A water-excursion--The Bridge of Sighs--Doge's Palace--Archæological
Museum--The Rialto--The streets of Venice--Aids to disease--Venetian
Immorality--The Arsenal--Nautical Museum--Trip to Lido--Glass works--
Venetian evenings--The great Piazza--Scene on the Piazzetta--Farewell
to Venice.
Stepping into a gondola one sunny day, we glided past the marble
palaces, at the landing-stages of which Venetian "water-carriages" were
moored. We sped down the Grand Canal, passing under the great Rialto
with a thought of the early Venetians who had settled there nearly two
thousand years ago; then round by the narrower and more shaded canals of
the silent city, and presently in one of the narrowest parts we passed
beneath a covered marble arch--the fateful Bridge of Sighs, with a
sympathetic shudder of pitying remembrance. We breathed more freely as
we emerged from these shadowed water lanes, and caught a glimpse of the
bright blue sea fronting us.
On another day we visited the Bridge of Sighs in more orthodox fashion,
so that we might quote with due veracity Byron's ever recurring lines--
"I _stood_ in Venice, _on_ the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand;"
and treading in the footsteps of generations of friendless and
oftentimes guiltless criminals, we passed over from the Hall of Justice
in the Doge's Palace, through secret passages, to the Piombi, or state
prison, and thence to the Pozzi, a series of gloomy rock-hewn dungeons,
where the air felt heavy with the breath of _murder_ dignified by the
name of judicial punishment, and where many a hopeless wretch had sighed
out his love, his hopes, and finally his cruelly persecuted life.
Our visit to the Doge's Palace was full of the deepest interest.
Mounting the beautiful fretwork marble staircase, just at the rear of
St. Mark's, we entered the great colonnade, and ascended to the rooms
above, which are all heavily decorated and adorned on wall and ceiling
with paintings by the great masters. The Hall of the Great Council is
esteemed one of the finest rooms in Europe. It is indeed a magnificent
apartment: but perhaps a more particular interest centres in the Sala
del Consiglio dei Dieci, or Hall of the Inquisition, as it was sometimes
appropriately called. Here the chairs of the terrible Ten still remain,
as though for some impending solemn conclave. Awful pictures of
bloodshed and death frown down from some of the walls in this Palace of
council chambers, and in one hall may still be seen two slits in the
wall, once lions' mouths, where secret information was lodged against
conspirators, or those suspected of being so, and by which the lives of
innocent people were sworn away. But there was a painful contrast
between the gorgeous chambers above and those noisome dungeons below.
We were greatly interested in the Archæological Museum, especially in
the library, which contains 120,000 volumes, and some 10,000 valuable
manuscripts, among which are many rare and beautifully illuminated
literary treasures: Cicero's "Epist. ad Familiaries," the first book
printed in Venice, 1465; a Florence "Homer," on vellum, 1483; Marco
Polo's Will, 1323; a Herbary, painted by A. Amadi, 1415; Cardinal
Guinani's Breviary, with Hemling's beautiful miniatures; and the
manuscript of the "Divina Commedia,"--are only a sample of the treasures
here contained, over which we could have lingered with great enjoyment
for a far longer time than we could well spare. Many of these books were
the loving work of devoted monks, who lived before the age of printing,
and wished to hand down to posterity the books they themselves had
loved. Such was their idea of the value of these religious books, and
more especially of the New Testament, that they were bound in costly
covers, adorned with precious stones--the labour of transcribing and
illuminating them being almost incalculable. The invention of machinery,
alas! in these latter days has banished for ever such conscientious
labours of love, and neither books nor anything else are impressed with
men's minds, hearts, and handiwork as they used to be. It is an age of
mechanism, sensational, æsthetical, and artificial devotion, and very
little is sacred but Self. Though it is good, in one sense, that sacred
books have been thrown broadcast on the world; it has, to a certain
extent, divested them of much of their peculiar value in the minds of
the multitude. This was strangely exemplified to me some few years ago,
when engaged in the suppression of the slave trade, on the east coast of
Africa. There was a sale of European effects at Zanzibar, and amongst
other articles was an Arab Bible--_i.e._ the Koran, translated into
English. British residents bid high for this prize; but the Arabs,
determined that their sacred book should not fall into the hands of
those whom they deemed as infidels, bid still higher, and eventually
carried it off. By-and-by there was an English Bible put up, and, in a
spirit of tit-for-tat, the Arabs bid high for this, supposing the
religious zeal of the British would have compelled them to bid still
higher. They, however, did nothing of the kind, and it was knocked down
to the disgusted Arabs, who now considered us a nation of infidels
indeed. It may be, that even in this way it was a good thing that a copy
of our Bible should fall into the hands of the zealous Mohammedans.
* * * * *
The Rialto is a graceful double bridge of white marble, which by a
single span bridges the Grand Canal, leading from the bustling
market-place to the opposite side, which is almost as busy. Like old
London Bridge, it is crowded with little hucksters' shops; and I fancy
there is little real change in the scene it presents from the time when
the immortal Shakespeare drew his Shylock and Antonio from life. The
Hebrew is still a prominent figure in the thronged thoroughfare; but his
victim, let us hope, is conspicuous by his absence. Humanity is somewhat
softened since those days of yore.
Although there are no wheel-vehicles in Venice, and horses are still as
scarce as in Byron's time (when there were said to be only eight horses
in the city--four on the top of St. Mark's, and four in his lordship's
stables), it is easy to walk from one end of Venice to the other when
you once know your bearings, which are rather difficult to obtain,
unless you carry a pocket-compass, as all the places are so much alike,
and it is as easy to lose your way as in a forest. The streets are
narrow and crowded with shops, being connected by small bridges spanning
the canals at all points. Some of these smaller canals are in anything
but a wholesome or odorous condition, receiving, as they do, foulness of
all kinds from the houses. They must certainly render the city far from
healthy during the summer, when canal malaria and fever are prevalent.
Indeed, being almost tideless, they have to be occasionally dammed up
and cleaned out. Many of the narrow streets are also singularly
unsavoury; and though a foreigner should always be slow to judge of the
moral condition of a city by mere casual observation, the presence of a
very decided immorality is forced on one's notice in many ways in
Venice; it is impossible to doubt that not a few of these streets
contain perfect dens of filth and iniquity, judging by the
brazen-faced, abandoned-looking females who peer down at one from the
windows. It is hardly to be wondered at if this is so, pent up as the
population is between labyrinths of stone and water, streets and houses.
We know its condition in Byron's sad and reckless days, and it does not
seem to have improved much since.
I believe it is possible to walk nearly two-thirds round Venice by the
quays. It was in this way, only crossing the necessary bridges, that we
one day walked to the Arsenal, and visited the ancient Venetian
ship-building yard. We were particularly interested in the Nautical
Museum of the Italian Admiralty, just within the dockyard gates. Here
there is a very fine collection of models, from the historic gondola
"Bucentoro," on board which the Doges performed the singular ceremony of
"wedding the Adriatic," and the ancient war-ships which had met and
defeated the Turks, Greeks, and Genoese in many a tough encounter,--down
to the great ironclads of the Italy of to-day. We also saw a variety of
armour such as was worn in the ancient days of Venice, and a very quaint
old gun or mortar used in the days of her glory: it was entirely of
leather, and fired a large stone shot. On the poops and forecastles of
the ancient galleys were several guns on the modern mitrailleuse system,
to sweep down the slaves and criminals--who sat manacled by the feet,
while pulling the oars--in case of rebellion or disobedience. There are
many such sad mementoes at Venice, of an age of cruelty and tyranny,
when men were condemned unheard, to death or a life of slavery. But in
spite of these blemishes on a great name, Christendom is eternally
indebted to Venice, and her terrible but valiant Doges, for was she
not--
"Europe's bulwarks against the Ottomite"?
Among our pleasantest days in Venice must rank that on which we took
steamer to Lido, one of the narrow islands lying between the Adriatic
Sea and the lagoon of Venice, which acts as a kind of natural breakwater
to Venice. It was quite a treat to set foot on _terra firma_ once more,
for here we did find real land, and at least a horse and carriage to
convey us if needed.
The public gardens on the Lido were a gift to the Venetians from
Bonaparte, who pulled down a great many buildings, not even sparing
those which were consecrated, in order to give them a public promenade.
It was laid out in 1810 by Giannantino Selna, and though nothing very
grand, affords real delight and refreshment to the people, who enjoy
many a frolicsome dance here on summer nights. We had our luncheon
outside the _Café_, where we enjoyed the sight of the bright waves which
tumbled in so briskly at our feet, and the breath of the fresh breeze
which blew off the Adriatic Sea facing us. After our brief rest, we had
a glorious walk on the sandy shore, where "little trembling grasses"
grew on the edges of the sea, and shells lay scattered about in
infinite profusion and variety. Our spirits rose with the invigorating
freshness of the scene, and we returned to Venice by the evening steamer
as delighted as children, with handkerchiefs full of sea-shore
treasures.
We also made an interesting expedition one morning to the Venetian Glass
and Mosaic Works on the Grand Canal. We here saw how the beautiful
mosaics are designed and adjusted, and how the delicate, rainbow-tinted
glass is blown and spun into any imaginable design one might desire. I
brought away a fanciful little souvenir in the shape of a large head or
top of a pin, on which my initials appeared in divers colours,
interwoven with flowers by the intelligent workman.
We visited several palaces and churches, but found nothing of particular
interest save some very beautiful silk tapestry, studded with precious
stones, which covered the altar in the church of the Jesuits.
I do not think I should care to spend a very long period in the moated
imprisonment of the Sun-girt City, especially during the summer, when
canal malaria and fever is rife; and should certainly never think, like
Shelley, of forming any plans "never to leave sweet Venice." I must,
however, confess that for a certain time there is an irresistible
attraction and fascination in the unique kind of life one is forced to
lead here. The evenings are peculiarly enjoyable. The light blue sky of
day deepens gradually through twilight into night; the stars shine out
of its soft depths with a brilliant though cold effulgence, reflected
glimmeringly in the surrounding waters, which flow in quiet stillness on
every side. There is nothing around to disturb the silent eloquence of
night, and the flow of thought and meditation.
After a long and tiring day of sight-seeing, and a re-invigorating
dinner at the hotel, it is deliciously Venetian to rest in the evening,
with windows open to the star-lit skies, and listen to the sweet
serenading of a boatful of singers, who float on the waters near the
hotel till a late hour at night, their gondola prettily illuminated with
coloured lamps, and the soft liquid sound of their voices filling the
air with melody.
The great place of resort is the _Piazza of St. Mark's_. Here, sipping
our coffee and ices at Florian's, and listening to a good band of music,
we saw a little of Venetian society, and had an opportunity of admiring
some of the beautiful and dignified patrician dames of the city, who
otherwise were scarcely ever visible. It was decidedly disappointing to
find they had almost invariably discarded the graceful and becoming lace
head-dress and mantilla, and adopted the French costume. We were much
pleased and amused at the gaily dressed nurses, who, with their quaint
silver head-dresses, and broad streaming ribbons, looked so good
tempered, and showed such pride and pleasure in the lovely dark-eyed
babes they carried; and we always looked out for the beautiful and
picturesquely attired flower-seller, who presented her tiny bouquet
with so charming a grace, and further bestowed a sweet smile on us in
return for our franc. Flocks of the soft-plumed and ever-hungry St.
Mark's pigeons would greet us, espying us from afar, circling round and
almost burying us in their midst, delighted to perch on our hands and
peck the grain we brought to throw them.
There was always a busy and moving scene in the adjoining piazzetta;
swarms of gondolas awaiting your pleasure, under the gay sunlit skies,
the gondoliers shouting, "_Gon_-dola! _gon_-dola!" in almost ceaseless
strain. It is a good plan, when going on an excursion, to carefully
select your gondola the night before. After breakfast, you will find it
awaiting you handsomely decorated, its owner smartly dressed, Venetian
sailor fashion, with blue and silver scarf; and, taking with you a
basket of good things in the way of refreshments, away you glide for a
day's genuine pleasure.
I am afraid the romance of the gondola days will be sadly invaded by the
number of little "Citizen" steamers, which ply from pier to pier; but,
as they will necessarily be confined to the traffic of the Grand Canal,
the smaller canals will still be sacred to the sombre, silent gondola.
The day of our departure at last drew near, and we felt we must bid a
reluctant farewell to--
"The marble city by the silent sea."
On the whole we had not found it a very dear place. The charges at
Danieli's were moderate, and the hire of gondolas far cheaper than
carriages elsewhere. There is also far less inducement to spend money
than at Florence, Rome, and other places, for the shops are in a decided
minority, and sight-seeing the order of the day. We spent our last
evening in storing up in our minds all the pleasant memories of the past
week, and--
"The following morning, urged by our affairs,
We left bright Venice."