting for the King, some for Garibaldi, the head of the Liberals.

Leaving this noisy tumult, I wedge my way through the boats, which block up the Canal. Gradually the hum of voices subsides. I pass the depot, where a band is playing the national air, and float out upon the lagoon.