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 Archaeological 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, aesthetical, and artificial devotion, and very
little is sacred but Self. Though it is g