Venice.
I was led, in my last, into a very particular (and I wish you may not
have also found it a very tedious) description of St. Mark’s Place. There
is no help for what is past, but, for your comfort, you have nothing of
the same kind to fear while we remain here; for there is not another
square, or _place_ as the French with more propriety call them, in all
Venice. To compensate, however, for their being but one, there is a
greater variety of objects to be seen at this one, than in any half dozen
of the squares, or places, of London or Paris.
After our eyes had been dazzled with looking at pictures, and our legs
cramped with sitting in a gondola, it is no small relief, and amusement,
to saunter in the Place of St. Mark.
The number and diversity of objects which _there_ present themselves to
the eye, naturally create a very rapid succession of ideas. The sight of
the churches awakens religious sentiments, and, by an easy transition,
the mind is led to contemplate the influence of superstition. In the
midst of this reverie, Nero’s four horses appear, and carry the fancy to
Rome and Constantinople. While you are forcing your way, sword in hand,
with the heroic Henry Dandelo, into the capital of Asia, Adam and Eve
stop your progress, and lead you to the garden of Eden. You have not long
enjoyed a state of innocence and happiness in that delightful paradise,
till Eve
——her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucks, she eats.
After that unfortunate repast, no more comfort being to be found there,
you are glad to mount St. Mark’s winged lion, and fly back to the Ducal
palace, where you will naturally reflect on the rise and progress of
the Venetian state, and the various springs of their government. While
you admire the strength of a constitution which has stood firm for so
many ages, you are appalled at the sight of the lion’s mouth gaping for
accusations; and turning with horror from a place where innocence seems
exposed to the attacks of hidden malice, you are regaled with a prospect
of the sea, which opens your return to a country of _real_ freedom,
where justice rejects the libel of the hidden accuser, and dares to
try, condemn, and execute _openly_, the highest, as well as the lowest,
delinquent.
I assure you I have, more than once, made all this tour, standing in the
middle of St. Mark’s square; whereas, in the French places, you have
nothing before your eyes but monuments of the monarch’s vanity, and the
people’s adulation; and in the greater part of the London squares, and
streets, what idea can present itself to the imagination, beyond that of
the snug neatness and conveniency of substantial brick houses?
I have been speaking hitherto of a morning saunter; for in the evening
there generally is, on St. Mark’s Place, such a mixed multitude of Jews,
Turks, and Christians; lawyers, knaves, and pickpockets; mountebanks, old
women, and physicians; women of quality, with masks; strumpets barefaced;
and, in short, such a jumble of senators, citizens, gondoleers, and
people of every character and condition, that your ideas are broken,
bruised, and dislocated in the crowd, in such a manner, that you can
think, or reflect, on nothing; yet this being a state of mind which
many people are fond of, the place never fails to be well attended,
and, in fine weather, numbers pass a great part of the night there.
When the piazza is illuminated, and the shops, in the adjacent streets,
lighted up, the whole has a brilliant effect; and as it is the custom
for the ladies, as well as the gentlemen, to frequent the cassinos and
coffee-houses around, the Place of St. Mark answers all the purposes of
either Vauxhall or Ranelagh.
It is not in St. Mark’s Place that you are to look for the finest
monuments of the art of Titian, or the genius of Palladio; for those you
must visit the churches and palaces: but if you are inclined to make that
tour, you must find another Cicerone, for I shall certainly not undertake
the office. I do not pretend to be a competent judge of painting or
architecture; I have no new remarks to make on those subjects, and I
wish to avoid a hackneyed repetition of what has been said by others.
Some people seem affected by paintings to a degree which I never could
feel, and can scarcely conceive. I admire the works of Guido and Raphael,
but there are amateurs who fall downright in love with every man, woman,
or angel, produced by those painters.
When the subject is pathetic, I am often struck with the genius and
execution of the artist, and touched with the scene represented, but
without feeling those violent emotions of grief which some others
display. I have seen a man so affected with the grief of Venus, for the
death of Adonis, that he has wiped his eyes as if he had been shedding
tears; and have heard another express as much horror at the martyrdom
of a saint, as he could have done had he been present at the real
execution. Horace’s observation is perfectly just, as he applies it,
Segniùs irritant animos demissa per aurem,
Quàm quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus—
He is treating of dramatic pieces;
Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur,
is the preceding line. On the stage, what is actually represented, makes
a stronger impression than what is only related; and in real life, no
doubt, we should be more shocked by seeing a murder committed, than by
hearing an account of it. But whether seeing a pathetic story expressed
in painting, or hearing it related, has the most powerful effect, is
a different question. I only say for myself, that, on contemplating a
painted tragedy, I can never help recollecting that it is acted upon
canvas. This never fails to dart such a ray of comfort into my heart,
as cheers it up, in spite of all the blood and carnage I see before
my eyes. With a mind so vulgarly fabricated, you will not be surprised
when I acknowledge, that I have felt more compassion at the sight of a
single highwayman going to Tyburn, than at the massacre of two thousand
innocents, though executed by Nicholas Poussin himself. This convinces me
that I am not endued with the organs of a connoisseur.
But if you are violently bent upon being thought a man of very refined
taste, there are books in abundance to be had, which will put you
in possession of all the terms of technical applause, or censure,
and furnish you with suitable expressions for the whole climax of
sensibility. As for myself, I was long ago taught a lesson, which made a
deep impression on my mind, and will effectually prevent me from every
affectation of that kind. Very early in life, I resided above a year at
Paris, and happened one day to accompany five or six of our countrymen,
to view the pictures in the Palais Royal. A gentleman who affected an
enthusiastic passion for the fine arts; particularly that of painting,
and who had the greater desire to be thought a connoisseur, was of
the party. He had read the lives of the painters, and had the Voyage
Pittoresque de Paris by heart. From the moment we entered the rooms he
began to display all the refinements of his taste; he instructed us what
to admire, and drew us away with every sign of disgust when we stopped a
moment at an uncelebrated picture. We were afraid of appearing pleased
with any thing we saw; till he informed us whether or not it was worth
looking at. He shook his head at some, tossed up his nose at others;
commended a few, and pronounced sentence on every piece, as he passed
along, with the most imposing tone of sagacity.—“Bad, that Caravaggio is
too bad indeed, devoid of all grace;—but here is a Caracci that makes
amends; how charming the grief of that Magdalen! The Virgin, you’ll
observe, gentlemen, is only fainting, but the Christ is quite dead. Look
at the arm, did you ever see any thing so dead?—Aye, here’s a Madona,
which they tell you is an original, by Guido; but any body may see that
it is only a tolerable copy.—Pray, gentlemen, observe this St. Sebastian,
how delightfully he expires: Don’t you all feel the arrow in your hearts?
I’m sure I feel it in mine. Do let us move on; I should die with agony if
I looked any longer.”
We at length came to the St. John, by Raphael, and here this man of taste
stopped short in an extasy of admiration.—One of the company had already
passed it, without minding it, and was looking at another picture; on
which the connoisseur bawled out—“Good God, Sir! what are you about?” The
honest gentleman started, and stared around to know what crime he had
been guilty of.
“Have you eyes in your head, Sir?” continued the connoisseur: “Don’t you
know St. John when you see him?”
“St. John!” replied the other, in amazement. “Aye, Sir, St. John the
Baptist, _in propria persona_.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Sir,” said the gentleman, peevishly.
“Don’t you?” rejoined the connoisseur; “then I’ll endeavour to explain
myself. I mean St. John in the wilderness, by the divine Raffaelle Sanzio
da Urbino, and there he stands by your side.—Pray, my dear Sir, will you
be so obliging as to bestow a little of your attention on that foot? Does
it not start from the wall? Is it not perfectly out of the frame? Did
you ever see such colouring? They talk of Titian; can Titian’s colouring
excel that? What truth, what nature in the head! To the elegance of the
antique, here is joined the simplicity of nature.”
We stood listening in silent admiration, and began to imagine we
perceived all the perfections he enumerated; when a person in the Duke
of Orleans’ service came and informed us, that the original, which he
presumed was the picture we wished to see, was in another room; the Duke
having allowed a painter to copy it. _That_ which we had been looking
at was a very wretched daubing, done from the original by some obscure
painter, and had been thrown, with other rubbish, into a corner; where
the Swiss had accidentally discovered it, and had hung it up merely by
way of covering the vacant space on the wall, till the other should be
replaced.
How the connoisseur looked on this trying occasion, I cannot say. It
would have been barbarous to have turned an eye upon him—I stepped into
the next room, fully determined to be cautious in deciding on the merit
of painting; perceiving that it was not safe, in this science, to speak
even from the book.