The river looks like a canal between high banks, and is not easily distinguished from one or two artificial streams, equally large, that intersect the Paduan flats. Innumerable villas, and now and then a gondola, announce the approach to the capital. A little beyond the post town of Dolo, the road, a noble work of the French government, leaves the banks of the river, and leads to Mestre, the principal port on the Great Lagune. Here, late in a November evening (in 1816), we got into a large gondola, and pushed off for Venice. We had just light enough to see on our left the fortifications raised by Napoleon, and having delivered up our passports at a guard house, and after being stopped by a Custom House boat, we rowed on between low embankments, and long lines of stakes, for nearly an hour and a half, until we found ourselves amongst the lights which we had, for some time, seen at a distance; and, through the loopholes of our black cabin, we discerned that we were gliding under lofty buildings, by the side of long quays. The echoes of our oars told us we were under a bridge, and one of our boatmen exclaimed “The Rialto!” We soon landed. Our hotel was a palace in decay (Mr. Simond has given a plan of it), with a magnificent marble staircase, a vast saloon, and numerous apartments, of faded frescoes, dusky gilding, and silk hangings in tatters.