out light from every window, and rang with music carried far away over
the Adriatic tide; when hundreds of gondolas might be seen tied up to
its mooring-posts, while graceful masked figures and the magnates of
the Republic crowded up the steps kissed by the waters; when its halls
and gallery were full of a throng of intriguers or their dupes; when
the great banqueting-hall, filled with merry feasters, and the upper
balconies furnished with musicians, seemed to harbor all Venice coming
and going on the great staircase that rang with laughter.

The chisels of the greatest artists of many centuries had sculptured
the bronze brackets supporting long-necked or pot-bellied Chinese
vases, and the candelabra for a thousand tapers. Every country had
furnished some contribution to the splendor that decked the walls and
ceilings. But now the panels were stripped of the handsome hangings,
the melancholy ceilings were speechless and sad. No Turkey carpets, no
lustres bright with flowers, no statues, no pictures, no more joy, no
money--the great means to enjoyment! Venice, the London of the Middle
Ages, was falling stone by stone, man by man. The ominous green weed
which the sea washes and kisses at the foot of every palace, was in
the Prince's eyes, a black fringe hung by nature as an omen of death.

And finally, a great English poet had rushed down on Venice like a
raven on a corpse, to croak out in lyric poetry--the first and last
utterance of social man--the burden of a _de profundis_. English
poetry! Flung in the face of the city that had given birth to Italian
poetry! Poor Venice!

Conceive, then, of the young man's amazement when roused from such
meditations by Carmagnola's cry: