The power of the Venetian government, during its latter years, has
almost entirely consisted in the empire of habit and association of
ideas. It once was formidably daring,--it has become lenient and
timorous: hate of its past potency is easily revived, and easily
subdued, by the thoughts that its might is over. The aristocracy woo
the favour of the people, and yet by a kind of despotism, since they
rather amuse than enlighten them; an agreeable state enough, while the
common herd are afforded no pleasures that can brutify their minds,
while the government watches over its subjects like a sultan over his
harem, forbidding them to meddle with politics, or presume to form
any judgment of existing authorities, but allowing them sufficient
diversion, and not a little glory. The spoils of Constantinople enrich
the churches; the standards of Cyprus and Candia float over the Piazza;
the Corinthian horses delight the eye; and the winged lion of St.
Mark's appears the type of fame. The situation of the city rendering
agriculture and the chase impossible, nothing is left for the Venetians
but dissipation. Their dialect is soft and light as a zephyr. One can
hardly conceive how the people who resisted the league of Cambray
should speak so flexible a tongue: it is charming while expressive of
graceful pleasantry, but suits not graver themes; verses on death, for
instance, breathed in these delicate and almost infantine accents,
sound more like the descriptions of poetic fable. The Venetians are the
most intelligent men in Italy; they think more deeply, though with less
ardent fancies than their southern countrymen; yet, for the most part,
the women, though very agreeable, have acquired a sentimentality of
language, which, without restraining their morals, merely lends their
gallantry an air of affectation. There is more vanity, as there is
more society, here, than in the rest of Italy. Where applause is quick
and frequent, conceit calculates all debts instantaneously; knows what
success is owed, and claims its due, without giving a minute's credit.
Its bills must be paid at sight. Still, much originality may be found
in Venice. Ladies of the highest rank receive visits in the _cafés_,
and this strange confusion prevents their _salons_ becoming the arenas
of serious self-love. There yet remain here some ancient usages that
evince a respect for their forefathers, and a certain youth of heart
which tires not of the past, nor shrinks from melting recollections.
The sight of the city itself is always sufficient to awaken a host
of memories. The Piazza is crowded by blue tents, beneath which rest
Turks, Greeks and Armenians, who sometimes also loll carelessly in open
boats, with stands of flowers at their feet. St. Mark's, too, looks
rather like a mosque than a Christian temple; and its vicinity gives a
true idea of the oriental indolence with which life is spent here, in
drinking sherbet, and smoking perfumed pipes.
Men and women of quality never leave their houses, except in black
mantles; while the gondolas are often winged along by rowers clad in
white, with rose-colored sashes, as if holiday array were abandoned to
the vulgar, while the nobility kept up a vow of perpetual mourning. In
most European towns, authors are obliged carefully to avoid depicting
the daily routine; for our customs, even in luxury, are rarely poetic;
but in Venice nothing appears coarse; the canals, the boats, make
pictures of the commonest events in life.
On the quay of the galleys you constantly encounter puppet shows,
mountebanks, and story-tellers; the last are worthy of remark. It
is usually some episode from Tasso or Ariosto which they relate in
prose, to the great admiration of their hearers, who sit round the
speaker half clad, and motionless with curiosity; from time to time
they purchase glasses of water, as wine is bought elsewhere, and this
refreshment is all they take for hours, so strongly are their minds
interested. The narrator uses the most animating gestures; his voice
is raised; he irritates himself; he grows pathetic; and yet one sees,
all the while, that at heart he is perfectly unmoved. One might say
to him, as did Sappho to the Circean nymph, who, in perfect sobriety,
was assuming fury: "Bacchante--who art not drunk--what wouldst thou
with me?" Yet the lively pantomime of the south does not appear quite
artificial: it is a singular habit handed down from the Romans,
and springing from quickness of disposition. A people so enslaved
by pleasure may soon be alarmed by the dream of power in which the
Venetian government is veiled. Never are soldiers seen there. If even
a drummer appears in their comedies they are all astonishment; yet
a state inquisitor needs but to show himself to restore order among
thirty thousand people, assembled for a public fête. It were well if
this influence was derived from a respect for the laws; but it is
fortified by terror of the secret means which may still be used to
preserve the peace. The prisons are in the very palace of the Doge,
above and below his apartments. The Lion's Mouth, into which all
denunciations are thrown, is also here; the hall of trial is hung with
black, and makes judgment appear anticipating condemnation.
The Bridge of Sighs leads from the palace to the state prison. In
passing the canal, how oft were heard the cries of "Justice! Mercy!" in
voices that could be no longer recognized. When a state criminal was
sentenced, a bark removed him in the night, by a little gate that opens
on the water: he was taken some distance from the city, to a part of
the Lagune where fishing is prohibited, and there drowned: thus secrecy
is perpetuated, even after death, not leaving the unhappy wretch a
hope that his remains may inform those who loved him that he suffered,
and is no more. When Lord Nevil and Corinne visited Venice, these
executions had not taken place for nearly a century: but sufficient
mystery still existed: and, though Oswald was the last man to interfere
with the politics of foreign lands, he felt oppressed by this arbitrary
power, from which there was no appeal, that seemed to hang over every
head in Venice.