Isles of Burano, Torcello, and Mazorbo.--The once populous city of
Altina.--An excursion.--Effects of our music on the inhabitants of
the Islands.--Solitary fields infested by serpents.--Remains of
ancient sculpture.--Antique and fantastic ornaments of the
Cathedral of Torcello.--San Lorenzo’s chair.--Dine in a
Convent.--The Nuns.--Oratorio of Sisera.--Remarks on the
music.--Singing of the Marchetti.--A female orchestra.
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 rapine 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. 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 mis-shapen 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 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 Saint Michael and Murano. Our
instruments played several delightful airs, that called forth the
inhabitants of every island, and held them in silence, 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 purple flowers,
and could distinguish the low hum of the insects which hover above them;
such was the stillness 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, which the people justly dignify with the title of marine
incense, clothes the margin of the waters. 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 to invade them, or to pry too cautiously
about!
Not choosing to be devoured, we left many a mound of fragments
unnoticed, and made the best of our way to a little green, 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, in the
ancient Roman style, convinced us that it dates at least as high as the
sixth or seventh century.
Nothing can well be more fantastic than the ornaments of this structure,
formed from the ruins of the Pagan temples of Altina, and encrusted 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 group a
sort of marble chair, cool and penitential enough, where Saint 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 clinging round its sides, more
devilish, more Egyptian, than any I ever beheld. The dragons on old
china are not more whimsical; filled with bats’ blood it would have been
an admirable present to the sabbath of witches, and have cut a capital
figure in their orgies. The sculpture is not the most delicate, but I
cannot say a great deal about it, as very 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 whirlwinds of the last day, one should
think, would move from their hinges.
By the time we had examined every nook and corner of this singular
edifice, and tried to catch 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, 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 Santa 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 boding 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.
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 on leaving
Venice, than this conservatorio. Whenever I am musically given, I fly to
it, and hear the most striking finales in Paesiello’s and Anfossi’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 feminine 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 kettle-drum; 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 this
angelic choir. The poetry I send you. 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, were I not
hurrying to Lucca, where Pacchierotti sings next week, in Bertoni’s
opera of Quinto Fabio.