_August_ 27_th_.—I am just returned from visiting the isles of Burano,
Torcello, and Mazorbo, distant about five miles from Venice. To these
amphibious spots the Romans, inhabitants of eastern Lombardy, fled from
the ravine of Attila; and, if we may believe Cassiodorus, there was a
time when they presented a beautiful appearance. Beyond them, on the
coast of the Lagunes, rose the once populous city of Altina, with its six
stately gates, which Dandolo mentions. {170c} Its neighbourhood was
scattered with innumerable villas and temples, composing altogether a
prospect which Martial compares to Baiæ:
“Æmula Baianis Altini littora villis.”
But this agreeable scene, like so many others, is passed entirely away,
and has left nothing, except heaps of stones and misshapen fragments, to
vouch for its former magnificence. Two of the islands, Costanziaco and
Amiano, that are imagined to have contained the bowers and gardens of the
Altinatians, have sunk beneath the waters; those which remain are
scarcely worthy to rise above their surface.
Though I was persuaded little was left to be seen above ground, I could
not deny myself the imaginary pleasure of treading a corner of the earth
once so adorned and cultivated; and of walking over the roofs, perhaps,
of concealed halls and undiscovered palaces. M. de R., to whom I
communicated my ideas, entered at once into the scheme; hiring therefore
a _peiotte_ we took some provisions and music (to us equally necessaries
of life), and launched into the canal, between St. Michael and Murano.
The waves coursed each other with violence, and dark clouds hung over the
grand sweep of northern mountains, whilst the west smiled with azure and
bright sunshine. Thunder rolled awfully at a distance, and those white
and greyish birds, the harbingers of storms, flitted frequently before
our bark. For some moments we were in doubt whether to proceed; but as
we advanced by a little dome in the Isle of St. Michael, shaped like an
ancient temple, the sky cleared, and the ocean subsiding by degrees, soon
presented a tranquil expanse, across which we were smoothly wafted. Our
instruments played several delightful airs, that called forth the
inhabitants of every island, and held them silent, as if spell-bound, on
the edge of their quays and terraces, till we were out of hearing.
Leaving Murano far behind, Venice and its world of turrets began to sink
on the horizon, and the low desert isles beyond Mazorbo to lie stretched
out before us. Now we beheld vast wastes of {171} purple flowers, and
could distinguish the low hum of the insects which hover above them; such
was the silence of the place. Coasting these solitary fields, we wound
amongst several serpentine canals, bordered by gardens of figs and
pomegranates, with neat Indian-looking inclosures of cane and reed: an
aromatic plant clothes the margin of the waters, which the people justly
dignify with the title of marine incense. It proved very serviceable in
subduing a musky odour, which attacked us the moment we landed, and which
proceeds from serpents that lurk in the hedges. These animals, say the
gondoliers, defend immense treasures which lie buried under the ruins.
Woe to those who attempt invading them, or prying too cautiously about!
Not choosing to be devoured, we left many a mount of fragments unnoticed,
and made the best of our way to a little green, free from weeds or
adders, bounded on one side by a miserable shed, decorated with the name
of the Podesta’s residence, and on the other by a circular church. Some
remains of tolerable antique sculpture are enchased in the walls; and the
dome, supported by pillars of a smooth Grecian marble, though uncouth and
ill-proportioned, impresses a sort of veneration, and transports the
fancy to the twilight glimmering period when it was raised.
Having surveyed what little was visible, and given as much career to our
imaginations as the scene inspired, we walked over a soil composed of
crumbling bricks and cement to the cathedral; whose arches, turned on the
ancient Roman principle, convinced us that it dates as high as the sixth
or seventh century.
Nothing can be well more fantastic than the ornaments of this structure,
formed from the ruins of the Pagan temples of Altina, and incrusted with
a gilt mosaic, like that which covers our Edward the Confessor’s tomb.
The pavement, composed of various precious marbles, is richer and more
beautiful than one could have expected, in a place where every other
object savours of the grossest barbarism. At the farther end, beyond the
altar, appears a semicircular niche, with seats like the gradines of a
diminutive amphitheatre; above rise the quaint forms of the apostles, in
red, blue, green, and black mosaic, and in the midst of the goodly group
a sort of marble chair, cool and penitential enough, where St. Lorenzo
Giustiniani sat to hold a provincial council, the Lord knows how long
ago! The fount for holy water stands by the principal entrance, fronting
this curious recess, and seems to have belonged to some place of Gentile
worship. The figures of horned imps cling round its sides, more
devilish, more Egyptian, than any I ever beheld. The dragons on old
china are not more whimsical: I longed to have it filled with bats’
blood, and to have sent it by way of present to the sabbath; I can assure
you it would have done honour to their witcheries. The sculpture is not
the most delicate, but I cannot say a great deal about it, as but little
light reaches the spot where it is fixed. Indeed, the whole church is
far from luminous, its windows being narrow and near the roof, with
shutters composed of blocks of marble, which nothing but the last
whirlwind, one should think, could move from their hinges.
By the time we had examined every nook and corner of this singular
edifice, and caught perhaps some small portion of sanctity by sitting in
San Lorenzo’s chair, dinner was prepared in a neighbouring convent, and
the nuns, allured by the sound of our flutes and oboes, peeped out of
their cells and showed themselves by dozens at the grate. Some few
agreeable faces and interesting eyes enlivened the dark sisterhood; all
seemed to catch a gleam of pleasure from the music; two or three of them,
probably the last immured, let fall a tear, and suffered the recollection
of the world and its profane joys to interrupt for a moment their sacred
tranquillity.
We stayed till the sun was low, and the breezes blew cool from the ocean,
on purpose that they might listen as long as possible to a harmony which
seemed to issue, as the old abbess expressed herself, from the gates of
paradise ajar. A thousand benedictions consecrated our departure;
twilight came on just as we entered the bark and rowed out upon the
waves, agitated by a fresh gale, but fearing nothing under the protection
of St. Margherita, whose good wishes our music had secured.
In two hours we were safely landed at the Fondamenti nuovi, and went
immediately to the Mendicanti, where they were performing the oratorio of
Sisera. The composer, a young man, had displayed great fire and
originality in this performance; and a knowledge of character seldom
found in the most celebrated masters. The supplication of the thirsty
chieftain, and Jael’s insinuating arts and pious treachery, are admirably
expressed; but the agitation and bodily slumbers which precede his death,
are imagined in the highest strain of genius. The terror and agony of
his dreams made me start, more than once, from my seat; and all the
horrors of his assassination seemed full before me, so fatal was the
sound of the instrument, so just the conduct of the harmony.
Too much applause cannot be given to the Marchetti, who sang the part of
Sisera, and seconded the composer’s ideas by the most feeling and
spirited execution. There are few things I shall regret more at Venice,
than this conservatorio. Whenever I am musically given, I fly to it, and
hear the most striking finales in Bertoni’s and Anfosse’s operas, as long
and often as I please.
The sight of the orchestra still makes me smile. You know, I suppose, it
is entirely of the female gender, and that nothing is more common than to
see a delicate white hand journeying across an enormous double bass, or a
pair of roseate cheeks puffing, with all their efforts, at a French horn.
Some that are grown old and Amazonian, who have abandoned their fiddles
and their lovers, take vigorously to the kettledrum; and one poor limping
lady, who had been crossed in love, now makes an admirable figure on the
bassoon.
Good-night! I am quite exhausted with composing a chorus for these same
Amazonians. The poetry I send you, which seems to be some of the most
picturesque and nervous an Italian ever produced. The music takes up too
much room to travel at present. One day or other, perhaps, we may hear
it in some dark grove, when the moon is eclipsed and nature in alarm.
This is not the last letter you would receive from Venice, was I not
hurrying to Lucca, where Pacchierotti sings next week, in the opera of
Quinto Fabio, of all operas the most worthy to excuse such a musical
fanaticism. Adieu.