Venice is a genuine surprise to the stranger. No matter what idea he may
have formed concerning it, he can hardly have approximated to the truth.
It is unique, mystical, poetic, constantly appealing in some new form to
the imagination, and often more than fulfilling expectation. The people,
institutions, buildings, history--all are peculiar. Her statesmen,
artisans, merchants, and sailors have been the first in Europe, while
for over twelve hundred years she has gone on creating a history as
remarkable as is her physical formation. No city fills a more prominent
page in the records of the Middle Ages, or is more enshrined in romance
and poetry. It is a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants, and yet what
comparative stillness reigns over all, solemn and strange especially to
the newly arrived traveller. There is no rattling of wheels, no tramp of
horses' feet upon the streets; wheels and horses are unknown; only the
gondola serves as a mode of conveyance, and the noiseless canals take
the place of streets. The gondola is nowhere else seen save on these
canals and lagoons (shallow bays). It is of all modes of transportation
the most luxurious. The soft cushions, the gliding motion, the graceful
oarsmen, who row in a standing position, the marble palaces between
which we float in a dreamy state, harmonize so admirably, that the sense
of completeness is perfect. The Grand Canal, two hundred feet wide, is
the Broadway, or popular boulevard, of Venice, and over this glide the
innumerable gondolas and boats of light traffic, with a quiet panoramic
effect, which we watch curiously from our overhanging balcony. This main
artery of the city is lined with palaces and noble marble edifices
nearly the whole of its length of two miles. Some of these, to be sure,
are crumbling and deserted, with the word decay written in their aspect,
but even in their moss-grown and neglected condition they are intensely
interesting.
[Illustration: SCENE ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE.]
The city is built upon one hundred and seventeen islands, separated by a
hundred and fifty canals, and as the local guides will tell us, has
three hundred and sixty-five bridges, mostly of stone,--"that is; one
for every day in the year;" but there are, in fact, twenty more bridges
to add to this aggregate. Most of the dwellings rise immediately out of
the water, and one passes out of the gondolas on to marble steps to
enter them. Altogether Venice is a little over seven miles in
circumference.
As we sit floating in our gondola just off the Piazzetta of St. Mark,
the moon comes up above the waters of the Adriatic and hangs serenely
over the lagoons. No pen can justly describe such a sight--only a Claude
Lorraine could paint it. Glancing gondolas on their noiseless track cut
the silvery ripples; a sweet contralto voice, with guitar accompaniment,
salutes the ear; stately palaces cast long, mysterious shadows upon the
water; the Bridge of Sighs arches the canal between the palace and
prison close at hand; oddly-rigged craft from the far East float lazily
at anchor in the open harbor; the domes of lofty churches are outlined
against the dark blue sky; while the proud columns of St. Mark and St.
Theodore stand like sentinels at the water's edge. It seems, altogether,
like some well-prepared theatrical scene upon the stage, on which the
curtain will presently fall, shutting out everything from view.
The broad outline of the history of this long-lived republic is familiar
to most of us. Many of its details have been enshrined by Byron, who,
without assuming the dignity of historical record, has taught us in
poetic form. The names of Dandolo, Faliero, and the two Foscari are
familiar to all cultured people. The close of the fifteenth century may
be designated as the culminating point of the glory of Venice, it being
then the grand focus of European commerce, and twice as populous as it
is to-day. At that time it possessed three hundred sea-going vessels and
forty-five naval galleys, with which it maintained sway over the
Mediterranean Sea. With the commencement of the sixteenth century her
glory began gradually to fade until she ceased to maintain a prominent
position among the powers. In art, Venice always occupied a first
position, and was celebrated for the brilliancy of the coloring which
characterizes the Venetian school.
Though fallen in commercial glory, Venice still stands without a rival.
Where else can be found a city composed of over seventy islands? Is
there another city where architects, sculptors, painters, and workers in
mosaic devoted their lives to the purpose of decorating and beautifying
their native place? No capital, even in Italy, is richer in splendid and
antique churches, in superbly decorated palaces, and with the exception
of Rome and Florence, no city has more invaluable art treasures. Here
the works of Guido, Paul Veronese, Titian, Bonifacio, Giordano, and
Tintoretto especially abound. The Venetian school of painting maintains
precedence even in our day. In the Doge's Palace, built many hundred
years ago, the visitor will find paintings and sculpture which he can
never forget, and among them Tintoretto's Paradise, said to be the
largest oil painting extant by a great master. It contains an army of
figures, and would seem to have required a lifetime to produce.
The Piazza of St. Mark is the centre of attraction. How strange, and yet
how familiar everything seems to us here! We require no guide to point
out the remarkable monuments. We do not fail to recognize at a glance
the tall masts from which the banners of the republic floated in
triumph, when the carrier pigeons brought news that "blind old Dandolo
had captured Constantinople!" We recognize the lofty Campanile, the
sumptuous palace of the Doges, and the gorgeous front of the Cathedral
over-topped by its graceful domes, bristling with innumerable pinnacles.
Above the portals of St. Mark we gaze upon the celebrated bronze horses
which Napoleon I. stole and transported to Paris, but which the Emperor
Francis restored to Venice. It is not the first time these historic
horses of Lysippus have been stolen, these monuments of the departed
glory of Chios and Constantinople--of Venice and Napoleon.
In many respects the Cathedral of San Marco is the most remarkable
church in existence, while its ornamentation is rich to excess. For good
architectural effect it stands too low, the present grade of the
surrounding square being some fifteen inches or more above its mosaic
pavement. The pillars and ornaments are too crowded; having been brought
hither from other and historic lands, there is a want of harmony in the
aggregation. Nearly a thousand years old, it has an indescribable aspect
of faded and tarnished splendor, and yet it presents an attractive whole
quite unequalled. It combines Saracenic profusion with Christian
emblems, weaving in porphyries from Egypt, pillars from St. Sophia,
altar pieces from Acre, and a forest of Grecian columns. Especially is
this church rich in mosaics--those colors that never fade. There is a
sense of solemn gloom pervading the place, the dim light struggling
through the painted windows being only sufficient to give the whole a
weird aspect, in its over-decorated aisles. Some idea may be formed of
the elaborate ornamentation of the Cathedral from the fact that it
contains over forty thousand square feet of mosaic work! The vaulting
consists entirely of mosaic, representing scenes in the Old Testament,
beginning with the story of the creation, and followed by scenes from
the New Testament. As we walk about the church, the floor beneath our
feet is found quite uneven from the slow settlement of ages. Inside and
out the structure is ornamented by over five hundred columns of marble,
the capitals of which present a fantastic variety of styles true to no
country or order, but the whole is, nevertheless, a grand example of
barbaric splendor.
Just opposite the entrance to the Church of San Marco stands the lofty
Campanile, reaching to a height of three hundred feet, and which was
over two hundred years in building. A view from its summit is one of the
sights not to be missed in this city, as it affords not only a splendid
picture of Venice itself, but the city and lagoons lie mapped out before
the eye in perfection of detail, while in the distance are seen the
Adriatic, the Alpine ranges, and the Istrian Mountains. The Campanile is
ascended by a winding way in place of steps, and there is a legend that
Napoleon rode his horse to the top, a feat which is certainly possible.
In this lofty tower Galileo prosecuted his scientific experiments.
Petrarch wrote that Venice was the home of justice and equity, refuge
of the good; rich in gold, but richer in renown; built on marble, but
founded on the surer foundation of a city worthy of veneration and
glory. But this is no longer the Venice he described; no longer the city
of grasping and successful ambition, of proud and boastful princes. It
has become what pride, ostentation, and luxury in time must always lead
to. It presents to-day a fallen aspect--one of grandeur in rags. No
argosies are bound to foreign ports, no princely merchants meet on the
Rialto; that famous bridge is now occupied on either side by Jews' shops
of a very humble character; and yet do not let us seem to detract from
the great interest that overlies all drawbacks as regards the Venice
even of the present hour.
The Academy of Fine Arts is reached by crossing the Grand Canal, over
the modern iron bridge, which, with that of the Rialto, a noble span of
a single arch, built of white marble, forms the only means of crossing
the great water-way, except by gondola. This remarkable gallery contains
almost exclusively works by Venetian artists. Here we find a remarkable
representation of the "Supper of Cana," which is nearly as large as the
"Paradise." It is considered by competent critics, to be one of the
finest pieces of coloring in existence. Here we have some of Titian's
best productions, and those of many Italian artists whose pictures are
not to be found elsewhere. The gallery, like all of the famous ones of
Europe, is free to every one, either for simple study, or for copying.
This is the collection which Napoleon I. said he would give a nation's
ransom to possess. On the way to the Academy the guide points out the
Barberigo Palace, in which Titian lived and died.
The Doge's Palace is full of historic interest. We wander with mingled
feelings through its various apartments, visiting the halls of the
Council of Ten, and the still more tragic chambers of the Council of
Three. Many secret passages are threaded; we cross the Bridge of Sighs,
and descend into the dungeons in which Faliero, Foscari, and other
famous prisoners are said to have been incarcerated. These mediæval
dungeons are wretched beyond belief, and how human beings could live and
breathe in such places is the marvel of every one who visits them in our
day. Here we are shown the apartment where the condemned prisoners were
secretly strangled, and the arched windows by which their bodies were
launched into boats on the canal, to be borne away, and sunk in the
distant lagoons. Trial, sentence, fate,--all in secret, and this was
done under the semblance of justice and a republican form of government.
The church of the Frari, whither we will next turn our steps, is in an
American's estimation quite as much of a museum as a church. It is the
Westminster Abbey of Venice, and is crowded with the monuments of doges,
statesmen, artists, philosophers, and more especially is ornamented in a
most striking manner by the tombs of Titian and Canova. These elaborate
marble structures face each other from opposite sides of the
church--monuments raised in memory of rarest genius, and which for
richness of design and completeness of finish exceed anything of the
sort in Italy.
In the square of St. Mark we have an opportunity for studying the
masses, the well-to-do classes, but not the refined and cultured; these
maintain a certain dignified exclusiveness. The uniforms of the police,
each one of whom is bedizened equal to a militia general, are a
standing caricature. One notes the many Jews among the throng; here a
turbaned Turk sits before a café smoking his pipe, and near by a
handsome Greek, with his red fez, smokes a cigar. There are Orientals of
all types, with jaunty Englishmen, and gay parties of Americans.
We will now pass on to Milan, once considered the second city of Italy
in importance, but it was totally destroyed in 1162 by Barbarossa, and
we therefore see a comparatively modern capital. In the olden time it
was filled with temples, baths, amphitheatres, circuses, and all the
monuments common to great Italian cities. Seven hundred years and more
have elapsed since its destruction, during which it rapidly sprang into
life again as the capital of Lombardy, and is still a growing
metropolis. True, it can offer no such attractions to the traveller as
abound in Naples, Rome, and Florence, though there are some art
treasures here which are unique. Were it not that the city is so near to
Lakes Como and Maggiore, and in possession of half a hundred remarkable
pictures, with a score of choice original pieces of sculpture, together
with its wonderful cathedral, the traveller would hardly care to pass
more than a day in Milan. The present population is about two hundred
and forty thousand. It is thrifty and devoted more to successful
branches of business than are the cities of Southern Italy.
The Milan Cathedral is regarded as one of the wonders of the world,
being also next to the cathedral at Seville and St. Peter's at Rome, the
largest church in Europe, though this matter of size is of insignificant
consideration compared with its other marvels. The interior is nearly
five hundred feet in length and but a fraction less than two hundred in
width, while the dome is over two hundred feet in height. Its loftiest
tower is over three hundred and sixty feet above the ground; there are a
hundred pinnacles in all, and no less than four thousand five hundred
marble statues ornament the exterior. The interior consists of a nave
with double aisles, and is supported by fifty-two pillars, each fifteen
feet in diameter, the summits of which are decked with canopied niches
presenting statues in place of the customary capitals. The pavement is
finished in marble and mosaic. The edifice was in course of construction
for five hundred years, and to look at it one would hardly suppose there
was white marble enough in Europe to furnish the raw material of which
it is built. The principal part of the work has been performed during
the last hundred years.
One mounts nearly five hundred stone steps to reach the summit of the
cathedral, where we stand in the highest pinnacle, nearly four hundred
feet from the street. Far below lies the city, the dwellings and
churches resembling toy-houses, while the people moving about in the
thoroughfares assume pigmy proportions, horses looking like exaggerated
insects. We gaze about in dizzy wonder, and are half inclined to believe
it all a trick of the imagination. After the first surprise is over, the
true aspect gradually dawns upon the stranger, and the labor of
ascending those tedious steps is forgotten. The distant view is
particularly fine; the green and fertile plains of Lombardy stretching
away from the city walls in all directions until they meet the
foot-hills of the Alpine range, or mingle with the horizon towards the
shores of the Adriatic. Mont Blanc, Mont Cenis, Mont St. Bernard, the
Simplon Pass, the Bernese Oberland range, and further to the northeast
the long range of the Tyrolean Alps, are recognized with their white
snow-caps glittering in the bright sunlight. The forest of pinnacles
beneath our feet, mingled with a labyrinth of ornamented spires,
statues, flying buttresses, and Gothic fretwork, piled all about the
roof, is seen through a gauze-like veil of golden mist.
Milan has several other churches more or less interesting, but the
visitor rarely passes much time in examining them. No traveller should
fail, however, to visit the Brera Palace, the one gallery of art in this
city. It was formerly a Jesuit college, but is now used for a public
school, with the title of Palace of Arts and Sciences, forming a most
extensive academy, containing paintings, statuary, and a comprehensive
library of nearly two hundred thousand volumes. There is also attached a
fine botanical garden, exhibiting many rare and beautiful exotics as
well as native plants. In the gallery of paintings the visitor is sure
to single out for appreciation a canvas, by Guercino, representing
Abraham banishing Hagar and her child. The tearful face of the deserted
one, with its wonderful expression, tells the whole story of her misery.
This picture is worthy of all the enthusiastic praise so liberally
bestowed by competent critics.
No picture is better known than Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper,"
millions of copies of which have been circulated in engravings, oil
paintings, and by photography. We find the original in the Dominican
monastery, where the artist painted it upon the bare wall or masonry of
a lofty dining-hall. It is still perfect and distinct, though not so
bright as it would have been had it been executed upon canvas. Da Vinci
was years in perfecting it, and justly considered it to be the best work
of his artistic life. The moment chosen for delineation is that when
Christ utters the words, "One of you shall betray me!" The artist said
that he meditated for two years how best to portray upon a human face
the workings of the perfidious heart of Judas, and ended at last by
taking for his model the prior of this very monastery, who was well
known to be his bitterest enemy! The likeness at the period of its
production was unmistakable, and thus perpetuated the scandal.
We must not fail to make an excursion from Milan to Pavia, one of the
oldest of Italian cities. It lies on the left bank of the Ticino River,
and was in the olden times the residence of the Lombard kings, who did
not fail to beautify and improve it in their day to such an extent that
it was known all over Europe as the "City of a Hundred Towers," many of
which are extant and in excellent preservation. Though the finger of
time has pressed heavily upon it, and its ancient glory has departed,
still Pavia has a population of over thirty thousand, and lays claim to
no inconsiderable importance. If it were not a little off the usual
track of travellers, we should hear much more of its associations. The
university founded here by Charlemagne, over a thousand years ago, is
still prosperous; and the famous church of San Michael, erected at even
an earlier period, is still an object of profound interest. As we wander
about the quaint streets the impress of antiquity is upon everything
that meets the eye. Just north of the city, about a league from the
walls, is the Certosa, one of the most splendid monasteries in Europe,
founded about five hundred years since. It is absolutely crowded with
fine paintings, statuary, mosaics, and rich art ornamentation. Private
palaces abound, though now largely diverted from their original
purposes. There are also theatres, libraries, museums, gymnasiums, still
thriving after a moderate fashion. Pavia looks backward to her past
glories rather than forward to new hopes. Sacked by Hannibal, burned by
the Huns, conquered and possessed by the Romans, won by the Goths and
Lombards, it was long the capital of what was then known as the kingdom
of Italy. Then came a period of fierce civil wars, when its history
merged in that of the conquerors of Lombardy. Taken and lost by the
French so late as 1796, it was stormed and pillaged by Napoleon, but
once more came into the possession of Austria, until it finally found
refuge in the bosom of United Italy. The famous battle of Pavia, which
occurred in 1525, when Francis I. was taken prisoner, was fought close
to the Certosa.
Our next objective point is Vienna, and we take the route through
Innspruck, the capital of the Tyrol, which is most charmingly situated
in the valley of the Inn just where it joins the Sill. The town is about
two thousand feet above sea-level, and is surrounded by mountains six
and eight thousand feet in height. It derives its name from the bridge
which here crosses the river--Inn's Brücke (that is, the Inn's Bridge).
We enter Austria through the Brenner Pass, and after a long Alpine
journey of three or four hundred miles are very glad to pause here both
for rest and observation. There must be about twenty thousand
inhabitants, but the town seems almost solemnly silent. At certain
periods of the year, known as "the season," doubtless its two or three
large hotels are plentifully supplied with guests. Historical
associations are not wanting; among them is the Franciscan church of
Innspruck, containing the elaborate and costly monument to the Emperor
Maximilian I., which, though constructed by order of the monarch
himself, does not contain his remains. The structure consists of a
marble sarcophagus supporting the emperor's effigy in bronze in a
kneeling position, while on the other side of the aisle are rows of
monumental bronze figures, twenty-eight in number, representing various
historic characters. The mention of this unique group in the old church
of Innspruck, by the poet Longfellow, will be remembered.
The Schloss Ambras is of considerable interest, having been the favorite
home of the Archduke Ferdinand II. The view from its battlements is
worthy of a pilgrimage to enjoy. Innspruck looks like a toy-village, so
far below, upon the plain. The broad streets of the new portion of the
town lie spread out as upon a map. The three handsome bridges give
variety to the scene. The central one, as the guide will tell us, was
the scene of a fierce battle, in 1809, between the Bavarians and the
Tyrolese. The former could not withstand the superior marksmanship of
these chamois-hunters, who picked off the men at the cannon as fast as
they came into action, until the Bavarians fled in despair, abandoning
their guns.
On resuming our journey towards Vienna, we pass up the constantly
narrowing valley of the Inn, through a range of mountain scenery,
covered with snow, and grand beyond description, where Alp is piled upon
Alp, until all distinctive outline is lost in the clouds which envelop
them. Now and then we see a rude but picturesque chamois huntsman
struggling up the mountain side in search of the special game which is
growing annually scarcer and scarcer. There is a wild interest which
actuates the chamois-hunter, amounting to fanaticism. The country is
very sparsely inhabited, but we occasionally come upon a cluster of
picturesque habitations, quite theatrical in effect, the counterpart of
the familiar pictures and photographs we see in America. By and by,
after a long day of travel, we reach Salzburg, in the Noric Alps.
Salzburg was the birthplace of Mozart, and is still a musical place,
that branch of the fine arts being universally cultivated among the more
refined class of inhabitants. There are several public monuments
commemorative of the great composer, who played his own compositions
before the public here at the age of five years! The massive wall which
once surrounded the place is now mostly dismantled, and could only have
been of use in the Middle Ages, at which time Salzburg was probably in
its greatest state of prosperity. The manufacture of Majolica ware has
been a specialty here for a couple of centuries or more, and it has a
reputation for the production of fine fancy leather goods. Its
connection by rail with Vienna, Munich, and Innspruck insures it
considerable trade, but still there is a sleepiness about the place
which is almost contagious. It was probably different when the
archbishops held court here, at a period when those high functionaries
combined the dignity of princes of the Empire with their ecclesiastical
rank. It was at this period that the town received its few public
ornaments, and the half-dozen fine public edifices, still to be seen,
were erected.
In the absence of statistics one would say there was a population of
fifteen thousand. Some of the street scenes are peculiar. We see single
cows and oxen harnessed and worked like horses, not in shafts, but
beside a long pole. The entire absence of donkeys, so numerous elsewhere
in Europe, is quite noticeable. The women surprise us by their large
size and apparent physical strength--quite a necessary possession, since
they seem to perform the larger portion of the heavy work, while their
lazy husbands are engaged in pipe-smoking and beer-drinking. We see
girls and dogs harnessed together into milk and vegetable carts, which
they draw through the streets at early morning, to deliver the required
articles to the consumers. When the little team arrives before a
customer's door, the girl drops her harness, measures out and delivers
the milk or vegetables, while the dog waits patiently.
There is no special beauty observable among the female population. The
dark eyes and hair with the lovely faces of the South are left behind,
as well as the soft, musical cadence of voice which so charms the ear in
Italy. German is not a musical tongue. It is a vigorous language, but
not a harmonious one in speech. Doubtless there are pretty blonde
Marguerites--like Goethe's heroine--hidden away somewhere among the
domestic circles of Salzburg, but their long golden braids of hair and
their fair, rose-tinted complexions are not often seen in public.