the doge received his guests, ablaze with lamps and torches, and humming with the strains of festal music, was thronged that night with all that was most gallant and most beautiful in Venice. All the sights and sounds of carnival were there; cavaliers and lovely ladies, flowers and gems, magnificent attires, light feet whirling in the dances, bright eyes gleaming through the velvet masks. Venice, night, -a masquerade! - who could dream that this was the first scene of a most dark and awful drama? And yet so it was to be. That drama is about to pass before us. But without a clear conception of the doge's character, it will be impossible to understand it. Thereupon the whole plot hangs. Fortunately that character, striking as it is, lies on the surface and requires no seer to read it. Marino Faliero had been doge of Venice hardly more than half a year; but he was already an old man. At the time of his election he was seventy-six; and the long life on which he could look back had been one brilliant course of triumphs. From the proud and ancient house of Faliero two doges had, in former centu. ries, already sprung; but that house could show no name more splendid than his own. He had been a soldier and had seen the king of Hungary with eighty thousand men fly like hares before his little army. He had been commander of the fleet, and had forced the haughty gonfalon of Capo d'Istria to stoop before his flag. He had been a senator, and had filled with high distinction all the loftiest offices of state. He had been ambassador at Genoa and at Rome. It was while on embassy at the latter city that he received intelligence of his election, during his absence, and without his solicitation, to the crowning dignity of doge. But, high-born, brave, and gifted as he was, Faliero was not one of those fine spirits who bear greatness with simplicity. His character, by nature quick and fiery, had become, by life-long habits of command, imperious, fierce, and arrogant. Op. position, of whatever kind, aroused within him a tornado of vindictive passion which swept everything before it. No rival had been found of power enough to stand before him; no opponent was so small as to escape his anger. He resembled in courage, but not in magnanimity, the lion which flies with savage joy at the elephant or the tiger, but which disdains to crush the mouse that runs across his paw. Once, in a chapel at Treviso, where the bishop kept him waiting for the cup and wafer, he flew VOL. LXII. 3198 LIVING AGE. upon the holy man and boxed his ears. Hotspur was not more jealous in honor Mercutio was not more quick in quarrel than the grey-bearded doge. And his jealous honor had one ever-vulnerable point. He was an old man married to a young and lovely wife. Such was the man who stood, that night, amidst the bright assembly of his guests. It was, although he little dreamed it, the last scene on earth on which he was to look with peace of mind. Among the masqueraders was a certain handsome youth, a patrician of high rank, named Michael Steno. Steno had selected as his partner one of the dogessa's waiting-ladies, into whose ears he was now earnestly employed in breathing vows of everlasting adoration. At length, giddy with beauty, and perhaps with wine, he began to press his suit too ardently. The dame drew back, in real or feigned displeasure. The doge beheld the little scene. With eyes of flame he strode up to the offender, and commanded him, in full view of the bystanders, instantly to quit the hall. was Michael Steno was one of the curled darlings of the nation. He left the chamber; but his blood boiled at the indignity which had so publicly been put upon him. His offence-a trifling indecorum one which the intoxication of the hour might have excused. Raging with resentment, he wandered aimlessly about the palace. At length, whether by design or accident, he found himself alone in the great senate-halla hall which our imag. ination peoples with immortal phantoms; the hall where Portia pleaded, where Shylock whetted his keen knife, and where Othello taught another doge and Senate the charms which had bewitched the heart. of Desdemona. The hall, when Steno entered it, was lonely and unlighted. Around the semicircle at the upper end were set the seats of honor of the senators, arrayed on each side of the doge's throne. Steno, smitten with a thought of vengeance, went forward in the dusky light, and with a piece of chalk, such as the dancers used to prevent their shoes from slipping on the glassy floors, wrote up a dozen words, in staring characters, across the doge's throne. That done, he stole away. The masque broke up; the guests departed; and Steno's handiwork remained undiscovered. But carly the next morning an official of the palace, on entering the senate-chamber, was stunned with horror and amazement at the sight of this inscrip tion, chalked across the throne in letters a foot long: THE DOGE HAS A LOVELY WIFE - BUT SHE IS NOT FOR HIM. The man, half scared out of his senses, went instantly to seek his master. Faliero hastened to the council-chamber, and read with his own eyes the words of infamy. What truth there was in Steno's innuendo is not known; what glances, or what more than glances, may have passed between him and the young dogessa is beyond our information. Faliero's wife, for aught we know, may have been as spotless as Othello's, and as foully wronged. But whether Steno spoke the truth, or whether he lied like an Iago, the poisoned arrow of his vengeance struck the mark. The effect of such an insult upon such a mind is not to be described. Shylock raging against Jessica Lear cursing in the tempest are but faint and feeble types of Faliero as he looked upon the writing on the throne. It was not difficult to guess his enemy. An officer was instantly sent out, and Michael Steno was arrested. A tribunal of the Forty was convened with speed; and the culprit was brought up before his peers. Their task was easy. Steno instantly admitted his offence, left the facts to answer for themselves, and stood for judgment with a certain nonchalance which was not without an air of dignity. The court passed sentence of two months' imprisonment, to be followed by a year of exile. The decree was certainly not too severe; for the fault was gross and glaring. Yet the case was not wholly without vindication. The act had been a freak of passing passion; the provocation had been cruel; and the avowal had been frank and open. Nor was the punishment a light one. A patrician locked up in a dungeon cell suffered, in wounded honor, far more than in privation; and a year of exile was a bitter penance. On the whole, if fairly weighed, the sentence of the Signory will hardly seem to have erred grossly on the side of mercy. But the doge was blind with anger. He appears to have taken it for granted that his insulter would be doomed to lose his head. The verdict stung him to the quick. Instantly, his rage was turned from Steno to the Signory- to those false and wicked judges who had, in order to protect their fellow, flagrantly betrayed their trust. The white heat of his passion was of a kind of which the colder races of the north can hardly dream. In one moment the entire patrician order became transfigured, in his eyes, to the likeness of a single mighty foe. No foe, however mighty, had ever yet opposed him with success. His motto should have been the fiery menace, Nemo me impune lacessit. But now, for the first time in his long life, he found himself confronted by an adversary more powerful than himself. The sense of impotence increased his frenzy. His rage became the image of Caligula's, when he wished that the Roman people had a single head, that he might cut it off. But with what weapon could he hope to strike that many-headed hydra, the Signory of Venice? In this temper he was brooding in his chamber, that same evening, gloomy and alone, when a man came panting to the palace gates, and desired to see him on a case of justice. The doge bade him be shown in; and speedily a startling figure stood before him. The man's dress was a plebeian's, torn and ruffled; the blood was streaming down his face; and the fierceness of his passion shook him like an aspen, as he burst into a flood of angry speech. His name was Israel Bertuccio he was a workman in the arsenal; he had quarrelled with a certain noble of high rank, who had struck him in the face And he appealed for justice. "Justice!" said the doge, with bitter emphasis, "justice against a member of the Signory! I cannot gain it for myself." 66 Then," said Bertuccio fiercely, "we must avenge ourselves as I will." And he turned to leave the chamber. The man's implacable resentment struck in with the doge's humor. He called him back, encouraged him to speak, and presently discovered, with a fierce delight, that chance had put a weapon in his hands. Bertuccio was a member of a secret brotherhood, which held the Signory in deadly hatred. A thousand fiery spirits of the lower class, stung to madness by a sense of wrongs, were ripe and ready for revolt. Faliero heard this news with glittering eyes. A gigantic scheme of vengeance rose before him. Bertuccio's horde of plotters might be used; and he resolved to use it. Anger, like misery, acquaints a man with strange companions. Hours went by; and still the pair of strange associates sat together in the doge's chamber, deep in consultation. When at length Bertuc cio left the palace, it was late at night; and he was under an engagement to return in secret on the night succeeding. MARINO FALIERO. Night came; and Bertuccio, bringing with him a companion, stole up the doge's private stair. This companion was Filippo Calendaro, a sculptor employed upon the palace buildings. The doge, attended by his newhew, Bertuce Faliero, was waiting for them. These four men sat down together, and drew up between them the details of the most tremendous scheme of vengeance that ever filled the brain of man. Sixteen men, the fieriest spirits of the league, were first selected for the part of leaders. Each leader was to be assured of sixty followers, determined and well armed. At sunrise on the day appointed, the great bell of St. Mark's the bell which never sounded except by order of the doge was to peal a loud alarm; and at that signal, the sixteen parties of conspirators, issuing from their posts in various quarters of the city, were to flock together to St. Mark's, crying aloud that the Genoese fleet had been descried at sea. Then, as the senators, roused by the | tumult and summoned by the bell, came hastily to council, they were to be assailed in the Piazza, and cut down to the last man. Such was the doge's scheme; a scheme without a parallel in history; a plot in which a grey patrician, crowned with age and honors, linked himself with desperadoes against the lives of his own peers, of men with whom for more than half a century he had lived in close and friendly intercourse, with whom he had drunk and feasted, sat in conference and bled in battle. Anger, said the wise Greeks, is a brief madness. The annals of the world contain no stronger instance than the plot of Faliero of the madness which is anger in excess. Three days were judged sufficient to complete all preparations. It was then the 11th of April. The hour of sunrise, April the 15th, was appointed for the execution of the great design. Bertuccio and Calendaro went instantly to work. During the next three days they All went toiled with speed and secrecy. well. The leaders were selected; the bands of myrmidons were drilled and armed; the places of assembly were arranged. If all proved true, the hours of the proud Signory were numbered. And the hearts of the conspirators beat high. But there was one exception. One of their number was tormented by a vexing spirit of compunction, which would not let This man was named Berhim rest. trando. By trade he was a furrier; and among the nobles who had bought his Midnight came; and now in a few flying hours the deed would be accomplished. Bertuccio, Calendaro, and the other leaders, were at the waiting-places with their gangs. Bertuce Faliero, watching for the sun to peer above the gray lagoons, was ready in the turret of St. Mark's to wake the voice of the great bell. The doge himself was in his own apartment - waiting in sleepless solitude for the signal which should sound the hour of his revenge. At last the Sed dis aliter visum. waverer had fixed his purpose. At that very moment Bertrando, muffled in a cloak and a slouched hat, aghast lest a fellowplotter should espy him, was slinking up the byways of the city to Lioni's door. Lioni, when Bertrando reached his palA visit ace, had not yet retired to rest. at that hour surprised him. He bade his men admit the visitor, but to linger within call in case of need; and Bertrando, slouched and muffled to the eyes, was accordingly ushered into the apartment. He paused till they were left alone; and then, with all the mystery of an oracle, gave forth his voice of warning. "My I can lord,” he said, "it is Bertrando come to Ask me no questions But as you love your life, warn you. let nothing tempt you to go forth tomorrow." answer none. If Bertrando expected his hearer to rest satisfied with such a warning, his ignorance of human nature must have been surprising. Lioni, as was to be expected, | was to follow. The plot had failed; the instantly poured forth a stream of ques- dream was over. He was in the hands of tions. What was the threatened danger? those whom he had plotted to destroy. Why was this need of mystery? Was there treason in the wind? Bertrando answered not a word, but turned away and would have left the room. But he mistook his patron's character in expecting to escape so easily. Lioni's suspicions were now wide awake. He raised his voice; his lackeys seized the conspirator as he made his exit, and brought him back a prisoner. Come, Bertrando," said Lioni, "speak no riddles. I must know all the windings of this mystery before I let you go." 66 Bertrando, thus finding himself taken, resolved to make a virtue of necessity. He bargained, not only for his safety, but to be well rewarded for his service. If he turned king's evidence to save the State, it was but just that he should have his recompense. Lioni gave his pledge; and Bertrando, throwing off his air of mystery, told everything he knew. It was held fitting that an offender of such eminence should answer to his charge before a more august tribunal than the hasty Council gathered at the Convent of St. Saviour's. His captors therefore left him, for the time, alone in his own chamber, the door of which was kept by a strong guard; there to experience, in the sense of failure, an expiation which, to such a spirit, must have been far bitterer than the bitterness of death. Meantime, Bertuccio and Calendaro were brought in chains before the Council. They had been seized among their gangs with weapons in their hands. At first, on being questioned, they refused to speak. But a rack was brought; the prisoners were stretched upon it; the rollers began to turn and the cords to tighten; and speedily, with gasps and groans, the details of the plot came out. When the Council had learned everything they wished, the ropes were loosened, and the culprits carried to a cell. But their respite was of short duration. As soon as the day had dawned, a gibbet was erected in a gallery of the ducal palace overlooking the Piazza; and soon the whispering and excited crowd saw the conspirators brought forth to die. The bodies, left to hang like scarecrows, as a terror to all traitors, were long to be seen twirling in the wind. Lioni listened in amazement. There was not an instant to be lost. Leaving Bertrando still a prisoner, he threw his mantle round him, and hurried forth into the night. He first aroused another senator, named Gradenigo; and the pair then stole together to the house of Marc Conaro. These three nobles, creeping stealthily as thieves from house to house, rapidly roused all the members of the Council. They assembled, in the dead of night, in a chamber in the Convent of St. Saviour's. More than four hundred of their comBertrando was brought in; and the Sig-panions were arrested; but the punishnory of Venice heard, with inexpressible ment of these was for a while delayed. amazement, of the sword that had been For now the great culprit was to come to hanging by a thread above their heads. judgment. The preparations for his trial at once began. A tribunal of peculiar dignity was formed. The Council of Ten, by whom all crimes against the State were tried, elected twenty of the Signory to sit in consultation with them. The court of thirty judges thus composed was known by the title of the Giunta. All had been done so quietly that none of the conspirators had received the least alarm. It was now near morning; already a crimson tinge was glowing in the east. Two bands of guards were instantly sent out; one to the doge's palace, the other to St. Mark's Tower. The doge was sitting, at that breathless hour, alone in his apartment, straining his ears for the expected bell. The signal of alarm delayed to sound; but as he vainly listened for its summons, another sound struck on his ear a sound that checked the current of his blood. It was the tramp of men-at-arms along the corridor outside his chamber. In a moment more, the door flew open, and he was in the grasp of soldiers. And all was lost; and hope had vanished in an instant; and all that now remained was to endure with lofty fortitude what By the time that all was ready, it was evening. The doge's door was opened; he was conducted, in the midst of soldiers, to the Hall of Council; and the mighty traitor stood among the men whom he had schemed to massacre. It was a scene to put to proof the sternest spirit. The hall was crowded with familiar faces; among them many that, a week before, had worn the smiles of guests at his own festival. But every face was now morose and scowling. Eyes were glittering with the fire of hatred. Voices were muttering that he should be racked. There was not one among the thirty judges - there was, perhaps, not one in all the crowd of gazers -who, had the plot succeeded, would not at that hour have been a corpse. But neither altered faces, nor the imminence of death itself, could shake the fiery spirit of the doge. In truth, no penalty could now disturb him- and death the least of all. His care for life was over. From the instant when the soldiers of the Signory had burst into his chamber, life had no more to offer. He had staked everything upon the hazard of the dieand everything was lost. All this world and all the glory of it had vanished from him like an exhalation. He had fallen, like the sons of the morning, forever from his high estate. He knew it well; and he looked round upon the faces of his foes with stern composure, as of one beyond the reach of hope or fear. The president of the council rose, and demanded of the prisoner whether he confessed the charge against him. Faliero answered, with contemptuous brevity, that the charge was true. The interrogation, and indeed the trial itself, was but the form and pageantry of justice. His guilt was manifest. One of his accomplices had turned informer; two others had confessed upon the rack. To all intents and purposes, his doom was sealed before the court assembled. At sunrise all the city was astir. The gates below the Giants' Stairs were closed and fastened; but a vast crowd thronged the Piazzetta, and fought for places at the grated bars. Thence could be plainly seen the landing of the topmost stairthe spot where, only a few months before, the head that now had stooped as low as death put on the doge's crown. Now, all the place was draped and hung with black; and in the centre stood the block and sword. And now the sun was rising, and the hour was come. The mournful train emerged from the interior of the palace, and came out upon the landing of the stair. First appeared the members of the Ten, the Senate, and the Forty; then came a guard of soldiers; and then the fallen doge. His confessor, holding up the crucifix, walked at his right hand. At his left hand went the headsman. It was observed that the prisoner still wore the ducal cap and robe. It had been ordered by the Council that he should carry to the scene of infamy these emblems of his lost supremacy. It was their purpose to afflict that haughty spirit with a last humiliation. As he reached the block, the headsman stripped the sovereign mantle from his shoulders and plucked the crown of empire from his brows. At the same moment, the great bell of St. Mark's - the bell designed to sound the doom of his opponents-began to toll the knell for his own death. And nothing now remained but to proceed to judgment. The thirty judges were agreed upon their sentence. Every voice among the thirty was for death. The culThe doge threw himself upon his knees prit was to be conducted to the landing of and laid his head upon the block. As the the Giants' Stairs, and there to be behead-headsman raised his sword, the gates beed. The place of execution was not idly low were thrown wide open. The crowd chosen. It was the spot on which suc- rushed in with tumult-and saw the grey ceeding doges were, by ancient custom, head rolling down the Giants' Steps. invested, in the midst of pomp and splendor, with the robe and crown of state. From Blackwood's Magazine. PACIFIC: FIJI. But the sentence of the senators contained yet another count. The place of the prisoner's portrait in the Hall of Council was to be left void, and veiled with AMONG THE ISLANDS OF THE SOUTH black. More than five hundred years have passed since that decree was spoken; but still the line of painted doges in the council-hall of Venice contains not one of so profound and strange an interest as the veil of vacant black which fills, in place of portrait, the space of Marino Faliero, doge and traitor. It was now late at night. The prisoner was conducted back to his apartment, where he was left alone with his confessor. The minutes of his life were numbered. At daybreak the next morning he must die. It is a very trite remark that the Pacific Ocean often emphatically belies its title. I cannot altogether defend it; and, in fact, it would be unreasonable to expect consistency from so vast an expanse of the unstable. When the grateful Magellan, escaping from the wintry horrors of the region now always associated with his name, burst into the sunshine and balmy breezes beyond, he did not, naturally, reflect very closely on the area over which the new name was to be applied. Big generalizations are dangerous; but it is |