“A Clifford, a Clifford! we’ll follow the king and Clifford.”
Henry VI.

The tranquillity of the best ordered society may be disturbed, at any time, by a sudden outbreaking of the malcontents. Against such a disaster there is no more guarding than against the commission of more vulgar crimes; but when a government trembles for its existence, before the turbulence of popular commotion, it is reasonable to infer some radical defect in its organization. Men will rally around their institutions, as freely as they rally around any other cherished interest, when they merit their care, and there can be no surer sign of their hollowness than when the rulers seriously apprehend the breath of the mob. No nation ever exhibited more of this symptomatic terror, on all occasions of internal disturbance, than the pretending Republic of Venice. There was a never-ceasing and a natural tendency to dissolution, in her factious system, which was only resisted by the alertness of her aristocracy, and the political buttresses which their ingenuity had reared. Much was said of the venerable character of her polity, and of its consequent security, but it is in vain that selfishness contends with truth. Of all the fallacies with which man has attempted to gloss his expedients, there is none more evidently false than that which infers the duration of a social system, from the length of time it has already lasted. It would be quite as reasonable to affirm that the man of seventy has the same chances for life as the youth of fifteen, or that the inevitable fate of all things of mortal origin was not destruction. There is a period in human existence when the principle of vitality has to contend with the feebleness of infancy, but this probationary state passed, the child attains the age when it has the most reasonable prospect of living. Thus the social, like any other machine, which has run just long enough to prove its fitness, is at the precise period when it is least likely to fail, and although he that is young may not live to become old, it is certain that he who is old was once young. The empire of China was, in its time, as youthful as our own republic, nor can we see any reason for believing that it is to outlast us, from the decrepitude which is a natural companion of its years.

At the period of our tale, Venice boasted much of her antiquity, and dreaded, in an equal degree, her end. She was still strong in her combinations, but they were combinations that had the vicious error of being formed for the benefit of the minority, and which, like the mimic fortresses and moats of a scenic representation, needed only a strong light to destroy the illusion. The alarm with which the patricians heard the shouts of the fishermen, as they swept by the different palaces, on their way to the great square, can be readily imagined. Some feared that the final consummation of their artificial condition, which had so long been anticipated by a secret political instinct, was at length arrived, and began to bethink them of the savest means of providing for their own security. Some listened in admiration, for habit had so far mastered dulness, as to have created a species of identity between the state and far more durable things, and they believed that St. Mark had gained a victory, in that decline, which was never exactly intelligible to their apathetic capacities. But a few, and these were the spirits that accumulated all the national good which was vulgarly and falsely ascribed to the system itself, intuitively comprehended the danger, with a just appreciation of its magnitude, as well as of the means to avoid it.

But the rioters were unequal to any estimate of their own force, and had little aptitude in measuring their accidental advantages. They acted merely on impulse. The manner in which their aged companion had triumphed on the preceding day, his cold repulse by the Doge, and the scene of the Lido, which in truth led to the death of Antonio, had prepared their minds for the tumult. When the body was found, therefore, after the time necessary to collect their forces on the Lagunes, they yielded to passion, and moved away towards the palace of St. Mark, as described, without any other definite object than a simple indulgence of feeling.

On entering the canal, the narrowness of the passage compressed the boats into a mass so dense, as, in a measure, to impede the use of oars, and the progress of the crowd was necessarily slow. All were anxious to get as near as possible to the body of Antonio, and, like all mobs, they in some degree frustrated their own objects by ill-regulated zeal. Once or twice the names of offensive senators were shouted, as if the fishermen intended to visit the crimes of the state on its agents; but these cries passed away in the violent breath that was expended. On reaching the bridge of the Rialto, more than half of the multitude landed, and took the shorter course of the streets to the point of destination, while those in front got on the faster, for being disembarrassed of the pressure in the rear. As they drew nearer to the port, the boats began to loosen, and to take something of the form of a funeral procession.

It was during this moment of change that a powerfully manned gondola swept, with strong strokes, out of a lateral passage into the Great Canal. Accident brought it directly in front of the moving phalanx of boats that was coming down the same channel. Its crew seemed staggered by the extraordinary appearance which met their view, and for an instant its course was undecided.

“A gondola of the Republic!” shouted fifty fishermen. A single voice added “Canale Orfano!”

The bare suspicion of such an errand, as was implied by the latter words, and at that moment, was sufficient to excite the mob. They raised a cry of denunciation, and some twenty boats made a furious demonstration of pursuit. The menace, however, was sufficient; for quicker far than the movements of the pursuers, the gondoliers of the Republic dashed towards the shore, and leaping on one of those passages of planks which encircle so many of the palaces of Venice, they disappeared by an alley.

Encouraged by this success, the fishermen seized the boat as a waif, and towed it into their own fleet, filling the air with cries of triumph. Curiosity led a few to enter the hearse-like canopy, whence they immediately reissued dragging forth a priest.

“Who art thou?” hoarsely demanded he who took upon himself the authority of a leader.

“A Carmelite, and a servant of God!”

“Dost thou serve St. Mark? Hast thou been to the Canale Orfano to shrive a wretch?”

“I am here in attendance on a young and noble lady, who has need of my counsel and prayers. The happy and the miserable, the free and the captive, are equally my care!”

“Ha! Thou art not above thy office? Thou wilt say the prayers for the dead in behalf of a poor man’s soul?”

“My son, I know no difference, in this respect, between the Doge and the poorest fisherman. Still I would not willingly desert the females.”

“The ladies shall receive no harm. Come into my boat, for there is need of thy holy office.”

Father Anselmo the reader will readily anticipate that it was he entered the canopy, said a few words in explanation to his trembling companions, and complied. He was rowed to the leading gondola, and, by a sign, directed to the dead body.

“Thou see’st that corpse, father?” continued his conductor. “It is the face of one who was an upright and pious Christian!”

“He was.”

“We all knew him as the oldest and the most skilful fisherman of the Lagunes, and one ever ready to assist an unlucky companion.”

“I can believe thee!”

“Thou mayest, for the holy books are not more true than my words: yesterday he came down this very canal in triumph, for he bore away the honors of the regatta from the stoutest oars in Venice.”

“I have heard of his success.”

“They say that Jacopo, the Bravo he who once held the best oar in the canals was of the party! Santa Madonna! such a man was too precious to die!”

“It is the fate of all rich and poor, strong and feeble, happy and miserable, must alike come to this end.”

“Not to this end, reverend Carmelite, for Antonio having given offence to the Republic, in the matter of a grandson that is pressed for the galleys, has been sent to purgatory without a Christian hope for his soul.”

“There is an eye that watcheth on the meanest of us, son; we will believe he was not forgotten.”

“Cospetto! They say that those the Senate look black upon get but little aid from the church! Wilt thou pray for him, Carmelite, and make good thy words?”

“I will,” said Father Anselmo, firmly. “Make room, son, that no decency of my duty be overlooked.”

The swarthy, expressive faces of the fishermen gleamed with satisfaction, for, in the midst of the rude turmoil, they all retained a deep and rooted respect for the offices of the church in which they had been educated. Silence was quickly obtained, and the boats moved on with greater order than before.

The spectacle was now striking. In front rowed the gondola which contained the remains of the dead. The widening of the canal, as it approached the port, permitted the rays of the moon to fall upon the rigid features of old Antonio, which were set in such a look as might be supposed to characterize the dying thoughts of a man so suddenly and so fearfully destroyed. The Carmelite, bare-headed, with clasped hands, and a devout heart, bowed his head at the feet of the body, with his white robes flowing in the light of the moon. A single gondolier guided the boat, and no other noise was audible but the plash of the water, as the oars slowly fell and rose together. This silent procession lasted a few minutes, and then the tremulous voice of the monk was heard chanting the prayers for the dead. The practised fishermen, for few in that disciplined church, and that obedient age, were ignorant of those solemn rites, took up the responses in a manner that must be familiar to every ear that has ever listened to the sounds of Italy, the gentle washing of the element, on which they glided, forming a soft accompaniment. Casement after casement opened while they passed, and a thousand curious and anxious faces crowded the balconies as the funeral cortege swept slowly on.

The gondola of the Republic was towed in the centre of the moving mass by fifty lighter boats, for the fishermen still clung to their prize. In this manner the solemn procession entered the port, and touched the quay at the foot of the Piazzetta. While numberless eager hands were aiding in bringing the body of Antonio to land, there arose a shout from the centre of the ducal palace, which proclaimed the presence already of the other part of their body in its court.

The squares of St. Mark now presented a novel picture. The quaint and oriental church, the rows of massive and rich architecture, the giddy pile of the Campanile, the columns of granite, the masts of triumph, and all those peculiar and remarkable fixtures, which had witnessed so many scenes of violence, of rejoicing, of mourning, and of gaiety, were there, like landmarks of the earth, defying time; beautiful and venerable in despite of all those varying exhibitions of human passions that were daily acted around them.

“But the song, the laugh, and the jest, had ceased. The lights of the coffee-houses had disappeared, the revellers had fled to their homes, fearful of being confounded with those who braved the anger of the Senate, while the grotesque, the ballad-singers, and the buffoon, had abandoned their assumed gaiety for an appearance more in unison with the true feelings of their hearts.

“Giustizia! ” cried a thousand deep voices, as the body of Antonio was borne into the court “Illustrious Doge! Giustizia. in palazzo, e pane in piazza! Give us justice! We are beggars for justice!”

The gloomy but vast court was paved with the swarthy faces and glittering eyes of the fishermen. The corpse was laid at the foot of the Giant’s Stairs, while the trembling halberdier at the head of the flight, scarce commanded himself sufficiently to maintain that air of firmness which was exacted by discipline and professional pride. But there was no other show of military force, for the politic power which ruled in Venice, knew too well its momentary impotency, to irritate when it could not quell. The mob beneath was composed of nameless rioters, whose punishment could carry no other consequences than the suppression of immediate danger, and for that, those who ruled were not prepared.

The Council of Three had been apprised of the arrival of the excited fishermen. When the mob entered the court, it was consulting in secret conclave, on the probabilities of the tumult having a graver and more determined object, than was apparent in the visible symptoms. The routine of office had not yet dispossessed the men already presented to the reader, of their dangerous and despotic power.

“Are the Dalmatians apprised of this movement?” asked one of the secret tribunal, whose nerves were scarcely equal to the high functions he discharged. “We may have occasion for their volleys, ere this riot is appeased.”

“Confide in the ordinary authorities for that, Signore,” answered the Senator Gradenigo. “I have only concern, lest some conspiracy, which may touch the fidelity of the troops, lies concealed beneath the outcry.”

“The evil passions of man know no limits! What would the wretches have? For a state in the decline, Venice is to the last degree prosperous. Our ships are thriving; the bank flourishes with goodly dividends; and I do assure you, Signore, that, for many years, I have not known so ample revenues for most of our interests, as at this hour. All cannot thrive alike!”

“You are happily connected with flourishing affairs, Signore, but there are many that are less lucky. Our form of government is somewhat exclusive, and it is a penalty that we have ever paid for its advantages, to be liable to sudden and malevolent accusations, for any evil turn of fortune that besets the Republic.”

“Can nothing satisfy these exacting spirits? Are they not free are they not happy?”

“It would seem that they want better assurance of these facts, than our own feelings, or our words.”

“Man is the creature of envy! The poor desire to be rich the weak, powerful.”

“There is an exception to your rule, at least, Signore, since the rich rarely wish to be poor, or the powerful, weak.”

“You deride my sentiments to-night, Signor Gradenigo. I speak, I hope, as becomes a Senator of Venice, and in a manner that you are not unaccustomed to hear!”

“Nay, the language is not unusual. But I fear me there is something unsuited to a falling fortune, in the exacting and narrow spirit of our laws. When a state is eminently flourishing, its subjects overlook general defects in private prosperity, but there is no more fastidious commentator on measures than your merchant of a failing trade.”

“This is their gratitude! Have we not converted these muddy isles into a mart for half Christendom, and now they are dissatisfied that they cannot retain all the monopolies that the wisdom of our ancestors has accumulated.”

“They complain much in your own spirit, Signore, but you are right in saying the present riot must be looked to. Let us seek his highness, who will go out to the people, with such patricians as may be present, and one of our number as a witness: more than that might expose our character.”

The Secret Council withdrew to carry this resolution into effect, just as the fishermen in the court received the accession of those who arrived by water.

There is no body so sensible of an increase of its members as a mob. Without discipline, and dependent solely on animal force for its ascendency, the sentiment of physical power is blended with its very existence. When they saw the mass of living beings which had assembled within the wall of the ducal palace, the most audacious of that throng became more hardy, and even the wavering grew strong. This is the reverse of the feeling which prevails among those who are called on to repress this species of violence, who generally gain courage as its exhibition is least required.

The throng in the court was raising one of its loudest and most menacing cries as the train of the Doge appeared, approaching by one of the long open galleries of the principal floor of the edifice.

The presence of the venerable man who nominally presided over that factitious state, and the long training of the fishermen in habits of deference to authority, notwithstanding their present tone of insubordination, caused a sudden and deep silence. A feeling of awe gradually stole over the thousand dark faces that were gazing upwards, as the little cortege drew near. So profound, indeed, was the stillness caused by this sentiment, that the rustling of the ducal robes was audible, as the prince, impeded by his infirmities, and consulting the state usual to his rank, slowly advanced. The previous violence of the untutored fishermen, and their present deference to the external state that met their eyes, had its origin in the same causes; ignorance and habit were the parents of both.

“Why are ye assembled here, my children?” asked the Doge, when he had reached the summit of the Giant’s Stairs, “and most of all, why have ye come into the palace of your prince with these unbefitting cries?”

The tremulous voice of the old man was clearly audible, for the lowest of its tones were scarcely interrupted by a breath. The fishermen gazed at each other, and all appeared to search for him who might be bold enough to answer. At length one in the centre of the crowded mass, and effectually concealed from observation, cried, “Justice!”

“Such is our object,” mildly continued the prince; “and such, I will add, is our practice. Why are ye assembled here, in a manner so offensive to the state, and so disrespectful to your prince?”

Still none answered. The only spirit of their body, which had been capable of freeing itself from the trammels of usage and prejudice, had deserted the shell which lay on the lower step of the Giant’s Stairs.

“Will none speak! are ye so bold with your voices when unquestioned, and so silent when confronted?”

“Speak them fair, your highness,” whispered he of the council, who was commissioned to be a secret witness of the interview; “the Dalmatians are scarce yet apparelled.”

The prince bowed to advice which he well knew must be respected, and he assumed his former tone.

“If none will acquaint me with your wants, I must command you to retire, and while my parental heart grieves ”

“Giustizia!” repeated the hidden member of the crowd.

“Name thy wants, that we may know them.”

“Highness! deign to look at this!”

One bolder than the rest had turned the body of Antonio to the moon, in a manner to expose the ghastly features, and, as he spoke, he pointed towards the spectacle he had prepared. The prince started at the unexpected sight, and, slowly descending the steps, closely accompanied by his companions and his guards, he paused over the body.

“Has the assassin done this?” he asked, after looking at the dead fisherman, and crossing himself. “What could the end of one like this profit a Bravo? Haply the unfortunate man hath fallen in a broil of his class?”

“Neither, illustrious Doge! we fear that Antonio has suffered for the displeasure of St. Mark!”

“Antonio! Is this the hardy fisherman who would have taught us how to rule in the state regatta!”

“Eccellenza, it is,” returned the simple laborer of the Lagunes, “and a better hand with a net, or a truer friend in need, never rowed a gondola to or from the Lido. Diavolo! It would have done your highness pleasure to have seen the poor old Christian among us, on a saint’s day, taking the lead in our little ceremonies, and teaching us the manner in which our fathers used to do credit to the craft!”

“Or to have been with us, illustrious Doge,” cried another, for, the ice once broken, the tongues of a mob soon grow bold, “in a merry-making on the Lido, when old Antonio was always the foremost in the laugh, and the discreetest in knowing when to be grave.”

The Doge began to have a dawning of the truth, and he cast a glance aside to examine the countenance of the unknown inquisitor.

“It is far easier to understand the merits of the unfortunate man, than the manner of his death,” he said, finding no explanation in the drilled members of the face he had scrutinized. “Will any of your party explain the facts?”

The principal speaker among the fishermen willingly took on himself the office, and, in the desultory manner of one of his habits, he acquainted the Doge with the circumstances connected with the finding of the body. When he had done, the prince again asked explanations, with his eye, from the senator at his side, for he was ignorant whether the policy of the state required an example, or simply a death.”

“I see nothing in this, your highness,” observed he of the council, “but the chances of a fisherman. The unhappy old man has come to his end by accident, and it would be charity to have a few masses said for his soul.”

“Noble senator!” exclaimed the fisherman, doubtingly, “St. Mark was offended!”

“Rumor tells many idle tales of the pleasure and displeasure of St. Mark, If we are to believe all that the wit of men can devise, in affairs of this nature, the criminals are not drowned in the Lagunes, but in the Canale Orfano.”

“True, eccellenza, and we are forbidden to cast our nets there, on pain of sleeping with the eels at its bottom.”

“So much greater reason for believing that this old man hath died by accident. Is there mark of violence on his body? for though the state could scarcely occupy itself with such as he, some other might. Hath the condition of the body been looked to?”

“Eccellenza, it was enough to cast one of his years into the centre of the Lagunes. The stoutest arm in Venice could not save him.”

“There may have been violence in some quarrel, and the proper authority should be vigilant. Here is a Carmelite! Father, do you know aught of this?”

The monk endeavored to answer, but his voice failed. He stared wildly about him, for the whole scene resembled some frightful picture of the imagination, and then folding his arms on his bosom, he appeared to resume his prayers.

“Thou dost not answer, Friar?” observed the Doge, who had been as effectually deceived, by the natural and indifferent manner of the inquisitor, as any other of his auditors. “Where didst thou find this body?”

Father Anselmo briefly explained the manner in which he had been pressed into the service of the fishermen.

At the elbow of the prince there stood a young patrician, who, at the moment, filled no other office in the state than such as belonged to his birth. Deceived, like the others, by the manner of the only one who knew the real cause of Antonio’s death, he felt a humane and praiseworthy desire to make sure that no foul play had been exercised towards the victim.

“I have heard of this Antonio,” said this person, who was called the Senator Soranzo, and who was gifted by nature with feelings that, in any other form of government, would have made him a philanthropist, “and of his success in the regatta. Was it not said that Jacopo, the Bravo, was his competitor?”

A low, meaning, and common murmur ran through the throng.

“A man of his reputed passions and ferocity may well have sought to revenge defeat by violence!”

A second and a louder murmur denoted the effect this suggestion had produced.

“Eccellenza, Jacopo deals in the stiletto!” observed the half-credulous but still doubting fisherman.

“That is as may be necessary. A man of his art and character may have recourse to other means to gratify his malice. Do you not agree with me, Signore?”

The Senator Soranzo put this question, in perfect good faith, to the unknown member of the secret council. The latter appeared struck with the probability of the truth of his companion’s conjecture, but contented himself with a simple acknowledgment to that effect, by bowing.

“Jacopo! Jacopo!” hoarsely repeated voice after voice in the crowd “Jacopo has done this! The best gondolier in Venice has been beaten by an old fisherman, and nothing but blood could wipe out the disgrace!”

“It shall be inquired into, my children, and strict justice done,” said the Doge, preparing to depart. “Officers, give money for masses, that the soul of the unhappy man be not the sufferer. Reverend Carmelite, I commend the body to thy care, and thou canst do no better service than to pass the night in prayer by its side.”

A thousand caps were waved in commendation of this gracious command, and the whole throng stood in silent respect, as the prince, followed by his retinue, retired as he had approached, through the long, vaulted gallery above.

A secret order of the Inquisition prevented the appearance of the Dalmatians.

A few minutes later and all was prepared. A bier and canopy were brought out of the adjoining cathedral, and the corpse was placed upon the former. Father Anselmo then headed the procession, which passed through the principal gate of the palace into the square, chanting the usual service. The Piazzetta and the piazza were still empty. Here and there, indeed, a curious face, belonging to some agent of the police, or to some observer more firm than common, looked out from beneath the arches of the porticoes on the movements of the mob, though none ventured to come within its influence.

But the fishermen were no longer bent on violence. With the fickleness of men little influenced by reflection, and subject to sudden and violent emotions, a temperament which, the effect of a selfish system, is commonly tortured into the reason why it should never be improved, they had abandoned all idea of revenge on the agents of the police, and had turned their thoughts to the religious services, which, being commanded by the prince himself, were so flattering to their class.

It is true that a few of the sterner natures among them mingled menaces against the Bravo with their prayers for the dead, but these had no other effect on the matter in hand, than is commonly produced by the by-players on the principal action of the piece.

The great portal of the venerable church was thrown open, and the solemn chant was heard issuing, in responses, from among the quaint columns and vaulted roofs within. The body of the lowly and sacrificed Antonio was borne beneath that arch which sustains the precious relics of Grecian art, and deposited in the nave. Candles glimmered before the altar and around the ghastly person of the dead, throughout the night; and the cathedral of St. Mark was pregnant with all the imposing cérémonials of the Catholic ritual, until the day once more appeared.

Priest succeeded priest, in repeating the masses, while the attentive throng listened, as if each of its members felt that his own honor and importance were elevated by this concession to one of their number. In the square the maskers gradually reappeared, though the alarm had been too sudden and violent, to admit a speedy return to the levity which ordinarily was witnessed in that spot, between the setting and the rising of the sun.