VENICE.

At six, on a bright morning, the 1st of September 1851, we left the

quay of Trieste in the steamer for Venice. We were in no particular

mood upon the subject. If anything, we rather feared that the famous

City of the Sea might turn out to have been overpraised. However, we

resolved to be candid.

The morning passed pleasantly enough. We admired the snowy tops of the

Styrian Alps on the right, and the deep green of the Adriatic was

beautiful. We had calculated upon an eight hours' voyage; but it was

scarcely eleven o'clock when the pinnacles and towers of the city

began to appear above the water's edge to the west, taking us a little

by surprise. It was thenceforward an interesting occupation for an

hour or so to watch these objects gradually rising out of the waves.

By and by, a large dome took its place amongst them; then some little

domes and more pinnacles: at length a connected range of city objects

lay along the horizon, and this we knew was VENICE. The steamer by and

by began to wind through some straits or channels of the sea, with

fortifications covering the low banks on both sides. It went on; and

about one o'clock, under a bright sun, we found ourselves in an open

space of sea, opposite the famous series of buildings composed of the

Doge's Palace, the Cathedral of San Marco, the Piazza, &c.--objects

perhaps of their kind the most generally known in Europe.

The first few minutes was a confused mixture of romantic association

and solicitude about a right hotel. Our thoughts slid with prosaic

facility from the lion on the top of the obelisk, so well remembered

from Canaletti's pictures, to the sign of the Leone Bianca--a place of

entertainment not far off, much recommended by Murray. I recalled the

Byronian heroines sailing about in those gondolas, which we saw

skimming away here and there, and wondered whether it would be best to

go to Dameli's or the Emperor of Austria. The first business was to

get a gondola for ourselves and luggage; thus, at the very first

reducing to the character of a mere cab that picturesque species of

conveyance--I, the conductor of the party, wondering all the time how

much those two cowled villains would charge me. Seated there with my

two ladies, we speedily proceeded along the Grand Canal towards the

hotel last mentioned, to try if we could obtain accommodation in it.

It was curious to land from a boat at the steps of a house, and walk

from the sea into the hall. It was dazzling to see the splendour of

the building, with its fine marble vestibule within, and its superb

staircases. We did not find in it, however, exactly the range of rooms

we required, and we after all returned along the canal, and tried the

Hôtel de l'Europe, a similar, but somewhat plainer house, where we got

apartments to our mind.

I was curious at first to study the arrangements of houses and streets

in Venice. Here I found that what had once been the palace of a noble,

presented, first, a ground-floor about three feet above the medium

level of the Adriatic, composed of a broad vestibule crossing through

from front to rear, with the inferior apartments on each side; second,

a floor of good apartments, with an open hall in the centre right over

the vestibule--this hall adorned with pictures; third, a similar good

floor, with another hall in the centre, which had been the banqueting

or dining-room, and was now used as the _salle-a-manger_ of the

hotel--and this salle had balconied windows at one end looking out

upon the canal. There was, I suppose, a fourth floor of inferior

rooms, but there I never had occasion to be. Most of the rooms,

looking out at the sides of the building into narrow lanes, were

ill-lighted: only those having windows to the front were light or

cheerful. The walls, staircases, and floors, were all of marble--the

proportions large, and the decorations elegant. The date, 'JAN. 1676,'

appeared over an inner door in the salle.

A side-door in the rear of the house gave me exit for a walk into the

town. I found myself in a paved lane, here called a _calle_, with good

houses on each side. It led me into a wider lane, which had all the

characters of a street, excepting that it was comparatively narrow,

and only traversed by people on foot. Here I found shops of many

kinds, but almost all on a small scale; as also many stalls for the

sale of fruit and other petty articles. Following this way to the

right, I soon came to the outside of the great square, which is the

principal public place in the city. It was but necessary to go through

a wide passage, to find myself in the _Piazza_--that well-known paved

and arcaded quadrangle, which we have seen so often in pictures; the

far extremity being closed by the singular church of St Mark, while

close by rose the lofty campanile and the three tall flag-staffs. We

sauntered for an hour about this grand central region, viewing the

outsides of things only, and dreaming of those scenes of the past with

which they were connected. After dinner, I again went out by myself to

walk through the town, for it was agreed that we should put off

regular sight-seeing till next day. Let not the reader be surprised to

hear of walking through Venice. It is permeated in all directions by

calles and narrow streets, which cross the canals by high-arched stone

bridges, thus giving pedestrian access to and from all parts of the

city. Certainly, however, no such thing as a leading thoroughfare

exists, and it must be difficult for strangers to acquire that local

knowledge which will enable them to find their way without a guide.

Unlike all other cities, no kind of vehicle, not so much as a

wheelbarrow, ever rattles along these narrow, tortuous ways. The

gondolas upon the canals are strictly the only conveyances used in

Venice. Thus the city has a stillness which, even in its most

brilliant days, must have impressed strangers with a sense of

melancholy. In our time, when Venice is reduced at once from

independence and from wealth, the effect is peculiarly depressing. I

felt as if Venice were only a _curiosity_ to look at for a few days,

not a place in which any considerable portion of life could be spent

with comfort.

Next morning, at eight o'clock, by which time we had breakfasted, a

gondola with two rowers waited for us at the porch of the hotel, along

with a clever, well-informed youth named Alessandro, who had

undertaken to be our _cicerone_. The charges for both gondolas and

guides had, we found, been raised since the late troubles, in common

with everything else in Venice, liberty being always somehow a

provocative to taxation, whether temporarily or permanently enjoyed.

What in 1843 would have cost six English shillings, now stood us eight

or nine. The gondola, as is well known, is a long boat, pointed at

both ends, and painted black--furnished in the centre with cushioned

seats, all black, over which is erected a kind of cot, with windows,

to screen the passengers. One man stands in the fore, another in the

back part, rowing with their faces forward, the oar working in a

twisting manner on the top of a piece of wood curiously grooved for

the purpose. I cannot say that I saw anything very peculiar in the

dress of the gondoliers, or indeed in the appearance of any of the

people of Venice, excepting the female water-carriers. With that

exception, the people are dressed in much the same manner as is

customary over Europe generally. So far as I recollect, not a single

veiled or half-veiled lady, sailing in her own gondola, met our eyes

while we were in Venice. We have to revert for all such things to

Goldoni's plays and the pages of our own Byron.

The real grand thoroughfare of Venice is the _Canale Grande_--a wide

curving street, which sweeps through a great part of the city. The

principal palaces of the nobility, the superbest of the churches, and

the best hotels, are placed along this water-street. As we moved

along, Alessandro told us, in respectable French, the history of each

great mansion, and what its owners had done in the history of the

republic: a recital as intelligent and as accurate as could have been

expected in a book. Most of these buildings have a melancholy, decayed

look, being generally very old, and few of the owners being able to

spend much in or on them. A few that look tolerably fresh, are found

to be occupied by the post, the customs, or some other office, the

insignia of which figure in gaudy colouring over the principal

entrance. In connection with most of the palaces, the name of some

architect of reputation is mentioned. They are wholly of marble; and,

in many cases, round stones of a precious kind, or pieces of marble of

a brilliantly veined character, are set in a species of framework in

front, communicating a peculiarly rich effect. The least pleasing

circumstance connected with these superb mansions, is their being so

closely beset by other buildings. We saw only one or two which had any

spare space associated with them, to form either a court-yard or a

piece of garden-ground. Space is indeed the great want of Venice. Many

of the canals, dividing lines of houses as lofty as those of the Old

Town of Edinburgh, are not wider than the _wynds_ of that celebrated

city. And yet there we see the landing-places and entrances of

magnificent mansions, though more frequently the houses on such narrow

canals have the air of merchants' stores and warehouses.

It would be vain to attempt a detailed description of one-half of the

wonderfully beautiful old churches, palazzos, and other buildings,

which we examined during this and the subsequent day. We were

agreeably disappointed on the whole; for we had come with an idea that

we should see only the shell of ancient Venice, and few of those works

of art which used to be associated with its name; whereas the fact is,

that all the most remarkable old buildings are entire, and in

tolerable order; and scarcely a picture, or statue, or antique

curiosity, has been lost during the political changes which the city

has undergone. Doubtless, it is living Venice no more: it is Venice

reduced to a museum--but what a museum! And here I must do the

Austrian government the justice to say, that it appears to have a deep

feeling of interest in the ancient monuments of the republic. It

contributes handsomely for their maintenance; and no modern proprietor

of an old palazzo can make any change in it, till he has satisfied a

tribunal of taste, that the change will be in keeping with the antique

and picturesque glories of the place.

We went at an early hour one day to see the Pisani palace: one of

those which are attractive on account of their containing good works

of art. The Pisani are an illustrious family: and the representative

still lives in this fine old mansion, or at least occasionally

occupies it; but he is a broken-down old man, who has survived wife,

children, and other relatives, and his death must speedily close the

many-centuried history of his name. It was with melancholy feelings

that we stepped into the hall or vestibule, whose broken plasters are

still graced with coats-armorial and emblems of ancient dignity;

amongst the rest, two standards wrapped up round their staves,

probably memorials of the great Pisano--a naval commander of the

fourteenth century. The housekeeper's little children were playing

about the place, as children in an ordinary city would play in a

street among the dogs and carriages. Mounting a wide side-staircase,

we reached a handsome first floor, composed of a central _salle_ and

side-rooms, tolerably furnished; and here we found the two pictures

for which the Pisani are famous--The Death of Darius, and his Queen

supplicating Alexander, by Paul Veronese. They are beautiful

paintings; and by their value, still give a sort of dignity to this

decayed family.

Another palace we visited was that of the _Vendramini Colerghi_, now

the property of the Duchesse de Berri, who makes it her ordinary

winter-quarters. It is a large and elegant building, in a form

approaching that of the letter Z, with a flower-garden in front of the

receding part. The duchesse is understood to have purchased it for

120,000 zwanzigers--equivalent to about L.4000, and not the value of

the stones of which it is built. With great good taste, she has made

no alteration in the decoration or destination of the rooms, but has

added modern furniture, family portraits, and many objects of _virtu_.

The series of apartments on the first floor above the vestibule is

extensive and superb; and though the _tout ensemble_ is more

characteristic of a modern French princess than of an ancient

Venetian family, it was pleasant to see at least one of the palazzos

of the ancient republic handsomely furnished, and having the

appearance of cheerful occupation. Among the portraits are some that

could scarcely have been expected to survive the Revolution of

1792--as Louis XIV.; Louis XV. when a boy; some of the princesses,

aunts of Louis XVI.; also the dauphin, father of the latter monarch.

There is likewise a beautiful cabinet of Marie Antoinette. Such

articles, we presume, must have been obtained from the palaces at the

downfall of royalty, and preserved by various accidents till the

restoration, when the royal family would of course be eager to recover

them at whatever expense. We saw here a portrait of the Duchesse, with

her infant son, standing in widow's weeds, beside the bust of her

assassinated husband; also portraits of the Due de Bourdeaux, his

wife, the Duchesse's present husband, and her younger set of children.

In a glass-case were the gilt spurs of Henri IV. The Duchesse gives

gay parties in winter, when the full suite of rooms must have a fine

effect.

The churches of Venice are numerous--about a hundred in all, being one

for every thousand souls, while I am told there is a priest for every

hundred. We visited eight or ten of the most remarkable; and so

bewildering was their magnificence, and so confounding the multitude

of fine things shewn in them, that if I had not taken note of

everything at the moment, I must have had only one confused idea of

something supra-mundanely fine. A great church in Venice is usually a

structure of pure marble, with a dome or tower. The interior is one

open space, with the usual double colonnade, a railed off altar-space

at the upper end, and little chapels in the aisles on both sides.

Generally, over the principal altar is some large scriptural

picture--a Crucifixion, or a Taking Down from the Cross, or an

Ascension; the production of Titian, or Tintoretto, or Paul Veronese,

or some other artist of the Venetian school. Over the lateral altars

are similar works of art. Sometimes one of these side-chapels is at

the same time the tomb of a noble family, which assumes the duty of

keeping it in order. In many of the churches, nothing can exceed the

beauty of the sculpture which is lavished over the interior; and,

while many features are common, each usually contrives to have some

special beauty or some exclusive possession on which a peculiar fame

rests. For example, the church of _San Georgia Maggiore_ has some

wooden carved-work by a Belgian artist, of surprising beauty. _Gli

Scalzi_ is a paragon of elaborate decoration. The church of the

_Frari_, old and Gothic, is full of grand tombs, including those of

several doges, that of Titian, and a monument to Canova. The _Santa

Maria della Salute_ has a fine collection of pictures over and above

those in the church. This church was built in 1632, by a decree of the

Senate, as an act of thanksgiving to the Virgin for putting an end to

a pestilence by which 60,000 people had been carried off. It is a most

beautiful structure, full of fine things; and altogether a curious

monument of that delusion of ignorance and misdirected piety which

made men assign to a chapter of priests the duty now committed to a

Board of Health, and persuaded them that a church was of much greater

efficacy for the cure of the pestilence than an hospital.

I have as yet said scarcely anything of the ducal palace and church of

San Marco, which are the principal and central objects of Venice. The

first is a quadrangular building, with a court in the centre; very

peculiar antique architecture, with a double row of arcades both

outside and in; the whole having a strikingly Oriental character. In

front, and at one side, is a pavement, forming the principal open

space in Venice; the haunt, of course, of many loungers of all

characters; and distinguished by the two well-known pillars, one of

which bears the lion of St Mark. The interior of the palace presents a

succession of grand old halls, the scene of the court-glories of the

ancient doges. One, called the _Sala del Maggior Consiglio_, is 154

feet long by 74 broad. It has a _dais_ at one end, on which the throne

must have been placed; and over this a picture of Paradise by

Tintoretto, covering the entire end of the room--of course 74 feet

long--being thus the largest picture ever painted on canvas. Around,

under the ceiling, are the portraits of the series of doges. The _Sala

del Senato_ still exhibits the seats of the senators, each furnished

with its candlestick for protracted discussions--a melancholy memorial

of departed independence. We gazed, too, on the Hall of the Council of

Ten, and the lesser room where the more terrible Council of Three held

its sittings; all now reduced to mere show-places, but still strongly

suggesting their original destination. The Lion's Mouth, in the outer

gallery, to which any accusation could be committed, was not

forgotten. After dwelling a due time upon the rooms, and the numerous

pictures and other works of art presented in them, we descended into

the dungeons or _pozzi_--narrow stone-chambers destitute of light,

where Venetian justice formerly kept its victims--a terrific specimen

of the reckless inhumanity of past times. Finally, we passed to the

Bridge of Sighs, which is detected to be an afterthought structure,

designed to connect the palace with the more modern prison in the

rear, a canal intervening. I suspect, after all, that many of the

stories told about the pozzi and the bridge are mere myths, the

reflection of ideas which the appearance of the places suggests.

The church of San Marco, adjoining the palace, and forming one side of

the Piazza or square, is like no other building I ever saw--decidedly

Oriental in style--indeed such a building as Aladin might have evoked

by his lamp; which reminds me, by the way, that there is a prevalent

tinge of the East all over Venice, seen in the architecture

particularly. The vaulting and arching of this church are all

described as Byzantine in style, and are therefore round; but it has

been a custom in Venice to fix up on such a building as this any

reliques of antique sculpture which have been taken in the countries

with which the Republic was at war: accordingly, the front of San

Marco bristles all over with curious pillars and carvings, including,

above all, the four celebrated bronze horses which Napoleon took to

Paris, and which were restored after his downfall. Walking through one

of the low-browed doors, we pass across a vestibule, where a stone is

pointed out in the pavement as the spot on which the emperor

Barbarossa laid his head beneath the foot of Pope Alexander III. Then

proceeding into the interior, you find the dusky atmosphere dimly

blazing with a peculiar glitter from the walls and ceilings, the whole

being one mass of gold mosaic, on which scripture subjects are

inserted in a darker colouring. Think of a huge church, the interior

facing of which is composed of pieces of gilt stone, each no bigger

than the point of your finger would cover! But this is not all. The

wide-extending pavement is seen to be composed in like manner of small

pieces of marble and precious stones, set so as to form regular

figures, all most exact, and still wonderfully entire, though it has

endured the feet of daily thousands for several centuries.

Unfortunately, from some infirmity in the vaulting below, this

singular floor is thrown into undulations, in some places so great as

to require care in walking over them. I spent hours in wandering about

and examining the many curious things which are to be seen in this

church, including those of its famous treasury. It is truly surprising

that, after so many revolutions, so many of these valuables have been

preserved. The fidelity of the priesthood to their charge is surely

deserving of some admiration, considering how many opportunities there

must have been of making away with precious articles, after which no

inquiry would probably have ever been made.

A campanile, or bell-tower, has been erected in the square near the

church, and is one of the most conspicuous objects in Venice; rising,

as it does, above every other building. It seems slender; but I was

surprised to find, on a rough measurement, that the sides are not less

than fifty feet wide. A paved way, instead of a staircase, conducts to

an open _loggia_ near the top, whence you can have a complete view of

the city. I remarked that the tops of many of the houses are of use in

the same way as gardens and summer-houses are in other countries.

People go there to smoke, or to take their coffee--the chimneys being

a very slight obstruction to such enjoyments in a country where little

fire is used. We here also had a good view of the celebrated

_orologio_ of Venice; a tower containing an ancient clock of peculiar

elaborateness of construction. On the top stand two metal giants,

armed with ponderous hammers, with which to strike the hours and

quarters on a huge bell, placed between them. There is something

terrible in these automata; and the feeling is not allayed when you

hear that one of them once committed a _murder_, having with his

hammer knocked an incautious workman over the battlements! The

campanile was begun in 902; and I felt interested in tracing its

resemblance, both in architecture and relative situation, to the

square tower of St Andrews, which is supposed to be of nearly the same

age.

My limits leave me no room to dilate upon our visit to the Accademia.

Indeed, in the visit itself, we could do little more than pause here

and there as a Titian or Tintoretto cast up in the multitude of

pictures, or when we came before some specimen of the very early

masters, of whose works there are many dating so far back as the end

of the fourteenth century. There were some pictures representing

transactions in Venice, of not much later date, which I regarded with

interest, as preserving to us the appearance of men and things in that

age; particularly one depicting some miracle, in which several grave

ecclesiastics are seen swimming about in the Grand Canal, while ladies

look on from windows and balconies, which I convinced myself still

exist there. I must be equally brief with that place which no

countryman of Shakspeare can avoid visiting, though the present Rialto

is, after all, later than his time. It is of a curious structure as a

bridge; there being three rows of building along it, containing shops,

with two roadways for passengers. One crosses backwards and forwards,

muttering: 'On the Rialto thou hast rated me,' &c.; goes distractedly

into a shop, to purchase a breastpin, as a memorial of the place; and

then plunges down the stairs, to resume his place in the gondola. We

took a couple of hours to pay a visit to the Armenian monastery, on

the island of San Lazzaro--the place to which Byron resorted in order

to study the Armenian language. It is a curious old establishment,

with some modern activity about it in the diffusion of literature; the

monks having a printing-office in tolerable briskness, whence they

issue books in various languages. We were delighted with the flush of

beautiful flowering, from the oleander bushes in the central court,

and the vine-hung alleys in the garden behind. I must not forget, in

this hurried close of my adventure, the two moonlight sails we had

through those mysterious watery streets, where, the associations of

day and of the active world being shut out, we felt as if each light

in the old palazzi illumined some scene of mediæval romance. _That_

was like no other thing in our lives. On the third evening, we left

this dream-city by a means which we had studiously ignored all the

time of our visit--namely, a _railway_, which crosses from Venice to

the mainland. It was something of a wakener to find ourselves at 'the

station,' on the bank of one of the canals, and see a range of

'omnibus gondolas,' all duly labelled for their respective courses

through the city, and ranked up in front like so many of the

terrestrial machines which haunt the ordinary railway termini of this

earth. However, we had the consolation of reserving this to the close

of our visit, when, of course, we must have awaked out of our Venetian

feelings at anyrate. The train brought us to Padua long before

bedtime.