here the railway lines would be longitudinal with and run directly
under the main streets, without invading private property. But in
London, owing to the formation of the city, the underground roads
pass athwart the streets and cut through private property in all
directions. The citizens of London have ascertained, by practical
experience, that the underground system is the best, have invested in
it upward of eighty millions of dollars, and are annually increasing
the investment and extending the works.
Sir Edmund said that ninety-three per cent. of the passengers on the
London underground roads traveled only short distances, and only seven
per cent. of them were carried to the end of the various routes.
[Sidenote: OVERCROWDING THE CARS.]
The underground line is admirably managed, the only objection to it
being the overcrowding of the carriages. A London man once said to us:
“I can very seldom get a seat in a train, when I travel on it, not
because I am so big, but because the other fellows take up all the
room. This overcrowding is a great inconvenience to ladies, who use
the railroad quite as much as the other sex. It serves them in their
calling or on shopping expeditions, in lieu of cabs or omnibuses. The
last report of the underground railroad presented to the shareholders
shows that the number of passengers carried, during the last half
year, was twenty-six million two hundred thousand, which seems an
enormous number, nearly fifty-two million five hundred thousand per
year. One would suppose that with such patronage the road must pay.
[Sidenote: RAILROAD UNDER WATER.]
The most remarkable feature of this new work is the fact that a
considerable portion of the line is built under water. The commerce
of the world may be said to float and navigate directly over a
part of the roof of the tunnel, which extends southeasterly, from
the Liverpool street station of the Great Eastern Railway, passing
directly under the warehouses and water-basin of the London-docks,
thence under the embankment, across and under the Thames river, to the
New Cross station of the Southeastern Railway, thus connecting all the
roads named, and also the London & Brighton and South London lines. At
Shadwell and Whitechapel, magnificent stations, each four hundred and
fifty feet in length, have been erected. The total cost of this new
line, which is a little less than six miles in length, has been three
million two hundred thousand pounds, or sixteen millions of dollars.
Of the advantageous nature of this line to the public, the London
papers say there is no doubt. That portion of the line under the
Thames passes through the old Thames tunnel, built by the celebrated
engineer, M. I. Brunel. This work, of which I spoke before, never
proved of much value to the public until brought into use several
years ago as a railway tunnel.
XLVI.
DUNGEONS.
LIFE IN THEM.—ANCIENT DUNGEONS.—THE PRISON OF ST. PAUL.—THE
DUCAL PALACE.—“SOTTO PIOMBI.”—THE POZZI.—SHUT UP IN THE DARK
CELLS.—A NIGHT OF HORROR.—A GUIDE’S BLUNDER.—DUNGEONS OF ST.
PETERSBURG.—PETER THE GREAT TORTURING HIS SON.—A PRINCESS DROWNED
IN PRISON.
A great many people have at some time in their lives been in dungeons;
some of their own accord, and others much against their wills. Those
who have gone there voluntarily rarely stay long, as their visits are
made out of curiosity; and curiosity in regard to dungeons is very
speedily satisfied. I have been in a fair number of dungeons, but I
generally made my way out of them with very little delay. They are not
very agreeable places of residence; and if one of them were assigned
to me as a spot to dwell in, I should get out at the earliest moment,
when it was in my power to do so.
A dungeon is an old-fashioned institution, but it is not altogether
out of date. If the history of all the dungeons in the world could
be written, there would be many startling tales narrated, and many
volumes could be made concerning what has transpired within them.
In the days of the ancient Romans, every emperor of good and
respectable standing kept a private dungeon for his own use; and
he had a good many public ones lying round loose for his friends
to occupy. Some emperors kept their dungeons well stocked at all
times, with an assorted lot of humanity. They were not particular as
to age or sex, as long as they could have their dungeons liberally
patronized. Nero did a fine business in the dungeon line, and
successfully rivalled many of his competitors. He displayed great
ingenuity in starving his prisoners, and occasionally in putting them
to death; and so did others of the Roman rulers. Nero was a festive
old fraud, and did not mind putting his friends to a good deal of
trouble in order to amuse himself. I have elsewhere alluded to his
fine array of gridirons, toasting-forks, racks, and thumb-screws with
which he used to get up exhibitions of a very select character.
[Sidenote: IN THE PRISON OF ST. PAUL.]
Many of the old dungeons are now closed, partly for want of business,
and partly for the reason that their present proprietors have a
delicate regard for the reputation of their ancestors, and do not wish
any prominence given to these old prisons. Other dungeons are kept
open to visitors, but nobody is confined in them. One of the most
celebrated dungeons of Rome, for instance, is that in which St. Paul
was involuntarily lodged during a part of his stay in Rome. There are
two dungeons, one below the other: the upper one is not altogether
uncomfortable, though its space is rather restricted, and does not
afford much room for exercise.
When I visited this place the guide pointed out several of its
peculiar features: one of them is an impression of a human face in
the solid rock, at the side of the staircase; and he related, with
great solemnity, that while St. Paul was being led down the stairs his
keeper pushed him, and pressed his face against the stone. An ordinary
face, he explained, would have been injured by the operation, but a
miracle was performed, in the instantaneous softening of the rock, so
as to receive the visage of the apostle without injury. The impression
thus made remains to this day.
Another curious feature is the spring of water from which St. Paul
baptized one of his jailers. It is related that one of the jailers
became converted, and desired Paul to baptize him. No water was at
hand for the purpose; but a miracle was performed, by the opening of
the rock in the floor of the dungeon and the appearance of a spring of
water. This spring remains at this day, and contains water apparently
fresh and sweet. The keeper of the place dipped a quantity of the
water from the spring, and offered it to our party for drinking.
We were about to drink, when the guide who accompanied us shook his
head, and intimated that the liquid was not good. We did not taste it;
and therefore I cannot speak positively as to its character. A picture
has been painted, and is preserved in the room above, showing the
miraculous opening of the floor, the water rising like a fountain from
the rock, and the apostle engaged in the act of baptizing the jailer,
who is kneeling before him.
In the middle ages every owner of a feudal castle had a dungeon about
his premises, though it was not always under ground. Sometimes it was
hewn out of the solid rock which formed the foundation of the edifice,
and sometimes it was in a high tower placed at one corner, where the
occupant could look out and enjoy the scenery, though he was debarred
from any practical knowledge of it other than what he could obtain
through his eyes. Many a person has lived and suffered for years, shut
up in a high tower where he could look out on the world around him
with the consciousness that he was never more to enjoy his liberty.
[Sidenote: “SOTTO PIOMBI.”]
The Ducal Palace of Venice was well provided in the dungeon line.
There were prisons under the roof of the palace which were known
amongst the Italians as the “Sotto Piombi,” or “Under the Leads.”
They were so named from their position, directly under the roof. They
were hot as ovens in summer, and as cold as refrigerators in winter,
and they were connected with the room where the famous Council of Ten
used to sit. From these prisons persons accused of crimes against the
republic were taken before the Council, whose members sat with their
faces covered with masks, and their bodies wrapped in cloaks and
mantles, so that it was utterly impossible to identify them. To be
dragged before the Council was equivalent to a sentence of death; and
generally the trial of an offender would be very brief.
Any one could make an accusation against a person, who would be
speedily arrested and taken to trial. He never knew who were his
accusers; and very often he did not know what testimony was to be
given against him.
[Sidenote: THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.]
From the Council Chamber he was generally taken to execution, though
not always; in either case he was led across the famous Ponte di
Sospiri, or Bridge of Sighs; and according to tradition the bridge
received its name because prisoners, weeping and sighing, were led
across it for execution, or were taken from the prison for trial
before the Council of Ten.
Byron has written,—
“I stood in Venice by the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on either hand.”
Between the Ducal Palace and the prison proper of Venice there is a
narrow canal. The bridge is elevated far above the water, and has two
passages, each about four feet in width. In regard to these passages
traditions differ: one tradition is, that the two were designed, one
for noble prisoners, and one for plebeians, while another says that
they were used indifferently, patrician or plebeian being allowed
either passage without regard to the rank or position he held. The
reader can accept whichever explanation suits him best.
Down beneath the palace was a real dungeon: it could never have been
an inviting place, and it is very far from being so at this day. No
effort is made to keep it in fine condition: it is not carpeted;
its walls are not painted, neither are they frescoed. I remember on
my first visit that, after we had wandered through the palace, our
guide descended a series of stairways, and finally brought us to a
place below the level of the water which surrounds Venice. “Here,”
said he, “are the dungeons; and here is where many state prisoners,
who offended the laws of Venice, passed the portion of their lives
immediately preceding their deaths. You can enter them, gentlemen, and
see how you would like them.”
[Sidenote: IMPRISONED IN THE LOWEST DEPTH.]
Torches were lighted, and we told the guide that we preferred to
follow him. On we went, where not a ray of light from the outer world
could reach us. Had our torches been extinguished we should have been
in darkness as deep as that of the lowest and most elaborate mine in
the world. It did not require a vivid imagination to roll back the
centuries, and bring before us the thousands and thousands of men who
had lain there, day after day, without hope, until led to trial, and
thence to execution. What a world of mystery lies concealed in these
prisons! Here is the cell where Marino Faliero was confined; and
here is the cell where Jacopo Foscari passed the days preceding his
execution; and here is the cell where dozens of men of noble birth and
gentle rearing were kept day after day, till they died of starvation
and for want of fresh air. The cells are little boxes, some of them
not more than six or eight feet square, and not high enough to allow
a tall man to stand erect. One cell is only four feet high; and it
was said that a healthy man confined in this cell generally died on
the sixth day, owing to the dampness and impurity of the air he was
compelled to breathe.
To have a practical realization for a few moments of the horrors of
imprisonment, we entered one of these cells, and told the guide to
take away the torches and not to return for five minutes, whether
we called him or not. He went away; the air had been chilly, damp,
and disagreeable; and it seemed ten times more so as the light
disappeared. The darkness was of the intensest blackness; we could not
distinguish anything. With our faces turned towards the door of the
cell it seemed the same; the finger held an inch before the eye was
no more visible than if it had been cut off and buried a hundred feet
deep in the earth.
One minute was quite enough of this sort of thing, and we were
inclined to shout for the guide, when we remembered that we had told
him to get out of hearing, and not to return even if we called.
I almost expected the ghost of one of the departed occupants to rise
before me, and add to the discomfort of the occasion. A ghost is bad
enough anywhere; but I always prefer to encounter him above ground,
and where there is, at least, enough light to enable me to see him.
Had one of those gentlemen made his appearance, it would have been
necessary for him to bring a lantern, or rub his unearthly limbs with
phosphorus, to enable us to see him.
But no ghost made his appearance, possibly for the reason that the
body in the flesh had had quite enough of that place, and had no wish
to send his shadow back again. The five minutes’ absence of the guide
seemed at least an hour, and when he returned we welcomed him with all
the enthusiasm with which we would have welcomed a brother from whom
we had been separated a dozen years. We told him that we thought he
had been away much longer than the time stipulated, but he assured us
he had not.
On narrating this incident afterwards to a party of gentlemen in
Paris, I was told of a similar experience, only a great deal more
so, of a couple of travellers, one an Englishman and the other an
American, who tried the experiment which we did. It seems that the men
wished for a little taste of imprisonment, and sent away their guide
for half an hour.
It happened to be near the close of the day. Their guide was a stupid
fellow, and thought he would improve his thirty minutes by retiring to
a _Trattoria_ to indulge in a bottle of cheap wine. So he came out of
the palace and crossed the Piazzetta San Marco to a restaurant near
the corner of the piazza. He took his wine, indulged himself for about
twenty minutes, and then started on his return. He had not observed
the hour of his departure from the palace, and when he returned to
the entrance he found it closed. It was the time for closing, and the
persons in charge of the premises had shut the doors and gone away.
[Sidenote: SHUT UP ALL NIGHT.]
Here was a predicament. He had left the two gentlemen down in the
dungeon in total darkness, where he could not reach them, and where
their shouts could not be heard. He tried to obtain an entrance to the
palace, and to explain the matter, but the porters were obstinate,
and did not believe his story. Italians are very suspicious, and the
custodian of the palace suspected that he wished to get inside in
order to steal something; so they turned him away, and he walked off
sorrowing.
It was during the time Venice was under the rule of Austria. The
Austrian officers were never inclined to show any favors to the
Italians, and consequently the appeals of the guide to those in charge
of the city were of no avail. So, finally, with Italian resignation
to what could not be very well helped, he went home, wrapped himself
in the bosom of his family, and slept the sleep of the innocent and
conscientious.
[Sidenote: MAKING A NIGHT OF IT.]
Meantime the two travellers were having a good time of it down below.
They stood it for a while very well, but the half hour appeared to
them three or four times what it really was. Very soon the thing
ceased to be a joke. They were well aware that the time might seem
long to them, but they thought it was stretching itself out altogether
too much for comfort. They were in a cell where they could not
walk around, and where there was no chance to kill time by turning
summersaults or playing leap-frog. They stood a while and talked; then
they stood a while and swore; and then they had another period of
standing still and shouting. The facilities for standing still were
unlimited, but those for doing anything else were very much restricted.
They shouted themselves hoarse, and obtained no response. The result
of their swearing was pretty nearly the same. They began to grow
hungry and thirsty, but there was nothing to eat, and there were no
materials at hand for quenching their thirst. The half hour extended
to an hour, and then to two hours, and then they concluded to sit down
and wait for the fellow to come back. They had no means of knowing how
time was passing, as their watches were not of that peculiar kind that
strikes the hours, and tells you how you are getting along.
They listened and listened, and finally they heard sounds; but they
were not welcome ones, as they were caused by the rats that ran about
the place. The rats seemed to have a fondness for the dungeon. They
did not make much noise, and could only be heard when the strangers
were perfectly still; but there they were in goodly numbers, and their
presence was not consoling to the travellers.
From hungry and thirsty they began to grow sleepy, but the facilities
for sleeping were not good. The furniture of these prisons was never
elaborate, even in the days of the glory of Venice. The rulers of
that city never thought of providing their prisons with upholstered
sofas, and four-post bedsteads. The furniture generally consisted of
a bundle or two of straw, and possibly a chain. Sometimes a stool
was added, but it was a luxury which every prisoner did not possess.
There was neither straw nor sofa in the cell at the time these unhappy
travellers were shut up there, and consequently, if they wished to
sleep, they must lie down on the bare floor of stone and hard earth,
at the risk of taking cold and spoiling their store clothes.
[Sidenote: RATS AND THEIR FAMILIARITIES.]
They compromised the matter by sitting down in the corners and taking
occasional winks of sleep. Their slumbers were not of long duration,
and were interrupted by the rats running over them, and making
themselves remarkably free, considering that they had never been
introduced.
Hour after hour passed away. One of the men said, “it seemed as if we
were shut up a full month; and,” said he, “I suppose if I had been
alone it would have seemed to me about six months.”
Finally, in the morning, as soon as the palace was opened, the guide
returned with his torches, and rescued the prisoners from their
confinement. He tried to make them believe that he had only been gone
about half an hour, and he almost convinced them of the truth of his
averment, by proceeding to show them, in a very mechanical way, the
other curiosities of the place, and to tell them it would soon be
sunset, when he would go home and prepare to show them the way to
the theatre in the evening. He told them, “I suppose, gentlemans, it
seemed to you as if you were there a good many hours. It always seem
so to gentlemans; they say so always.”
The travellers admitted that it did seem as if they had been there a
good many hours; and as they came up stairs, saw the sun rising, and
saw the movements of the people indicating that it was morning, they
perceived how they had been treated. Without heeding the request of
the guide to be paid for his trouble, they kicked him from the door of
the Ducal Palace half away across the piazzetta, and left him to go
home without any fee for his day’s services, and with the impression
of an English and an American boot painfully evident on his person.
[Sidenote: DUNGEON ON THE BANKS OF THE NEVA.]
On the banks of the Neva, in St. Petersburg, there are some famous
dungeons in which prisoners of state have been confined. Peter the
Great ordered one of his sons imprisoned there, and treated him with
great severity. Peter was a hard-hearted monarch, and with his love
for Russia, he was as ready to visit punishment upon the members of
his own family as upon any one else. The Empress Catherine is also
said to have shut up some of her relatives in these prisons; but her
cruelty never quite came up to that of Peter, who is said to have
caused his son to be put to torture in his own presence, and to have
stood calmly by and witnessed his dying agonies. But then she was a
woman, and a good deal must be allowed to her in the way of womanly
feelings.
A pleasant feature of these dungeons at St. Petersburg is that they
are located under the level of the river. St. Petersburg was built
originally on a marsh. There is not a hill in the whole city, and the
level of the street is only a few feet above the banks of the Neva at
high-water mark. Once or twice in a century, the city is inundated,
and in such cases the prisoners in these underground cells are quietly
drowned; at any rate, such has been their fate on two or three
occasions. It is true they might have been saved, had the officers in
charge of the prison been willing to open the doors, and allow them
to leave their cells; but no one thought of an inundation, and as the
prison-keepers had strict orders to keep the prisoners in their cells,
unless otherwise commanded by their superiors, and as the superiors
were away at the time of the flood, the poor victims were drowned like
rats in cages.
There is a thrilling story about one of these dungeons, or rather
about one of the prisoners confined there.
A Russian adventuress, said to be a princess, of great beauty and
accomplishments, about the year 1822, was in the south of Europe, and
claimed a relationship to the emperor’s family. Some persons at this
day insist that her claim was well founded, while others say that it
was purely fictitious. At any rate she made a great stir, and created
so much trouble to the emperor and the Russian government, that an
attempt was made to bring her back to the empire, where she could be
properly dealt with.
[Sidenote: A PRINCESS DECOYED.]
Various traps were set, and various plans were laid, but none of them
were successful, until one day—I think it was at Genoa or Leghorn—she
was invited to visit some ships lying at anchor in the harbor. A party
had been made up, and every one, including the princess, whose name I
do not now recall, had partaken liberally of champagne.
A Russian officer in civilian dress was of the party, and adroitly
managed to induce her to go on board a Russian ship of war then in the
harbor. The instant she touched the deck the anchor was lifted, and
she was invited below. The rest of the party were put ashore, and the
ship sailed for Cronstadt.
She was kept in close confinement during the voyage, and on her
arrival at St. Petersburg was consigned to one of the dungeons. There
she was kept a close prisoner in the hands of the government to which
she owed allegiance, and which she had deeply offended. While she was
still in this dungeon there came the great inundation of 1824. The
prison where she was kept was flooded, and the unhappy princess was
drowned.
I heard the story of her unhappy fate while in St. Petersburg, and
afterwards in Paris. It was recalled to me in the latter city by a
painting in the Russian department of the great Exposition of 1867.
The most attractive picture in the Russian collection was the one
which represented her death. It was not a large picture, but fearfully
realistic in its character.
[Sidenote: DROWNED IN A CELL.]
It showed the interior of her cell, and the torrent of water flowing
in through a small grated window near its roof. It was pouring in
like a miniature cascade. It had covered the floor up to the very
edge of the rude pallet which formed her bed. Its sheep-skin covering
was hanging over its edge; rats by the dozen were climbing up this
coverlet and crouching around the unhappy woman, who knelt on the
couch, her hands clasped, and her face turned upward. There was a
dim light in the cell, just enough to render the scene as gloomy as
possible. The attitude and features indicated agony and despair at
the nearness of a horrible death, from which there was little hope of
relief.
XLVII.
ANIMALS UNDER GROUND.
HORSES IN MINES.—EFFECT OF AN EVEN TEMPERATURE ON HORSES AND
MULES.—EFFECT OF DEPRIVATION OF LIGHT.—WALKING IN DARKNESS.—RATS
IN MINES.—A MONKEY IN A SILVER MINE.—THE CONSTERNATION HE
CREATED.—WHAT HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE.—HIS UNHAPPY FATE.—A MONKEY
AT SEA.—HIS PRANKS.—DEMOCRATIC HABITS.—HOW HE LOST HIS LIFE.—HIS
LAST PERFORMANCE.—DOGS IN MINES, AND THE EFFECT OF UNDERGROUND
CONFINEMENT.—JOY AT REACHING DAYLIGHT AGAIN.—TWO DOGS AT SEA, AND
WHAT THEY DID.—A DOG SAILOR, AND WHAT HE DID.—HIS UNHAPPY END.