the ancient doges.  One, called the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, is 154 feet long by 74 broad.  It has a dais at one end, on which the throne must have been placed; and over this a picture of Paradise by Tintoretto, covering the entire end of the room—­of course 74 feet long—­being thus the largest picture ever painted on canvas.  Around, under the ceiling, are the portraits of the series of doges.  The Sala del Senato still exhibits the seats of the senators, each furnished with its candlestick for protracted discussions—­a melancholy memorial of departed independence.  We gazed, too, on the Hall of the Council of Ten, and the lesser room where the more terrible Council of Three held its sittings; all now reduced to mere show-places, but still strongly suggesting their original destination.  The Lion’s Mouth, in the outer gallery, to which any accusation could be committed, was not forgotten.  After dwelling a due time upon the rooms, and the numerous pictures and other works of art presented in them, we descended into the dungeons or pozzi—­narrow stone-chambers destitute of light, where Venetian justice formerly kept its victims—­a terrific specimen of the reckless inhumanity of past times.  Finally, we passed to the Bridge of Sighs, which is detected to be an afterthought structure, designed to connect the palace with the more modern prison in the rear, a canal intervening.  I suspect, after all, that many of the stories told about the pozzi and the bridge are mere myths, the reflection of ideas which the appearance of the places suggests.

The church of San Marco, adjoining the palace, and forming one side of the Piazza or square, is like no other building I ever saw—­decidedly Oriental in style—­indeed such a building as Aladin might have evoked by his lamp; which reminds me, by the way, that there is a prevalent tinge of the East all over Venice, seen in the architecture particularly.  The vaulting and arching of this church are all described as Byzantine in style, and are therefore round; but it has been a custom in Venice to fix up on such a building as this any reliques of antique sculpture which have been taken in the countries with which the Republic was at war:  accordingly, the front of San Marco bristles all over with curious pillars and carvings, including, above all, the four celebrated bronze horses which Napoleon took to Paris, and which were restored after his downfall.  Walking through one of the low-browed doors, we pass across a vestibule, where a stone is pointed out in the pavement as the spot on which the emperor Barbarossa laid his head beneath the foot of Pope Alexander III.  Then proceeding into the interior, you find the dusky atmosphere dimly blazing with a peculiar glitter from the walls and ceilings, the whole being one mass of gold mosaic, on which scripture subjects are inserted in a darker colouring.  Think of a huge church, the interior facing of which is composed of pieces of gilt stone,