and treading in the footsteps of generations of friendless and oftentimes guiltless criminals, we passed over from the Hall of Justice in the Doge's Palace, through secret passages, to the Piombi, or state prison, and thence to the Pozzi, a series of gloomy rock-hewn dungeons, where the air felt heavy with the breath of murder dignified by the name of judicial punishment, and where many a hopeless wretch had sighed out his love, his hopes, and finally his cruelly persecuted life.
Our visit to the Doge's Palace was full of the deepest interest. Mounting the beautiful fretwork marble staircase, just at the rear of St. Mark's, we entered the great colonnade, and ascended to the rooms above, which are all heavily decorated and adorned on wall and ceiling with paintings by the great masters. The Hall of the Great Council is esteemed one of the finest rooms in Europe. It is indeed a magnificent apartment: but perhaps a more particular interest centres in the Sala del Consiglio dei Dieci, or Hall of the Inquisition, as it was sometimes appropriately called. Here the chairs of the terrible Ten still remain, as though for some impending solemn conclave. Awful pictures of bloodshed and death frown down from some of the walls in this Palace of council chambers, and in one hall may still be seen two slits in the wall, once lions' mouths, where secret information was lodged against conspirators, or those suspected of being so, and by which the lives of innocent people were sworn away. But there was a painful contrast between the gorgeous chambers above and those noisome dungeons below.
We were greatly interested in the Archæological Museum, especially in the library, which contains 120,000 volumes, and some 10,000 valuable manuscripts, among which are many rare and beautifully illuminated literary treasures: Cicero's "Epist. ad Familiaries," the first book printed in Venice, 1465; a Florence "Homer," on vellum, 1483; Marco Polo's Will, 1323; a Herbary, painted by A. Amadi, 1415; Cardinal Guinani's Breviary, with Hemling's beautiful miniatures; and the manuscript of the "Divina Commedia,"—are only a sample of the treasures here contained, over which we could have lingered with great enjoyment for a far longer time than we could well spare. Many of these books were the loving work of devoted monks, who lived before the age of printing, and wished to hand down to posterity the books they themselves had loved. Such was their idea of the value of these religious books, and more especially of the New Testament, that they were bound in costly covers, adorned with precious stones—the labour of transcribing and illuminating them being almost incalculable. The invention of machinery, alas! in these latter days has banished for ever such conscientious labours of love, and neither books nor anything else are impressed with men's minds, hearts, and handiwork as they used to be. It is an age of mechanism, sensational, æsthetical, and artificial devotion, and very little is sacred but Self. Though it is good, in one sense, that sacred books have been thrown broadcast on the world; it has, to a certain extent, divested them of much of their peculiar value in the minds of the multitude. This was strangely exemplified to me some few years ago, when engaged in the suppression of the slave trade, on the east coast of Africa. There was a sale of European effects at Zanzibar, and amongst other articles was an Arab Bible—i.e. the Koran, translated into English. British residents bid high for this prize; but the Arabs, determined that their sacred book should not fall into the hands of those whom they deemed as infidels, bid still higher, and eventually carried it off. By-and-by there was an English Bible put up, and, in a spirit of tit-for-tat, the Arabs bid high for this, supposing the religious zeal of the British would have compelled them to bid still higher. They, however, did nothing of the kind, and it was knocked down to the disgusted Arabs, who now considered us a nation of infidels indeed. It may be, that even in this way it was a good thing that a copy of our Bible should fall into the hands of the zealous Mohammedans.
The Rialto is a graceful double bridge of white marble, which by a single span bridges the Grand Canal, leading from the bustling market-place to the opposite side, which is almost as busy. Like old London Bridge, it is crowded with little hucksters' shops; and I fancy there is little real change in the scene it presents from the time when the immortal Shakespeare drew his Shylock and Antonio from life. The Hebrew is still a prominent figure in the thronged thoroughfare; but his victim, let us hope, is conspicuous by his absence. Humanity is somewhat softened since those days of yore.
Although there are no wheel-vehicles in Venice, and horses are still as scarce as in Byron's time (when there were said to be only eight horses in the city—four on the top of St. Mark's, and four in his lordship's stables), it is easy to walk from one end of Venice to the other when you once know your bearings, which are rather difficult to obtain, unless you carry a pocket-compass, as all the places are so much alike, and it is as easy to lose your way as in a forest. The streets are narrow and crowded with shops, being connected by small bridges spanning the canals at all points. Some of these smaller canals are in anything but a wholesome or odorous condition, receiving, as they do, foulness of all kinds from the houses. They must certainly render the city far from healthy during the summer, when canal malaria and fever are prevalent. Indeed, being almost tideless, they have to be occasionally dammed up and cleaned out. Many of the narrow streets are also singularly unsavoury; and though a foreigner should always be slow to judge of the moral condition of a city by mere casual observation, the presence of a very decided immorality is forced on one's notice in many ways in Venice; it is impossible to doubt that not a few of these streets contain perfect dens of filth and iniquity, judging by the brazen-faced, abandoned-looking females who peer down at one from the windows. It is hardly to be wondered at if this is so, pent up as the population is between labyrinths of stone and water, streets and houses. We know its condition in Byron's sad and reckless days, and it does not seem to have improved much since.
I believe it is possible to walk nearly two-thirds round Venice by the quays. It was in this way, only crossing the necessary bridges, that we one day walked to the Arsenal, and visited the ancient Venetian ship-building yard. We were particularly interested in the Nautical Museum of the Italian Admiralty, just within the dockyard gates. Here there is a very fine collection of models, from the historic gondola "Bucentoro," on board which the Doges performed the singular ceremony of "wedding the Adriatic," and the ancient war-ships which had met and defeated the Turks, Greeks, and Genoese in many a tough encounter,—down to the great ironclads of the Italy of to-day. We also saw a variety of armour such as was worn in the ancient days of Venice, and a very quaint old gun or mortar used in the days of her glory: it was entirely of leather, and fired a large stone shot. On the poops and forecastles of the ancient galleys were several guns on the modern mitrailleuse system, to sweep down the slaves and criminals—who sat manacled by the feet, while pulling the oars—in case of rebellion or disobedience. There are many such sad mementoes at Venice, of an age of cruelty and tyranny, when men were condemned unheard, to death or a life of slavery. But in spite of these blemishes on a great name, Christendom is eternally indebted to Venice, and her terrible but valiant Doges, for was she not—
"Europe's bulwarks against the Ottomite"?
Among our pleasantest days in Venice must rank that on which we took steamer to Lido, one of the narrow islands lying between the Adriatic Sea and the lagoon of Venice, which acts as a kind of natural breakwater to Venice. It was quite a treat to set foot on terra firma once more, for here we did find real land, and at least a horse and carriage to convey us if needed.
The public gardens on the Lido were a gift to the Venetians from Bonaparte, who pulled down a great many buildings, not even sparing those which were consecrated, in order to give them a public promenade. It was laid out in 1810 by Giannantino Selna, and though nothing very grand, affords real delight and refreshment to the people, who enjoy many a frolicsome dance here on summer nights. We had our luncheon outside the Café, where we enjoyed the sight of the bright waves which tumbled in so briskly at our feet, and the breath of the fresh breeze which blew off the Adriatic Sea facing us. After our brief rest, we had a glorious walk on the sandy shore, where "little trembling grasses" grew on the edges of the sea, and shells lay scattered about in infinite profusion and variety. Our spirits rose with the invigorating freshness of the scene, and we returned to Venice by the evening steamer as delighted as children, with handkerchiefs full of sea-shore treasures.