And flashed on an electric bulb we saw that the place
where we stood was round like a jug and bare as an empty jug, with
smooth stone walls and rough stone floor; and that it contained
for furniture just two things - a stone bench upon which the captive
might lie or sit and, let into the wall, a great iron ring, to
which his chains were made fast so that he moved always to their
grating accompaniment and the guard listening outside might know
by the telltale clanking whether the entombed man still lived.
There was one other decoration in this hole - a thing more incongruous
even than the modern lighting fixtures; and this stood out in bold
black lettering upon the low-sloped ceiling. A pair of vandals,
a man and wife - no doubt with infinite pains - had smuggled in brush
and marking pot and somehow or other - I suspect by bribing guides
and guards - had found the coveted opportunity of inscribing their
names here in the Doges' black dungeon. With their names they had
written their address too, which was a small town in the Northwest,
and after it the legend: "Send us a postal card."
I imagine that then this couple, having accomplished this feat,
regarded their trip to Europe as being rounded out and complete,
and went home again, satisfied and rejoicing. Send them a postal
card? Somebody should send them a deep-dish poison-pie!
Looking on this desecration my companion and I grew vocal. We
agreed that our national lawgivers who were even then framing an
immigration law with a view to keeping certain people out of this
country, might better be engaged in framing one with a view to
keeping certain people in. Our guide harkened with a quiet little
smile on his face to what we said.
"It cannot have been here long - that writing on the ceiling," he
explained for our benefit." Presently it will be scraped away.
But" - and he shrugged his eloquent Italian shoulders and outspread
his hands fan-fashion - "but what is the use? Others like them will
come and do as they have done. See here and here and here, if
you please!"
He aimed a darting forefinger this way and that, and looking where
he pointed we saw now how the walls were scarred with the scribbled
names of many visitors. I regret exceedingly to have to report
that a majority of these names had an American sound to them.
Indeed, many of the signatures were coupled with the names of towns
and states of the Union. There were quite a few from Canada, too.
What, I ask you, is the wisdom of taking steps to discourage the
cutworm and abate the gypsy-moth when our government permits these
two-legged varmints to go abroad freely and pollute shrines and
wonderplaces with their scratchings, and give the nations over
there a perverted notion of what the real human beings on this
continent are like?
