There was more thrift neatness, and apparent prosperity. His sentiments on this subject were embodied in a letter home, which he wrote from Padua on a dreary evening which they spent there before starting for Venice:
"If this part of Italy is oppressed by Austria, then all I can say is, that the pressure has squeezed an immense amount of vegetation out of the soil. Passing from the Roman territories into the Austrian is like going from darkness into light, or from Canada into the United States. What kind of people are they who do better under foreign rule than Native? In my opinion, the territories of the Pope are worse than those of other rulers in Italy. A Spanish friend of mine tells me that it is because the thoughts of the Pope's subjects are set not on things below, but on things on high. He tells me that we've got to choose between two masters--Christianity on the one hand, and Mammon on the other. Whoever chooses the latter will be destitute of the former. He gives as examples of this France, England, and America, which countries, though possessed of the highest material blessings, are yet a prey to crime, scepticism, doubt, infidelity, heresy, false doctrine, and all manner of similar evils. Those nations which prefer religion to worldly prosperity present a different scene; and he points to Spain and Italy--poor in this world's goods, but rich in faith--the only evils which afflict them being the neighborhood of unbelieving nations."
CHAPTER L
.
VENICE AND ITS PECULIAR GLORY.--THE DODGE CLUB COME TO GRIEF AT LAST. --UP A TREE.--IN A NET, ETC.
Few sensations are so singular as that which the traveller experiences on his first approach to Venice. The railway passes for miles through swamps, pools, ponds, and broken mud banks, till at length, bursting away altogether from the shore, it pushes directly out into the sea. Away goes the train of cars over the long viaduct, and the traveller within can scarcely understand the situation. The firm and even roll and the thunder of the wheels tell of solid ground beneath; but outside of the windows on either side there is nothing but a wide expanse of sea.
At length the city is reached. The train stops, and the passenger steps out into the station-house. But what a station-house! and what a city! There is the usual shouting from carriers and cabmen, but none of that deep roar of a large city which in every other place drones heavily into the traveller's ear.
Going out to what he thinks is a street, the traveller finds merely a canal. Where are the carriages, cabs, caliches, hand-carts, barouches, pony-carriages, carryalls, wagons, hansoms, hackneys, wheelbarrows, broughams, dog-carts, buggies? Where are the horses, mares, dogs, pigs, ponies, oxen, cows, cats, colts, calves, and livestock generally?
Nowhere. There's not a wheeled carriage in the place. It may be doubted if there is a dog. There certainly is not a cow. The people use goats' milk. The horse is as unknown as the pterodactyl, icthyosaurus, dodo, iguanodon, mastodon, great awk. How do they go about? Where are the conveniences for moving to and fro?
Then, at the platform of the station, a score or two of light gondolas await you. The gondolier is the cabman. He waits for you, with his hand toward you, and the true "Keb, Sir!" tone and smile. A double-sized gondola is here called an "omnibus," and the name is painted on the side in huge letters. And these are the substitutes for wheeled vehicles.
Dick's Luggage.
[Illustration: Dick's Luggage.]
Now after entering one of these you go along smoothly and noiselessly. The first thing one notices in Venice is the absence of noise. As the boat goes along the only sound that is heard is the sharp cry from the boatman as he approaches a corner. At first the novelty interests the mind, afterward it affects the spirits. In three days most people leave the city in a kind of panic. The stillness is awful. A longer stay would reduce one to a state of melancholy madness. A few poets, however, have been able to endure, and even to love, the sepulchral stillness of the city. But to appreciate Venice one must be strongly poetical.
There are many things to be seen. First of all there is the city itself, one grand curiosity, unique, with nothing on earth that bears a distant approach to it. Its canals, gondolas, antique monuments, Byzantine architecture, bridges, mystery: its pretty women with black lace veils, the true glory of Venice--though Murray says nothing about them.
For Murray, in what was meant to be an exhaustive description of Venice, has omitted all mention of that which makes it what it is. Whereas if it had been Homer instead of Murray he would have rolled out the following epithets: [Transcriber's Note: Greek transliteration] euplokamoi, apalai, choroetheis, eukomoi, rodopechees, erateinai, kalliplokamoi, elkechitones, kuanopides, imeroessai, bathukolpoi, ligumolpoi: k. t. l. [/end Greek]
The travellers visited the whole round of sights. They remained in company and went about in the same gondola. The Senator admired what he saw as much as any of them, though it appeared to be out of his particular line. It was not the Cathedral of St. Mark's, however, nor the Doge's Palace, nor the Court of the Inquisition, nor the Bridge of Sighs, nor the Rialto, that interested him, but rather the spectacle of all these magnificent edifices around him, with all the massive masonry of a vast city, built up laboriously on the uncertain sand. He admired the Venetians who had done this. To such men, he thought, the commerce of the world might well have belonged. In discussing the causes of the decline of Venice he summed up the subject in a few words, and in the clearest possible manner.
"These Venetians, when they set up shop, were in the principal street of the world--the Mediterranean. They had the best stand in the street. They did work up their business uncommon well now, and no mistake. They made money hand over fist, and whatever advantage could be given by energy, capital, and a good location, they got. But the currents of traffic change in the world just as they do in a city. After a while it passed in another direction. Venice was thrown out altogether. She had no more chance than a New York shop would have after the business that it lived on had gone into another street. Hence," said the Senator--he always said "hence" when he was coming to a triumphant conclusion--"hence the downfall of Venice."
On arriving at their hotel a little circumstance occurred which made them look at Venice from a new and startling point of view. On going to their rooms after dinner they were followed by a file of Austrian soldiers. They wanted to see the passports. They requested this in a thick guttural tone, which made the Americans feel quite nervous. They showed the passports nevertheless.
On looking over them the Austrian soldiers arrested them. They were informed that if they went peaceably they would be well treated, but if they made any resistance they would all be bound.
The Americans remonstrated. No use. A thousand conjectures were made as to the cause of their arrest, but they were completely baffled. Before they could arrive at any conclusion they had arrived at the place of their destination, to which they had, of course, been taken in a gondola. It was too dark to distinguish the place, but it looked like a large and gloomy edifice. The soldiers took them to a room, where they locked them all in together. It was a comfortable apartment, with another larger one opening from it, in which were two beds and two couches. Evidently they were not neglected.
Arrested.
[Illustration: Arrested.]
After waiting for half the night in a kind of fever they retired to rest. They slept but little. They rose early, and at about seven o'clock breakfast was brought in to them, with a guard of soldiers following the waiters.
After breakfast they were visited again. This time it was a legal gentleman. They did not know who he was, but he gave them to understand that he was a person high in authority. He questioned them very closely as to their business in Venice, but did his questioning in a courteous manner. After about an hour he left.
Lunch was brought in at one o'clock. Their feelings at being treated in this mysterious manner can be imagined. Such neglect of the rights of man--such trifling with his time and patience--such utter disregard of _habeas corpus_, awaked indignation which words could not express.
Positively they were treated like dumb cattle; locked up, fed, deprived of liberty and fresh air; no communication with friends outside; and, worst of all, no idea in the world of the cause of their imprisonment. They came to the conclusion that they were mistaken for some other parties--for some _Cacciatori degli Alpi_; and Buttons insisted that the Senator was supposed to be Garibaldi himself. In these troublous times any idea, however absurd, might be acted upon.
At about three in the afternoon the door was thrown open, and a file of soldiers appeared. An officer approached and requested the prisoners to follow. They did so. They passed along many halls, and at length came to a large room. A long table extended nearly from one end to another. Soldiers were arranged down the sides of the apartment.
At the head of the table sat an elderly man, with a stern face, ferocious mustache, sharp eye, bushy gray eyebrows, and universal air of Mars. His uniform showed him to be a General. By his side was their visitor of the morning. Officials sat at the table.
"_Silence_!"
Silence!
[Illustration: Silence!]
CHAPTER LI
.
THE AMERICAN EAGLE AND THE AUSTRIAN DOUBLE-HEADED DITTO.
At the command of the Austrian General every body became still. Thereupon he motioned to the prisoners to stand at the bottom of the table. They did so. The General took a long stare at the prisoners, particularly at the Senator. They bore it steadily. As for the Senator, he regarded the other with an expression which would have done honor to the Austrian General's own father.
"Who are you?"
The General spoke in German. The legal gentleman, at his side instantly interpreted it into English.
"Americans."
"Ah! dangerous characters--dangerous characters! What is your business?"
"Travellers."
"Travellers? Ah! But what are your occupations in America?"
"Our passports tell."
"Your passports say--'Gentlemen.'"
"Well, we _are_ gentlemen."
The Austrian looked blank. After a while he resumed; and as he directed his glance to the Senator the latter made all the replies, while the Interpreter served as a medium of communication.
"How long have you been in Italy?"
"Two or three months."
"You came here just about the commencement of these difficulties?"
"Yes--the beginning of the war."
"Where did you land?"
"At Naples."
"Naples? Ha! hm! Where did you go next?"
"To Rome. We stayed there a few weeks and then went to Florence; from Florence to Bologna, and thence through Ferrara and Padua to Venice."
"You went to Florence! How long ago did you leave?"
"About a month ago."
"A month! Ah, hm!"
And the General exchanged glances with the legal gentleman at his side.
"What were you doing in Florence?"
"Seeing the city."
"Did you place yourselves in connection with the Revolutionists?"
"No."
"Did you have any thing to do with the emissaries of Garibaldi?"
"Nothing."
"Take care how you deny."
"We say we know nothing at all either of the Revolutionists or Imperialists or Garibaldians or any other party. We are merely travellers."
"Hm--a strong disavowment," said the General to himself. "You have never in any way countenanced the rebels."'
"No."
"Think before you speak."
"We are free Americans. Perhaps you know that the citizens of that country say what they think and do what they like. We have gone on that rule in Italy. What I say is, that we do not know any thing about rebels or any political parties in the country."
"Do you know _La Cica_?" asked the General, with the air of a man who was putting a home-thrust, and speaking with uncommon fierceness.
"I do," said the Senator, mildly.
"You know her well? You are one of her intimate friends?"
"Am I?"
"Are you not?"
"I am friendly with her. She is an estimable woman, with much feeling and penetration"--and a fond regret exhibited itself in the face of the speaker.
"Well, Sir, you may as well confess. We know you, Sir. We know you. You are one of the chosen associates of that infamous Garibaldian plotter and assassin, whose hotel is the hot-bed of conspiracy and revolution. We know you. Do you dare to come here and deny it?"
"I did not come here; I was brought. I do not deny that you know me, though I haven't the pleasure of knowing you. But I do deny that I am the associate of conspirators."
"Are you not the American whom _La Cica_ so particularly distinguished with her favor?"
"I have reason to believe that she was partial to me--somewhat."
"He confesses!" said the General. "You came from her to this place, communicating on the way with her emissaries."
"I communicated on the way with none but brigands among the mountains. If they were her emissaries I wish her joy of them. My means of communication," said the Senator, while a grim smile passed over his face, "was an iron crow-bar, and my remarks left some deep impression on them, I do believe."
"Tell me now--and tell me truly," said the General after a pause, in which he seemed trying to make out whether the Senator was joking or not. "To whom are you sent in this city?"
"To no one."
"Sir! I warn you that I will not be trifled with."
"I tell you," said the Senator, with no apparent excitement, "I tell you that I have come here to no one. What more can I say?"
"You must confess."
"I have nothing to confess."
"Sir! you have much to confess," cried the General, angrily, "and I swear to you I will wring it out of you. Beware how you trifle with my patience. If you wish to regain your liberty confess at once, and you may escape your just punishment. But if you refuse, then, by the immortal gods, I'll shut you up in a dungeon for ten years!"
"You will do no such thing."
"What!" roared the General. "Won't I?"
"You will not. On the contrary, you will have to make apologies for these insults."
"I!--Apologies! Insults!"
The General gnawed his mustache, and his eyes blazed in fury.
"You have arrested us on a false charge, based on some slanderous or stupid information of some of your infernal spies," said the Senator. "What right have you to pry into the private affairs of an American traveller? We have nothing to do with you."
"You are associated with conspirators. You are charged with treasonable correspondence with rebels. You countenanced revolution in Florence. You openly took part with Republicans. You are a notorious friend of _La Cica_. And you came here with the intention of fomenting treason in Venice!"
"Whoever told you that," replied the Senator, "told infernal lies--most infernal lies. I am no emissary of any party. I am a private traveller."
"Sir, we have correspondents in Florence on whom we can rely better than on you. They watched you."
"Then the best thing you can do is to dismiss those correspondents and get rogues who have half an idea."
"Sir, I tell you that they watched you well. You had better confess all. Your antecedents in Florence are known. You are in a position of imminent danger. I tell you--_beware_."
The General said this in an awful voice, which was meant to strike terror into the soul of his captive. The Senator looked back into his eyes with an expression of calm scorn. His form seemed to grow larger, and his eyes dilated as he spoke:
"Then you, General, I tell you--_beware_! Do you know who you've got hold of?--No conspirator; no infernal Italian bandit, or Dutch-man either; but an American citizen. Your Government has already tried the temper of Americans on one or two remarkable occasions. Don't try it on a third time, and don't try it on with me. Since you want to know who I am I'll tell you. I, Sir, am an American Senator. I take an active and prominent part in the government of that great and glorious country. I represent a constituency of several hundred thousand. You tell me to _beware_. I tell you--BEWARE! for, by the Eternal! if you don't let me go, I swear to you that you'll have to give me up at the cannon's mouth. I swear to you if you don't let me off by evening I won't go at all till I am delivered up with humble and ample apologies, both to us and to our country, whom you have insulted in our persons."
"Sir, you are bold!"
"Bold! Send for the American Consul of this city and see if he don't corroborate this. But you had better make haste, for if you subject me to further disgrace it will be the worse for your Government, and particularly for _you_, my friend. You'll have the town battered down about your ears. Don't get another nation down on you, and, above all, don't let that nation be the American. What I tell you is the solemn truth, and if you don't mind it you will know it some day to your sorrow."
Whatever the cause may have been the company present, including even the General, were impressed by the Senator's words. The announcement of his dignity; the venerable title of Senator; the mention of his "constituency," a word the more formidable from not being at all understood--all combined to fill them with respect and even awe.
Don't Try It On With Me.
[Illustration: Don't Try It On With Me.]
So at his proposal to send for the American Consul the General gave orders to a messenger who went off at once in search of that functionary.
CHAPTER LII
.
THE SENATOR STILL ENGAGED IN FACING DOWN THE AUSTRIAN.--THE AMERICAN CONSUL.--UNEXPECTED RE-APPEARANCE OF FORGOTTEN THINGS.--COLLAPSE OF THE COURT.
The American Consul soon made his appearance. Not having had any thing to do for months, the prospect of business gave wings to his feet. Moreover, he felt a very natural desire to help a countryman in trouble. Upon entering the hall he cast a rapid look around, and seemed surprised at so august a tribunal. For in the General's martial form he saw no less a person than the Austrian Commandant.
The Consul bowed and then looked at the prisoners. As his eye fell upon the Senator it lighted up, and his face assumed an expression of the most friendly interest. Evidently a recognition. The Austrian Commandant addressed the Consul directly in German.
"Do you know the prisoners?"
"I know one of them."
"He is here under a very heavy accusation. I have well-substantiated charges by which he is implicated in treason and conspiracy. He has been connected with Revolutionists of the worst stamp in Florence, and there is strong proof that he has come here to communicate with Revolutionists in this city."
"Who accuses him of this? Are they here?"
"No, but they have written from Florence warning me of his journey here."
"Does the prisoner confess?"
"Of course not. He denies. He requested me to send for you. I don't want to be unjust, so if you have any thing to say, say on."
"These charges are impossible."
"Impossible?"
"He is altogether a different man from what you suppose. He is an eminent member of the American Senate. Any charges made against one like him will have to be well substantiated; and any injury done to him will be dangerous in the highest degree. Unless you have undeniable proofs of his guilt it will be best to free him at once--or else--"
"Or else what?"
"Or else there will be very grave complications."
The Commandant looked doubtful. The others impassive. Buttons and Dick interested. The Senator calm. Again the Commandant turned to the Senator, his remarks being interpreted as before.
"How does it happen that you were so particularly intimate with all the Revolutionists in Florence, and an habitué of _La Cica_'s salon? that your mission was well known throughout the city? That you publicly acknowledged the Florentine rebellion in a speech? that the people carried you home in triumph? and that immediately before leaving you received private instructions from _La Cica_?"
"To your questions," said the Senator, with unabated dignity, "I will reply in brief: _First_, I am a free and independent citizen of the great and glorious American Republic. If I associated with Revolutionists in Florence, I did so because I am accustomed to choose my own society, and not to recognize any law or any master that can forbid my doing so. I deny, however, that I was in any way connected with plots, rebellions, or conspiracies. _Secondly_, I was friendly with the Countess because I considered her a most remarkably fine woman, and because she showed a disposition to be friendly with me--a stranger in a strange land. _Thirdly_, I have no mission of any kind whatever. I am a traveller for self-improvement. I have no business political or commercial. So that my mission could not have been known. If people talked about me they talked nonsense. _Fourthly_, I confess I made a speech, but what of that? It's not the first time, by a long chalk. I don't know what you mean by 'acknowledging.' As a private citizen I congratulated them on their success, and would do so again. If a crowd calls on me for a speech, I'm thar! The people of Florence dragged me home in a carriage. Well, I don't know why they did so. I can't help it if people will take possession of me and pull me about. _Fifthly_, and lastly, I had an interview with the Countess, had I? Well, is it wrong for a man to bid good-bye to a friend? I ask you, what upon earth do you mean by such a charge as that? Do you take me for a puling infant?"