The stains of slavery are only to be finally washed out with blood. The
more intelligent and wealthier classes ought once for all to understand
this, and to spare humanity the false solutions which settle nothing.
In other days, Venice, following the impetus given by her sister
Lombardy, effaced the many years of her humiliation and servility in
blood. It is not so now. She emerges from foreign dominion, not through
her own acts, but by the courage of others. Oh! if only her liberty
had been won by the valor of her brethren! But no, she was redeemed
by foreign swords. Sadowa, the glory of Prussia, freed Venice, and the
Italian nation asks no veil to hide this dishonor.
Nations, like individuals, require dignity to live--require the life
of the soul besides mere physical existence, to which our rulers would
condemn us.
Once the Queen of the Adriatic carried her proud lion into the far east,
repressed the victorious Ottoman, and dictated laws to him. The monarchs
of Europe, invoked and backed by the jealous Italian States, conspired
together against Venice, and were driven off by the amphibious and brave
republicans. Who would now recognize those proud compatriots of the
Dandoli and the Morosini in the ranks of men who require the foreigner
to free them, and, when free, throw themselves among the offscourings of
"the Moderates"--a party ready for any abasement, for any infamy.
How tyranny alters the noblest beings, and emasculates them! Take
comfort, however, Venetians; you do not stand alone, for such as
you have I seen the descendants of Leonidas and Cincinnatus. Slavery
impressed on the forehead of man such a mark of infamy as to confound
him with the beasts of the forest.
However, humbled as they have been, and still are, the Italians do not
neglect their amusements and their festivals. "Bread and pleasure!" they
cry to their tyrants, as of old they cried to their tribunes; and the
priest, to please, cheat, and corrupt them, has surrounded himself by
a mass of ostentatious ceremonies, surpassing all that the impostors of
old furnished, to conceal fraud by magnificent display. Do not talk of
politics, do not even think of them, but pay, and despoil yourselves
with a good grace, so as to support your masters richly, then they will
give you to satiety masses, processions, festas, games, amusements, and
sensual pleasures.
The sailing of the Bucentaur was one of the ceremonies very dear to the
people when Venice was free, when it had its own Government and Doge. On
the day fixed for the festival, the Bucentaur, the most splendid galley
of the Republic, decked out with as much ornament and as many banners as
possible, glittering with gilding and rich hangings, bore the Doge, the
Ministers of State, and the most remarkable beauties of the day, all
in gala costume. They started from the palace of St. Mark, and rowed
towards the Adriatic. Many other galleys formed a procession, following
in the wake of the Bucentaur, as well as a large number of gondolas
decked for the holiday, and containing the largest part of the
population, male and female.
Oh, beautiful wert thou in those days, ill-fated Queen! when thy
Dandoli, thy Morosini, sought, in the name of Venice, to propitiate the
waves on behalf of the bold navigators of the Adriatic. Hail to thee,
Republic of nine centuries! true mother of Republics! Yet if in thy
greatness thou hadst associated with thine Italian sisters instead
of hating them, the foreigner would not have trodden us all down and
enslaved us. Hide the wounds that your chains have made, smooth the
lines that misery has impressed on your forehead. Do not forget, whether
rejoicing or sorrowing, those humiliations through which you have
passed, and henceforth remember that only when united can Italy defy the
great foreign powers who are jealous of her uprise.
General Garibaldi stood leaning against a balcony of St. Mark's Palace,
which looked over the lagoon, in the company of our fair Romans, with
Muzio, Orazio, and Gasparo. He was listening to an old cicerone, who was
dilating on the ancient glories of the Republic, and after having spoken
on a variety of subjects, this individual had arrived at the description
of the festival of the Bucentaur. He expressed his regret at not being
able to see one of them nowadays, and pointed to the spot whence
from the mole started the famous craft, when suddenly Muzio's eye was
arrested by a well-known face, which appeared at the entrance of
the cabin of a gondola drawn up at the gates of the palace. Muzio
disappeared like lightning, and stood before Attilio, who descended,
pressed his friend's right hand, and could only articulate the
melancholy word, "Dead!"
"It was fated, then, that this relic of Roman greatness should come here
to die," murmured the ex-President, having partly heard, partly guessed
the tidings of Attilio.
"He died like a brave man," said the chief of the Three Hundred.
"And many Italians know how to die so," thought Muzio; "but it is
sweeter to die fighting against the oppressors!"
"I will return to our party," said Muzio, "and consult with the General,
that he may turn our excursion in another direction, so as not to expose
Irene and Orazio to the shock of meeting the remains of their beloved
one; I will afterwards rejoin you with Gasparo."