VENICE, ITALY, _May 15, 1857_.
A seven hours’ passage by steamer brings me across the head-waters
of the Adriatic from Trieste to this city. The contrast between the
rumbling noises of rolling wagons and carriages over the broad,
well-paved streets of the trading city, in addition to the heat
and oppression from clouds of dust from the calcareous mountain
roads, to the clean, quiet quays and landing-place of the steamer at
Venice, strikes the stranger upon his first visit, away from noise
and dust, and breathing a pure salt atmosphere. We left Trieste with
the beginning of a howling _Bora_, or north wind, which, being
after us, had no other effect than to quiet most of our passengers,
giving them a taste of the horrors of sea-sickness. Both cities are
free ports, and notwithstanding they are under Austrian rule, the
dissimilarity is very remarkable in every particular. The dialect is
different; the currency is metallic, the Lombardian states never having
accepted the paper medium of the Empire, being the only exception in
all the Austrian provinces; their weights and measures are not the
same; the habits and customs of the people are quite unlike. In Trieste
commerce predominates, and early hours are observed; here it is the
reverse, the habits of the people are late, the dining hour being five
P.M.; the theatres commence at nine and are out at twelve or
half-past twelve; many places of refreshment are open at midnight, and
others never close; during the heat of summer, the bright moonlight
nights are almost wholly passed in the open air, or in excursions in
gondolas, and the quietude and tranquillity of the city induces repose
by daylight.
It is now nearly a year since I wrote you from Venice, and this being
my fourth visit, I will not reiterate the remarkable sights of this
remarkable city. Sunday evening I was standing upon the Rialto Bridge,
which crosses the grand canal, admiring by moonlight the marble
palaces with their quaint architecture of Byzantine, Gothic, and other
styles, when I noticed the steeple of St. Apostoli, illuminated in the
distance; and on inquiry, I learned that it was a festival in honor
of the admission of a priest to full privileges. How many lanes or
passages, called _calle_, from four to twelve feet in width, in
this labyrinth of a city, I travelled, I know not; but prosecuting my
tortuous way through the multitude, I came at last to the Campiello,
or little square of the church, whose neighboring houses were gleaming
with lighted torches. Bengal lights and rockets were exploding in the
air; the cafés were filled; the masses, mostly the working classes,
were out, the brunettes without bonnets; the booths of the Fritolero,
with their bright copper kettles of boiling oil, preparing pastry, were
quite surrounded; dark-eyed damsels were overhanging the balconies,
listening to the sound of a guitar, or the merry song of a gondolier,
whose tiny bark lay in the canal underneath. I had so often witnessed
similar spectacles, that I should have been almost unconscious of the
novelty, but for the presence of an American friend on his first visit,
whom I was desirous of gratifying; his expressions of surprise awoke me
to a sense of the peculiarities of the scene. As gondolas are used by
strangers generally, who are unacquainted with the intricate passages
which require long experience, much of interest is lost. One steps
in his bark from the hotel door, and is rowed from church to church,
from palace to palace, as well as to the theatre, by means of these
intersecting canals, without the necessity of dodging in and out, and
around corners, and over bridges; when time and experience permit,
however, the land-route is of great interest, for one learns thereby
the characteristics of the people; one may walk for miles, and find
always something new and interesting.
Isolated as is Venice, every comfort and luxury can be procured here,
and one naturally seeks out the sources of supply. The flower girls
trip along in the morning under the porticos of San Marco, presenting
strangers with early-plucked roses. Fresh butter and milk are found
at the cafés. The water carriers, mostly country village girls, in
funny costume, wearing boys’ fur hats of peculiar form, with feathers,
are trotting bare-footed along with a pair of small copper kettles
suspended from flat elastic rods over their shoulders; the markets
are well supplied with shell and other fish; the landing-place for
vegetables is filled with boats delivering their cargoes; the water
barges are moving up the lateral canals; the wood market furnishes
its quota; foreign vessels contribute the colonial supplies; oranges,
cherries, strawberries, green peas, asparagus, are seen in all parts
exposed for sale, and the stranger looks in vain for any signs of
vegetation, or the bubbling of a fountain. The _gardino publico_,
the work of Napoleon, at the extreme end of the city, where, within
a given circuit, horse exercise may be taken, is resorted to more by
foreigners than by natives. Eight of these strange quadrupeds are kept
in hire for the purpose. They are now regarded less as a curiosity than
formerly.
Italy is the school for music, and the nursery of the arts; but
dramatic artists must not expect to acquire fortunes in it. The
operas and theatres are frequented for the purposes of coquetry, and
the exchange of salutations replaces visiting to a certain extent.
Shakspeare’s Othello, or the Moor of Venice, translated in Italian,
has had several repetitions lately here; it loses in the translation,
but the scene being laid here, the costume of the Doges, the canals
and bridges in the decorations, give it additional attractions. It is
curious to see the cushioned and richly furnished gondolas by the light
of a full moon, driving up like cabs to the front door steps of the
theatre, taking in the well-clad aristocracy, or such as live remote,
and do not wish to thread the narrow streets on their way home.