Venice

[Illustration: STATUE OF VICTOR EMANUEL.]

Venice is still victorious over Time. Despite her age, the City of

the Sea is fascinating still. She has successfully defied a dozen

centuries; she may perhaps defy as many more. All other cities in

the world resemble one another. Venice remains unique. She is the

City of Romance—the only place on earth to-day where Poetry conquers

Prose. The marriage of the Adriatic and its bride has never been

dissolved. She is to-day, as she has been for fourteen hundred years,

a capital whose streets are water and whose vehicles are boats. She

is an incomparable illustration of the poetical and the picturesque;

and, were she nothing else, would still attract the world. But she is

infinitely more. The hands of Titian and Tintoretto have embellished

her. She wears upon her breast some architectural jewels unsurpassed in

Italy. And, finally, the splendor of her history enfolds her like the

glory of her golden sunsets, and she emerges from the waves of Time,

that have repeatedly endeavored to engulf her, as do her marble palaces

from the encircling sea.

[Illustration: THE RAILWAY STATION.]

The charm of Venice begins even at what is usually the most prosaic

of places—a railway station. For, to a city where there are no living

horses, the iron horse at least has made its way; and by a bridge, two

miles in length, Venice is now connected with the outer world by rail.

A quick, delicious feeling of surprise comes over one to see awaiting

him in the place of carriages a multitude of boats. The pleasing sense

of novelty (so rare now in the world) appeals to us at once, and, with

the joyful consciousness of entering on a long-anticipated pleasure, we

seat ourselves within a gondola, and noiselessly and swiftly glide out

into the unknown.

[Illustration: THE BAY OF VENICE.]

[Illustration: A LIQUID LABYRINTH.]

[Illustration: "LIKE A HUGE SEA-WALL."]

The first surprise awaiting almost every visitor to Venice is that

of seeing all its buildings rise directly from the sea. He knows,

of course, that Venice rests upon a hundred islands, linked by four

hundred and fifty bridges. Hence, he expects to see between the

houses and the liquid streets some fringe of earth, some terrace or

embankment. But no:—the stately mansions emerge from the ocean like

a huge sea-wall, and, when the surface of the water is disturbed by a

light breeze or passing boat, it overflows their marble steps as softly

as the ultimate ripple of the surf spreads its white foam along the

beach. As, then, our gondolier takes us farther through this liquid

labyrinth, we naturally ask in astonishment, "What was the origin of

this mysterious city? How came it to be founded thus within the sea?"

The wonder is easily explained. In the fifth century after Christ, when

the old Roman empire had well-nigh perished under the deadly inroads

of barbarians, another devastating army entered Italy, led by a man who

was regarded as the "scourge of God." This man was Attila. Such was the

ruin always left behind him, that he could boast with truth that the

grass grew not where his horse had trod. A few men seeking to escape

this vandal, fled to a group of uninhabited islands in the Adriatic.

Exiled from land, they cast themselves in desperation on the sea.

[Illustration: THE OCEAN CITY.]

But no one can behold this ocean-city without perceiving that

those exiles were rewarded for their courage. The sea became their

mother,—their divinity. She sheltered them with her encircling waves.

She nourished them from her abundant life. She forced them to build

boats in which to transport merchandise from land to land. And they,

obeying her, grew from a feeble colony of refugees to be a powerful

republic, and made their city a nucleus of vast wealth and commerce,—a

swinging door between the Orient and Occident, through which there

ebbed and flowed for centuries a tide of golden wealth, of which her

glorious sunsets seemed but the reflection.

[Illustration: THE GRAND CANAL.]

[Illustration: VENETIAN PALACES.]

Who can forget his first glimpse of the Grand Canal? Seen at a

favorable hour, the famous thoroughfare delights the senses as it

thrills the heart. For two miles it winds through the city in such

graceful lines that every section of its course reveals a stately

curve. Upon this beautiful expanse the sun of Venice, like a cunning

necromancer, displays most marvelous effects of light and shade,

transforming it at different hours of the day into an avenue of

lapis-lazuli, or emerald, or gold,—an eloquent reminder of the time

when Venice was a paradise of pleasure, when life upon its liquid

streets was a perpetual pageant, and this incomparable avenue its

splendid promenade. Its curving banks are lined with palaces. They seem

to be standing hand in hand, saluting one another gravely, as though

both shores were executing here the movements of some courtly dance.

These were originally the homes of men whose names were written in

that record of Venetian nobility, called "The Book of Gold." Once they

were marvels of magnificence; and viewed in the sunset light, or by

the moon, they are so still. Under that enchanting spell their massive

columns, marble balconies, and elegantly sculptured arches, seem as

imposing as when the Adriatic's Bride was still a queen and wore her

robes of purple and of gold.

[Illustration: A MARINE PORTE COCHÈRE.]

To build such structures on the shifting sands was a stupendous

undertaking; and what we cannot see of these Venetian palaces has

cost much more than that which rises now above the waves. From

every door broad marble steps descend to the canal, and tall posts,

painted with the colors of the family, serve as a mooring place for

gondolas, a kind of marine _porte cochère_. Each of these structures

has its legend,—poetic, tragic or artistic; and these our gondolier

successively murmurs to us in his soft Venetian dialect as we glide

along the glittering highway.

[Illustration: BROWNING PALACE.]

[Illustration: HOME OF DESDEMONA.]

Thus, in the Palazzo Vendramini, the composer Wagner died in 1883. Not

far from this stately mansion is the home of Desdemona. Within another

of these palaces the old Doge Foscari died of a broken heart at the

ill-treatment of his countrymen. In one lived Byron; in another Robert

Browning; in a third George Sand; a fourth was once the home of Titian.

[Illustration: IN THE DAYS OF SHYLOCK.]

But now our winding course reveals to us, suspended over this noble

thoroughfare, a structure which we recognize at once—"The Bridge of

the Rialto." For centuries this was the only bridge that crossed the

Grand Canal. An ugly one of iron has been constructed near the railway

station; but this Rialto remains a relic of Venice in her glory, for

its huge arch is entirely of marble, and has a length of over a hundred

and fifty feet. Its cost exceeded half a million dollars; and the

foundations, which for three hundred and twenty years have faithfully

supported it, are twelve thousand trunks of elm trees, each ten feet

in length. To-day, little shops are built along the bridge, leaving a

passageway between them in the centre and one without on either side.

[Illustration: THE RIALTO.]

[Illustration: THE CITY OF SILENCE.]

The Rialto seems prosaic in the glare of noon. But wave before it,

for an instant, the magic wands of fancy and historical association,

and we can picture to ourselves how it must have looked when on this

Rivo-Alto, or "High Bank," which gives the bridge its name, Venetian

ladies saw outspread before them the treasures of the Orient; when at

this point the laws of the Republic were proclaimed; when merchants

congregated here as to a vast Exchange; and when, on this same bridge,

the forms of Shylock and Othello may have stood out in sharp relief

against the sky; when, in a word, Venice, like Venus, had been born

of the blue sea, possessing all the fascinating languor of the East,

and yet belonging to the restless West. But to acquire that mental

state in which these visions of Venetian splendor will recur to one,

certain conditions are essential for the tourist: first, he must choose

the moon for his companion; and, second, he must manage to arrive in

the City of the Sea by night. Venice, though beautiful, shows marks

of age. The glare of day is far too strong for her pathetically fair,

but wrinkled, face. Pay her the compliment to see her at her best. In

Venice make your nights and days exchange places. Sleep through the

morning hours, and spend the afternoons reading books that tell of old

Venetian glory. Then, when the daylight wanes, and the moon turns these

streets into paths of shimmering gold, go forth to woo _Venezia_, and

she will give you of her best.

[Illustration: VENICE BY MOONLIGHT.]

[Illustration: ON THE GRAND CANAL.]

[Illustration: THE RIALTO.]

The form of the Grand Canal is that of a huge letter "S." Whenever it

is looked upon from an elevation, this "S" is suggestive of the Italian

word _Silenzio_, for Venice is pre-eminently the City of Silence.

No roar of wheels disturbs one here; no strident gongs; no tramp of

horses' feet. Reclining on the cushions of a gondola, one floats in

absolute tranquility upon a noiseless sea.

To go to another city after Venice is like removing from one's ears

the fingers which for a little time had closed them to all sounds.

No place is better for a weary brain-worker than Venice. His nerves

relax in its restful stillness. The hand of Nature gently lifts the

veil from his hot, wearied eyes; and he perceives at last that when a

comfortable livelihood has been secured, to keep on toiling feverishly

in the modern world, beneath a pall of soot and in the midst of noisy,

heartless crowds, is not to live: it is merely preparing to die.

[Illustration: A FAMILIAR SCENE.]

Upon a moonlit night these liquid corridors present a scene too

beautiful for words. It is the Venice of one's dreams. According to

the light or shade, we glide through alternating paths of glory and of

gloom. All the defects which day reveals are, by moonlight, totally

concealed or softened into indistinctness, like features hidden by

a silvery veil. Here and there some lights are gleaming through the

casements; but, as a rule, the city seems to sleep.

Occasionally, it may be, a boat full of musicians will appear, and,

to the passionate throbbing of the harp or guitar, a score of voices

chant the songs of Italy. Meanwhile, a dozen gondolas, with listening

occupants, float in the shadows of the marble palaces. These, when

the music ceases, approach the expectant singers, and silver coins

fall into outstretched hands, which glisten phantom-like for a moment

in the moonlight. Then each gondola, with swan-like grace, in silence

disappears, leaving behind it a long furrow like a chain of gold.

[Illustration: THE HEART OF VENICE.]

When the visitor to Venice prepares to leave for a time his gondola,

there is no need to say where he will land. There is one little area

more important than all others, which every tourist longs to see and

explore. It is a perfectly familiar scene, yet I have often noticed,

with a thrill of sympathy, a tremor in the voice of the enthusiastic

traveler who sees it for the first time, as he exclaims: "That building

on the right is surely the Ducal Palace, and on the left is the

entrance to the Piazzetta."

"That lofty tower is, of course, the Campanile. But where is St.

Mark's?"

"It is just behind the Ducal Palace, and invisible from this point."

"And the famous Piazza?"

"That, too, is hidden behind the building on the left, but it is at

right angles with the Piazzetta, and lies within the shadow of the

Campanile."

As one draws nearer to the spot, how marvelously beautiful it all

appears! Now one begins to appreciate the splendor of the Doge's

Palace. Above it, like a constellation rising from the sea, glitter the

domes of the Cathedral of San Marco. Presently the long landing-pier

and the attractive Piazzetta are distinctly visible; and, turning one's

astonished vision heavenward, one looks with admiration on the splendid

bell-tower, three hundred and fifty feet in height, its pointed summit

piercing the light clouds and its aerial balcony hung like a gilded

cage against the sky. The traveler who beholds these scenes may have

had many delightful moments in his life, but that in which he looks for

the first time upon this glorious combination of the historic and the

beautiful can hardly be surpassed. Like the names of the old Venetian

nobles, it should be written in a "Book of Gold."

[Illustration: THE EDGE OF THE PIAZZETTA.]

[Illustration: THE DOGE'S PALACE.]

On the border of the Piazzetta are two stately columns. On landing,

therefore, one naturally gives to them one's first attention. It is

difficult to realize that these granite monoliths have been standing

here for more than seven hundred years, but such is the fact, as they

were erected in the year 1187. They were a portion of the spoils

brought back by the Venetians from the treasure-laden East. Each

upholds the emblem of a patron saint: one, a statue of St. Theodore,

the other, the famous winged lion of St. Mark. Formerly, on a scaffold

reared between these columns, state criminals were put to death—their

backs turned toward the land which casts them from her, their faces

toward the sea, symbol of eternity. But now the shadows of these

ancient shafts fall on a multitude of pleasure-boats, and echo to

the voices of the gondoliers. Close by these columns is the Ducal

Palace,—that splendid symbol of Venetian glory,—a record of the

city's brilliant history preserved in stone. This spot, for more than a

thousand years, was the residence of the Doges, Five palaces preceded

this, each in turn having been destroyed by fire. But every time a

more magnificent building rose from the ashes of its predecessor. The

present structure has been standing for nearly five hundred years,

and from the variety of architectural styles mingled here from North,

South, East and West, Ruskin called it, "The Central Building of the

World."

[Illustration: SANTA MARIA DELLA SALUTE.]

[Illustration: ALONG THE SHORE.]

Around it, on two sides, are long arcades of marble columns, the

lower ones adorned with sculptures in relief, the upper ones ending in

graceful circles pierced with quatrefoils. Above them is the crowning

glory of the building,—a beautiful expanse of variegated marble, with

intricate designs running diagonally over its surface. At every corner

the twisted column of Byzantine architecture is observed, and on the

border of the roof a fringe of pinnacles and pointed arches cuts its

keen silhouette against the sky. The lower columns seem perhaps a

trifle short, but this is because the building has gradually settled

toward the sea, as if unable to support the burden of its years and

memories.

By day this palace is superbly beautiful; but, in the evening, when

illumined by the moon, or flooded with electric light, it is, perhaps,

the most imposing structure in the whole of Europe. At such a time

it looks like an immense sarcophagus of precious stone, in which the

glories of old Venice lie entombed. The colonnades around the Ducal

Palace give perfect shelter from the sun or rain, and hundreds stroll

here through the day, having the somber palace on the one side, and, on

the other, all the gaiety of the Grand Canal. But in the evening, when

the adjoining St. Mark's Square is thronged with promenaders, and music

floats upon the air, the arcade is to the Piazza what a conservatory is

to a ball-room. Lovers invariably find such places, for not even the

moonbeams can penetrate these shadows. At such a time the promenades

seem shadowy lanes of love conducting from the gay Piazza to the

waiting gondola.

[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE DUCAL PALACE—THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.]

To know the past of the Ducal Palace thoroughly would be to know the

entire history of Venice, from its transcendent glories to its darkest

crimes. For this was not alone the residence of the Doges; it was at

different epochs the Senate-House, the Court of Justice, a prison, and

even a place of execution. Fronting upon the courtyard, just beneath

the roof, the tourist sees some small, round windows. They admit a

little light to a few cells, known as the Piombi, or Leads, because

they were located just beneath the lead roof of the palace. In summer

the heat in them is almost unendurable. And yet in one of them the

Italian patriot and poet, Silvio Pellico, seventy years ago, was kept

a wretched captive, and he has related the sad story of his sufferings

in his famous book, _Le mie Prigioni_, or "My Prisons."

[Illustration: A DUCAL PORTAL.]

It is but a step from the outer corridors into the courtyard of the

palace. Four elegantly decorated marble walls enclose this, and one

instinctively looks up to see the splendid robes of Senators light

up the sculptured colonnades, and the rich toilettes of the Venetian

ladies trail upon the marble stairways. But no! This square, whose

walls have echoed to the footsteps of the Doges, now guards a solemn

silence. In its pathetic, voiceless beauty, it is perhaps the saddest

spot in Venice.

[Illustration: THE COLONNADES.]

Two beautiful bronze well-curbs glitter in the foreground; but though

the wells which they enclose contain good water, almost no life

surrounds them, and to the modern visitor they now resemble gorgeous

jewel-caskets, which years ago were rifled of their precious gems.

[Illustration: A WELL-CURB.]

[Illustration: THE COURTYARD OF THE DOGES.]

[Illustration: THE GIANTS' STEPS.]

[Illustration: A LANDING NEAR THE DUCAL PALACE.]

Beyond these, one observes a marble staircase leading to the second

story. It is imposing when one stands before it. Above it frowns the

winged lion of St. Mark, as if to challenge all who dare set foot

upon these steps. Stationed like sentinels to the right and left are

two colossal statues representing Mars and Neptune, which have indeed

given the name, "The Giants' Staircase," to this thoroughfare of

marble. Their stony silence is almost oppressive. Think of the splendid

pageants and historic scenes which they have looked upon, but which

their unimpassioned lips will ne'er describe! Between these figures,

on the topmost stair, amid a scene of splendor which even the greatest

of Venetian artists could only faintly represent, the Doges were

inaugurated into sovereignty. Here they pronounced their solemn oath of

office; and one of them, Marino Faliero, having betrayed his trust, was

here beheaded for his crime. It will be remembered that Byron's tragedy

of Marino Faliero closes with the line:

"The gory head rolls down the Giants' Steps."

[Illustration: APARTMENTS IN THE DOGE'S PALACE.]

When one has passed these marble giants and entered the state

apartments of the palace, despite the intimation given by the outer

walls, one is astonished at the splendor here revealed. As the bright

sunlight falls on the mosaic pavement, it is easy to imagine that one

is walking on a beach whose glittering sands are grains of gold. The

roof and walls are covered with enormous masterpieces set in golden

frames. All of them have one theme—the glorification of Venice. One

of them, finished by Tintoretto when he was more than three score

years and ten, is seventy feet in length, and is the largest painting

known to art. One trembles to think what fire could accomplish

here in a single night, not only in this Ducal Palace, but in the

equally marvelous buildings which adjoin it; for they could never be

reproduced. They are unique in the world.

[Illustration: THE COURTYARD OF THE DUCAL PALACE.]

Each of these gold-enameled halls is like a gorgeous vase, in which

are blooming fadelessly the flowers of Venetian history. What scenes

have been enacted here, when on these benches sat the Councilors of

the Republic wearing their scarlet robes! Upon their votes depended

life and death; and here the die was cast for peace or war. Close by

the door was placed a lion's head of marble, into the mouth of which

(the famous _Bocca di Lione_) secret denunciations were cast. These

were examined by the Council of Ten, all of whose acts were shrouded

in profoundest secrecy; and such at last was their despotic power that

even the Doge himself came to be nothing but the slave and mouthpiece

of that group of tyrants, and was as little safe from them as those

whose sentences he automatically signed.

[Illustration: STATUE OF COLLEONI—A VENETIAN GENERAL.]

[Illustration: THE WINGED LION.]

While standing here, there naturally presents itself to one's

imagination a scene in the old days when, as the Doge descended from

his palace, he met some lowly suppliant presenting to him an appeal

for mercy. Ah, what a glorious age was that for Venice!—when her

victorious flag rolled out its purple folds over the richest islands

of the Mediterranean and the Adriatic; when she possessed the largest

armory and the most extensive dock-yards in the world (in which ten

thousand beams of oak were always ready for the construction of new

ships); when she could boast of having the first bank of deposit ever

founded in Europe; when (Rome excepted) she was the first to print

books in Italy; and when she sold in St. Mark's Square the first

newspaper ever known to the world, demanding for it a little coin

called _gazetta_, which has given us the word "gazette."

[Illustration: THE GOLDEN AGE OF VENICE.]

Recalling these Venetian exploits, I stood one evening in one of the

most delightful places in all Venice,—the upper balcony of the Ducal

Palace. Lingering here and looking out between the sculptured columns

toward the island of San Giorgio, I thought of the old times when every

year, upon Ascension Day, the Doge descended from this balcony and

stepped upon a barge adorned with canopies of gold and velvet, and with

a deck inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl. Then, to the sound of

martial music, that splendid vessel swept out toward the sea, propelled

by eighty gilded oars; till, finally, amidst the roar of cannon and the

shouts of the assembled populace, the Doge cast into the blue waves a

ring of gold, exclaiming solemnly: "We wed thee, O Sea, with this ring,

emblem of our rightful and perpetual dominion."

[Illustration: ISLAND OF SAN GIORGIO.]

But there was another side to this magnificent picture, which dimmed

the splendor of Venetian palaces. For just behind the residence of

the Doges, suspended over the canal,—"a palace and a prison on each

hand,"—is one of the best known structures in the world,—the Bridge

of Sighs. This is indeed a sad memorial of tyranny. True, recent

scoffers at sentiment sneer at the associations of this bridge, and

one has even called it a "pathetic swindle." But, whether or not

the prisoners of Venice breathed through these grated windows a last

sigh, as they relinquished life and liberty, certain it is that in

the building on the right, far down below the water's edge, are some

of the most horrible dungeons that human cruelty has ever designed;

and any visitor to Venice may cross this bridge and grope his way down

moldering flights of stone steps to behold them.

[Illustration: A VENETIAN FISHER BOY.]

All who have done so will recollect those fetid cells, slimy with

dampness, shrouded in darkness, and stifling from the exhausted air

which filters to them through the narrow corridors. They will remember

the iron grating through which was passed the scanty food that for a

time prolonged the prisoner's life; the grooves of the old guillotine,

by means of which, after excruciating torture, he was put to death; and

then the narrow opening through which the body was removed at night and

rowed out to a distant spot, where it was death to cast a net. Here,

unillumined even by a torch, it sank, freighted with heavy stones,

into the sea, whose gloomy depths will guard all secrets hidden in its

breast until its waters shall give up their dead.

[Illustration: BRIDGE OF SIGHS.]

[Illustration: ST. MARK'S CATHEDRAL.]

Connected with the Ducal residence is the world-renowned St. Mark's

Cathedral. The old Venetians built not only palaces for men; they made

their shrines to God palatial. I looked on this one with bewilderment.

There is no structure like it in the world. Its bulbous domes and

minaret-like belfries remind one of the Orient. It seems more like a

Mohammedan than a Christian temple. If the phrase be permitted, it is

a kind of Christian mosque. The truth is, the Venetians brought back

from their victories in the East ideas of Oriental architecture which

had pleased them, and were thus able to produce a wonderful blending of

Moorish, Arabic, and Gothic art.

[Illustration: ST. MARK'S CATHEDRAL.]

What a façade is this! Here, massed in serried ranks, are scores

of variously colored marble columns, each one a monolith, and all

possessing an eventful history. Some are from Ephesus, others from

Smyrna, while others still are from Constantinople, and more than one

even from Jerusalem. On one, the hand of Cleopatra may have rested;

another may have cast its shadow on St. Paul; a third may have been

looked upon by Jesus. St. Mark's is the treasure-house of Venice,—a

place of pride as well as of prayer. Here was heaped up the booty which

she gained from her repeated conquests. The Doge's Palace was the brain

of Venice; the Grand Piazza was its heart; but this Cathedral was its

soul.

[Illustration: THE BRONZE HORSES.]

[Illustration: THE PORTAL OF ST. MARK'S.]

[Illustration: CORNER OF THE CATHEDRAL.]

The work of beautifying this old church was carried on enthusiastically

for five hundred years. Each generation tried to outdo all that had

preceded it. Again and again Venetian fleets swept proudly up the

Adriatic, laden with spoils destined for this glorious shrine. _Viva

San Marco!_ was the watchword alike of her armies and her navies; and

when the captains of Venetian fleets came homeward from the Orient,

the first inquiry put to them was this: "What new and splendid

offering bring you for San Marco?" The dust of ages, therefore, may

have gathered on this building, but it is, at least, the dust of gold.

Its domes and spires glisten with the yellow lustre. It even gilds

the four bronze horses which surmount its portal. These are among the

most interesting statues in the world. We know not who the sculptor

was that gave them their apparent life; but it is certain that they

were carried to Rome and there attached to Nero's golden chariot.

In the fourth century after Christ the emperor Constantine, when he

transferred the seat of empire from the Tiber to the Bosphorus, took

them to Constantinople, where for nine hundred years they proudly stood

beside the Golden Horn. Then, when that capital was plundered by the

Venetians, they were brought hither, and for five hundred years they

adorned the entrance to St. Mark's. Even here their travels had not

ended; for, a century ago, Napoleon, when conqueror of Italy, caused

them to be conveyed to Paris, where, in the shadow of the Tuileries,

they watched the triumph of the modern Cæsar. But after Waterloo,

Venice once more claimed them for her own.

[Illustration: A VENETIAN LANE.]

It is an impressive moment when one passes beneath these gilded steeds

and enters the interior of the cathedral. A twilight gloom pervades it,

well suited to its age and the mysterious origin of all it contains.

The walls and roof are so profusely covered with mosaics and precious

marbles that it is easy to understand why St. Mark's has been called

the "Church of Gold," and likened to a cavern hung with stalactites of

precious stones. Some of these ornaments are of pagan origin; others

have come from Christian shrines. All, however, have had to pay their

contribution to St. Mark's. Thus Santa Sophia at Constantinople, though

still a Christian church and dedicated to the Saviour, was plundered

to embellish the Venetian shrine named after His apostle. Hence, it is

the literal truth that, overflowing with the spoils of other cities

and sanctuaries, St. Mark's is a magnificent repository of booty—a

veritable den of thieves. In the most prominent position in the church

is the receptacle guarded by the statues of the twelve apostles,

where is kept, as the most precious of its treasures, the body of St.

Mark. On one side is the pulpit from which the old Doge, Dandolo, when

ninety-three years of age, urged his people to undertake the fourth

crusade.

[Illustration: A VIEW ON THE GRAND CANAL.]

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF ST. MARK'S CATHEDRAL.]

[Illustration: THE STATUES OF THE APOSTLES.]

"Men of Venice!" he exclaimed, "I am old and weak, and I need rest,

but I will go with you to rescue from the infidel the Holy Sepulchre,

and I will be victorious or lose my life." Hearing these words, the

assembled people made these walls resound with the cry: "So be it!

Lead us on! For God's sake go with us!" Then the old Doge descended

from the pulpit, and standing on the steps between the jasper columns,

received the badge of the Crusaders, the Cross of Christ, a miniature

reproduction of the colossal crucifix, which glittered then, as it

still gleams to-day, above the place on which he stood.

[Illustration: A TYPE OF GONDOLIER.]

On leaving this marvelous structure, one steps directly into the

adjoining St. Mark's Square. If it be the hour of siesta, it will

appear deserted. Yet this has been for centuries the Forum of Venetian

life; the favorite place for her festivities; the beautiful, historic

stage on which have been enacted most of the scenes connected with

her glorious past. Around it are fine marble structures, which even

now are used for offices of State. Within these long arcades are the

most attractive shops in Venice, and, were there only a garden in the

centre, the place would remind one of the Palais Royal at Paris, which

was, in fact, built in imitation of this square. To-day the popularity

of the Parisian square is waning, since many of its gorgeous shops

have migrated to the Rue de la Paix. But owing to its situation, the

attractiveness of the Venetian court can hardly be diminished. While

Venice lasts, its glory must remain undimmed by Time.

[Illustration: A FISHERMAN.]

On summer evenings, when the city wakes to life and music, the famous

square bursts into the gaiety of a ball-room, and is the favorite

rendezvous of all lovers and pleasure-seekers, whether natives or

foreigners. Here, several times a week, fine military music floats

upon the air, and hundreds of men and women stroll along these marble

blocks, which in the moonlight seem as white as snow. Others, meantime,

are seated beneath the neighboring arches, sipping coffee or sherbet,

laughing and talking in the soft Venetian dialect, and, like the

Japanese, seeming to appreciate the mere joy of living, an art which

many of us, alas, have lost.

[Illustration: THE PIAZZA DI SAN MARCO.]

One pretty feature of this historic area is its pigeons. Their homes

are in the marble arches of the adjoining buildings; and shortly after

midday, every afternoon, they suddenly appear in great numbers; now

rising in a pretty cloud of fluttering wings; now grouped together like

an undulating wave of eider-down. Foreigners, in particular, love to

feed them; and in return for the kindness they receive, the pigeons at

times alight upon the shoulders of a stranger or courageously pick up

crumbs from outstretched hands. It is not strange that Venice should

guard these birds so tenderly. Six centuries ago, when the Venetians

were blockading the island of Candia, the Doge's officers observed

that pigeons frequently flew above their heads. Suspecting something,

they contrived to shoot a few, and each was found to have beneath its

wing a message to the enemy. Acting on information thus acquired, the

Venetian admiral made his attack at once and captured the island in

twelve hours. The carrier-pigeons which they found there were therefore

taken home to Venice and treated with the utmost kindness, and their

descendants have ever since been favorites of the people.

[Illustration: FEEDING THE PIGEONS.]

On walking from the Piazza toward the Grand Canal, one always finds

at the extremity of the Piazzetta a line of waiting gondolas. At

once a shower of soft Italian syllables falls musically on the air:

"Una gondola, Signore! Commanda una gondola; Una barca, Signore;

Una bellissima barca; Vuol' andare? Eccomi pronto!" The speakers

are Venetian coachmen, and the contrast is a startling one between

the liquid vowels of their speech and the rasping cries of our

American drivers: "Want a cow-pay, lady?" "Want a kerridge?" "Want a

hack—hack—hack?" As for the gondoliers themselves, how picturesque

they look with their white suits and colored scarfs! Who can resist

the impulse to enter one of these pretty barges and give oneself to the

enjoyment of the hour?

[Illustration: WAITING GONDOLAS.]

Few things are more delightful than floating here in a gondola

after the heat of a summer day. We say summer, for Venice should, if

possible, be always visited in warm weather—the healthiest season

here. Then only can one thoroughly enjoy its outdoor life. However

sultry it may be on land, in Venice it is reasonably cool, and the

broad bosom of the Adriatic, as it swells and falls, breathes through

the streets of Venice the delicious freshness of the sea. At such a

time, to idly float upon this beautiful expanse, dreaming of art and

history (perchance of love), through the sweet, tranquil hours which

bear upon their noiseless wings the hint of a repose still held in

the unfolded hands of Night,—that is happiness,—that is rest! At

such a time one loves to call to mind the scenes which must have often

taken place upon the surface of this siren sea, when Venice had no

less than thirty thousand gondolas, of which at least one-third were

richly decorated, and vied with one another in their gilded draperies

and carvings. To such an extent, indeed, did reckless competition

in them go, that the Doge finally issued a decree that they should

thenceforth have black awnings only. Since then Venetian gondolas have

been prosaic in appearance, though their dark awnings have increased

the opportunities for crime or intrigue, and they have often been the

rendezvous of hate or love,—ideal vehicles for murder or elopement.

[Illustration: IN A GONDOLA.]

"In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,

And silent rows the songless gondolier:

Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,

And music meets not always now the ear:

Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.

States fall, arts fade,—but Nature doth not die,

Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,

The pleasant place of all festivity,

The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!"

To the lover of the beautiful in Nature the most enchanting

characteristic of this City of the Sea is its sunset glow. Italian

sunsets are all beautiful; but those of Venice are the loveliest of

all. Their softness, brilliancy and splendor cannot be described. The

last which I beheld here, on a night in June, surpassed all others I

had ever seen. The shadows were falling to the eastward; the hush of

night was stealing on the world. The cares of life seemed disappearing

down the radiant west together with the God of Day. Between us and

the setting sun there seemed to fall a shower of powdered gold. The

entire city was pervaded by a golden light, which yet was perfectly

transparent, like the purest ether.

[Illustration: LIKE A BEAUTIFUL MIRAGE.]

As we drew nearer to the Grand Canal the scene grew even more

enchanting. In the refulgent light the city lay before us like a

beautiful mirage, enthroned upon a golden bank between two seas,—the

ocean and the sky. Her streets seemed filled with liquid sunshine.

The steps of her patrician palaces appeared entangled in the

meshes of a golden net. The neighboring islands looked like jeweled

wreckage floating from a barge of gold. The whole effect was that

of a poem without words, illustrated by Titian, and having for a

soft accompaniment the ripple of the radiant waves. I have seen

many impressive sights in many climes; but for triumphant beauty,

crystallized in stone and glorified by the setting sun, I can recall

no scene more matchless in its loveliness than that which I enjoyed,

when, on this richly-tinted sea, I watched the Bride and Sovereign of

the Adriatic pass to the curtained chamber of the night enveloped in a

veil of gold.

[Illustration: IN VENICE AT SUNSET.]