on a little slip of land between the gulf of lepante and athens, we come to corinthe; we know it not, save a few immense pillars of marble pinnacling the site of corinthe. artists from all parts of the world come here and sit down at their base to sketch their dimensions; then away they go, with no regretful feelings for the great founders of arts stupendous, who, perhaps, three thousand years ago, were known far and near as men of the best faculties. the greatest gem that rome ever put in its crown, was the one that was made by imagination of the greecian dictator when listening to cicero, he said, “rome has robbed us of all we possess, but our eloquence, and it seems as if that is going towards rome.” but rome has since fallen as low as athens!

in the ionian sea, between sicily and greece, are the ionian islands, seven in number, and corfu is the principal one; they now all belong to the english. out further the east indias, where the queen of england has 150,000,000 subjects; on the coast of africa, at the cape of good hope, the west indias, and the canadas, is her sceptral wand waving its ambrosial food of civilization. “the sun never sets on the queen’s domain.”

between asia, macedonia, and greece is the most celebrated archipelago in the world. six days along the adriatic have brought me to trieste, in northern italy. it now belongs to austria. the austrian sceptre is waving over nearly half of italy. it is generally believed she cannot much longer hold her italian possessions. the army of austria, like its eagle’s wings, is stretched to its utmost extremity of space. she could not sustain 50,000 more troops, without breaking some of her internal machinery. like an overflowing river, she is most too high to rise any higher without damaging her union. she seems to have taken the last drop of the italian’s patience and forbearance, while leghorn, lucca, trieste, venice, and other italian cities, and other foreign powers, are trying to overflow her channels of power; they are perfectly willing that these troubled waters should spread across the plain of the hapsburg policy, and turn the institution of tyranny from hungary, bohemia, and italy; but the beardless, blue-eyed emperor seems to be as undisturbed as a god of liberty, and heedless of the consequences of a rebellion of these warlike people. five hours’ ride from trieste is venice, a city in the sea. more lovely cities, perhaps, have been built, but i have never seen them. as our steamer threw out her anchor about fifty yards from the city, i could see on the other side of the city, a railroad in the sea, and cars running along as the sea spray washed their sides. on all sides gondolas were racing toward us, which we went ashore in. this magnificent city is built in the sea, and it costs more to drive down piles, in venice, to build a house, than it costs in london or paris to build the whole house.

there is one building in this city of the sea, more beautiful inside, in its old age, than most of the best buildings of its kind, in any kingdom in the world, are in when they are new. it is the church of st. mark. the body of st. mark is in its cloisters, resting in his magnificent tomb, like a sleeping giant that dare not be aroused. the floor of this old gothic building is precious stones; the pillars near the alters are alabaster. the pope, in the doge days of venice, put his foot upon the emperor alexander’s head. all the magnificent displays of state, even in these times, cannot be worthy of the notice of the people of this part of the world, unless it be the will of the pope; he is much feared by the monarch’s of to day. it has been proven that the napoleon of to day has been seeking the smile of pius ix. it seems very strange to some people, but not to me, that the kings of england and france, in the eleventh century, should hold the pope’s horse for him to alight. while walking around the church of st. mark, i saw a beautiful figure of a woman leaning gracefully from a stool downward. i watched her to see if any miracle was about to be performed. i saw the beautiful creature move with a blush upon her cheek. she was confessing to an old father, of whom, i saw, was more partial than moral worth sanctions, for as soon as she left the box, another made application, but the priest took no notice of it, but walked into his vestry. the applicant was an old woman, and homely as a bone, which, i have no doubt, was qualifications for religion not comporting with his reverence’s sensitive taste of moral obligation, to receive confessions from so ugly a source to fill up the ranks of his beautiful herds. this poor old woman waited some time for his return, but like gifts from lips that frequent promise, he never came.

this church is attached to the palace of the great doge of venice, and across a canal that runs between this palace and the prison, is a bridge. when a culprit was judged and sent across this bridge, he never saw again his 25th hour. all the instruments the ingenuity of man could invent, is here found to destroy the human body. i saw one machine to put a man in, and gradually break his bones; at the crush of each bone, he would be asked “if he would confess the crime?” another was a steel covering for a man’s head, with seven holes in it; the culprit’s head would be firmly placed in this iron case, whilst he would be seated on an iron block, one nail would gradually be driven in at a time, until all the seven holes would be filled with long nails, meeting in the centre of the head, unless he confessed his guilt when some of the nails were hammered down. another machine was something like a brace for the loins, and each end came curve like together and left it in the shape of a hoop; it had a lock and key, and old tyrannical lords used it when they left home, to protect their wives’ virtue. he would put it around below the loins, lock it, put the key in his pocket, and go out hunting. no man could unlock it, and in those times false keys were not so easily obtained as now. when he returned he would unlock it, as he could then keep guard over her to his own satisfaction.

from this horrid place, reader, come with me down the great canal that traverses the whole town, with its branches, to where, at from ten to one o’clock every day, would meet together the “merchants of venice.” here their financiering would daily rock thrones, but now you see a long row of decaying old walls whose bases are wrapt in sea-weed, like climbing serpents, that now dwell in those damp, old commercial halls, now rotting away. i asked the guide for the site of desdemona’s father’s house, but that was forgotten.

here we find no horses, carriages, or cars, but myriads of gondolas intercept the traveler at every turn of an alley or canal. on a beautiful moonlight night, i went through the city in my gondola, and as my oar struck the salty brine fiercely, i could see myriads of lights reflected from the various built palaces, and the sea looked like a diamond lawn.