THE DUCAL PALACE--BRIDGE OF SIGHS--THE POZZI--CAMPANILE--VIEW
FROM THE SUMMIT--SWIFTS--THE PIGEONS OF ST. MARKS--DEPARTURE
FROM VENICE--THE ANCONA STEAMER--THE ADRIATIC--VICISSITUDES OF
A SEA-VOYAGE--THE UNFORTUNATE FRIAR--POLA--ITS ANTIQUITIES--THE
HOTEL--ANCONA--THE CUSTOM-HOUSE--DISAPPOINTMENT--A VILLAGE IN THE
APPENINES--FULIGNO--ASSISI--THE BOARDING-HOUSE--SAN FRANCESCO--MUSICAL
SHOEMAKERS--SPOLETO--MY COUNTRYWOMAN--TERNI--ROME.
I shall not describe the Ducal Palace with its _pozzi_ and _piombi_,
its magnificent staircase and the Lion’s mouth, and the once gloomy
chambers of the Inquisition. All these have been too well handled by
professed tourists, to require any further observation on my part, and
I doubt not there are many living within five miles of St. Paul’s,
who possess a much clearer idea of the interior of San Marco, with
its apostle screen, gilt mosaics, and uneven pavement, than of the
noble monument to their own Sir Christopher. Suffice it to say, that
in company of some relatives whom I met in Venice, whose curiosity was
proof against difficulties that would altogether have taken _me_ aback,
I succeeded not merely in peeping through the key-hole of the fatal
door, but in standing on the Bridge of Sighs. To effect this negatively
desirable object, we were compelled to penetrate to the bureau of some
functionary, holding a situation in the prison on the other side, and
having secured an old man with the key, we retraced our steps to the
Palace, and passed through the portal.
The Ponte dei Sospiri consists of two distinct passages: by one the
accused was led before the Inquisitors, from whose presence he was
either conducted through the other to be strangled, or consigned by
the brutal and cowardly policy of that dark tribunal, to the perpetual
damps of the _Pozzi_, or subaqueous dungeons of the Ducal Palace. The
number of those who left the inquisition to be restored to the light of
day, was limited indeed: mercy or pardon were not among the attributes
of the so called, “Justice of St. Mark,” and the miserable accused
never experienced the benefit of a doubt. We shuddered in the state
dungeons, and crept through the damp and tortuous passages, gazing with
feelings of awe and horror at the iron grating, where so many innocent
victims had gasped the last unavailing appeal for mercy, at the hands
of their fellow-men.
It is well worth a little trouble to ascend the Campanile of St.
Mark’s, from whose summit the view is unique, and should you happen
to be upon the platform at the hour of sunset, you will allow it to
be so to a very _striking_ degree. The noise of the monstrous bells
is indeed almost deafening. Although Venice is intersected with small
canals, in every possible direction, it is extraordinary that but one
is visible from the summit of the bell-tower, a fact only accounted for
by the close proximity of the houses. Of the Grand Canal there are many
glimpses, while the various islands of the Lagune are seen from hence
to great advantage. All day and night there are watchmen at the top of
the Campanile, whose duty it is to give the alarm, in case of fire,
and from their great elevation, they are able at once to judge of its
precise locality. These worthies employ their leisure time in letting
fly small pieces of white paper, in order to observe the gambols of
the swifts, which are certainly most amusing. No sooner is a piece let
off, than it is pursued by a lot of these little birds, who appear to
scuffle and fight for its possession most lustily. Occasionally it is
impaled by the sharp beak of one of them, and thus forms a frill around
its neck, which leads to its destruction. Its efforts to disengage
itself are unavailing. No sooner has it donned its fatal necklace, than
a crowd of its fellows enter on the pursuit, and the poor bird is then
either pecked to death, or drops from sheer exhaustion on one of the
neighbouring roofs.
The pigeons of St. Mark’s are proverbially respected, and many legends
are told concerning them. Some one, it appears, left as a legacy, a
sum of money to be exclusively devoted to the purchase of food for
these Penates of the Venetians, which are exceedingly numerous, and
swarm upon the roofs of the Church of St. Marc, and adjacent buildings.
They are fed every day precisely at noon, and no sooner do the bronze
figures on the Clock Tower swing round upon their pivots, in readiness
for the first stroke of twelve, than the air is partially darkened
by the clouds of pigeons, that sweep over the square, hitching and
perching upon the ledges and window-sills of the Procuratie Veechie.
Grain is then scattered from an open window, and although the sight is
of every day occurrence, the table-d’hôte of the pigeons is watched
with eagerness by the surrounding crowd. We were much struck with one
circumstance in connexion with these birds. On a certain day in the
year, all the clocks in the city are silent, and we expected that the
pigeons would have been nonplused. Never were we more mistaken. No
bell sounded, nor did the figures move, yet precisely as the gold
hands on the dial of the Clock Tower reached their zenith, the pigeons,
whose stomachs were not to be cheated, were seen flocking in from all
quarters to their usual meal.
The weather becoming cooler, and having derived considerable benefit
from the advice and attention of Dr. T----g, I began to think of
turning my face once more towards Rome, and never having been at
Ancona, resolved to take advantage of a little steamer plying between
that port and Venice two or three times a month. My friend Luish had
already set off with some acquaintance for Florence, and most of my
other associates were dispersed in different directions. I therefore
took leave of such few as remained, and engaged my berth at an office
in the Piazza. It appeared that I had chosen an unfavourable time for
making a sea-trip, as the weather had been for some days very stormy,
and on repairing on board, I was told by the captain, that he could
not venture to put out to sea that day. This happened three times in
succession, until I began to regret that I had paid my fare, for I
know few things more annoying than to be at loose ends in a place,
with your portmanteau packed, your bedroom let to another occupant,
and yourself uncertain at what moment you may be called upon to join
your ship. On the third day we got off at the hour of noon, with about
twenty-five passengers, all bound for Ancona, the majority of whom were
priests and monks; but there was also a German artist with his family,
of the name of Heinrich, whom I found very agreeable. We had not been
long in the Adriatic, before our captain seemed bitterly to regret
that he had left the friendly shallows of the lagunes. Our ill-built
little steamer, rolled uneasily in the heavy sea, and as night closed
in, we had anything but a pleasant prospect before us. Most of the
passengers were soon rendered insensible to the peril of our situation:
prostrated by sea-sickness they lay stretched upon the deck, careless
alike of the combat of the elements, and of the torrents of salt water
which swept over us, and poured down the badly-closed hatchways. Not
being myself a sufferer in this respect, I was enabled to render some
little assistance to the wife and little girls of the Herr Heinrich,
and managed with some difficulty to get them stowed away, three in a
berth, in one of the upper bed-places. The sailors declared that the
monks, who had betaken themselves to their beads, were the cause of
our ill-luck, while the captain, who appeared a poor weak-minded man,
lost all command over himself and ship, and indulged in deep potations.
The sailors, however, stuck unflinchingly to their duty, and in this
state of affairs I went below to see if I could get any rest. The water
was rolling about in the cabin, and hat-boxes and other light packages
were carried hither and thither in the utmost confusion. The pitching
of the vessel was quite fearful, and even had my fears allowed of
my sleeping, any attempt thereat would have been absurd. I squeezed
myself, however, into a berth, and had only just done so, when, by a
sudden lurch, an enormously exaggerated friar, who had been lying in a
state of semi-torpor immediately above me, toppled out of his berth,
and upsetting in his descent the table, which was loaded with clothes
and other articles, splashed heavily into the water beneath. A minute
sooner, and I must have been annihilated. How the good man had ever
managed to reach the berth from whence he had fallen, I cannot tell.
But it was no time for reflection. Though a little stunned, the poor
friar got upon all fours, in an attempt to find his legs, but fright
and sickness had rendered him weak, and losing his equilibrium, he was
speedily carried beyond my reach by another lurch, and as I had no mind
to exchange my comparatively comfortable position for a wrestling-match
with a sick Capuchin, in half-a-fathom of dirty water, I waited until
a third lurch brought him back again, when I grappled him, and held on
tight till he righted.
Whilst engaged in these little recreations, I suddenly became sensible
that we had got into smooth water, and with the pleasing anticipation
that we might by accident have hit Ancona, I was hastening on deck,
when a slight shock which followed the stoppage of the engines, set us
all off rolling again. Day was now just beginning to dawn, and as the
light increased, a beautiful and well-sheltered bay was revealed to
our view. The sailors had run us on a sandy shore, within sight of the
town of Pola, on the coast of Istria, and I began to think the wind
that blows nobody any good, must indeed be an ill one, inasmuch as many
travellers have gone scores of miles out of the regular beaten track,
to visit the ancient city, near which we were now safely stranded. The
sight of terra-firma restored spirits to our whole party, though they
were most of them considerably astonished at finding themselves as far
as ever from Ancona. As soon as we could land, a proceeding rendered
easy by the assistance of some of the good folk from Pola, we walked to
the town, and entering by one accord its little church, each in his own
way returned thanks for our deliverance from the perils of the deep.
Being told that our vessel would not again put to sea, until the
swell had somewhat abated, we had ample time before us to view the
antiquities of Pola. The amphitheatre or arena, is the great lion of
the place, and stands about half-a-mile from the town, close to the
shore, which in many places is rocky and precipitous. The outer wall
of this relic of Roman magnificence, remains perfect, evincing the
great extent of the building; but the interior is nearly all in ruins,
saving a few of the masses of masonry, which formerly supported the
raised seats. The whole interior is clogged up with heaps of rubbish,
overgrown in parts with weeds and brambles, and possesses a most
forlorn appearance. Viewed from the outside, the arena forms a splendid
ruin, the effect being much enhanced by its peculiar and picturesque
situation. Pola seems to have been once fortified with a strong wall,
of which the remains are tolerably perfect in places, and there is
also a Roman arch in good preservation, called, I believe, the Porta
Aurea, but the worthy people of the place seem to know very little
indeed either about its history, or the remains, which alone render it
of consequence in the eyes of the few travellers who visit it. There
is a miserable inn in the little piazza, but the sudden irruption of
five-and-twenty hungry steam-boat passengers, whose appetites had been
whetted to an alarming degree, by the inside-out experience of the
preceding night, caused such a run upon the eatables, that by the time
we had finished our breakfast, there was a partial famine in the place,
and we had to make our dinner off fish and vegetables.
At five o’clock, our Captain, who had recovered his erring senses,
recalled us on board, but it was ten at night before the steam was up,
and our little vessel once more fairly afloat. Our voyage to Ancona,
though stormy enough, proved less boisterous than that of the night
before, and I believe we were all very glad to turn our backs upon the
still agitated water.
At the custom-house, I had some little difficulty in passing my few
valuables, without paying a heavy duty. The Pope’s douaniers were
extremely curious, and a portable sketching apparatus, which I had
with me, unfortunately attracted the attention of the whole posse of
searchers. I thought the best way was to humour them, and therefore
opened my camp-stool, drew out a ready stretched piece of prepared
paper, squeezed a few dabs of paint upon the pallette, and might
perhaps have finished by caricaturing the whole lot, had not a more
considerate officer taken compassion on me, and desired me to shut up
my shop, an order I obeyed with the greatest alacrity. The result of my
delay was, that my travelling companions had appropriated all the rooms
in the “Albergo della Pace,” and I had to seek a bed elsewhere.
I rose early the next day, in order to visit the old Cathedral church
and a triumphal arch, erected on the Mole, in honour of Trajan. I also
called upon my friend Heinrich, the German artist in acquarelle, who
had already engaged a _vettura_, to convey himself and family to Rome.
After some little bargaining with the driver, I secured a seat in the
coupè as far as Fuligno, having pretty much determined to make a halt
of a few days at Assisi, before returning to my old quarters in the Via
Sistina.
We quitted Ancona at five in the morning, passing no fewer than
three distinct dogana, at each of which we were overhauled, though
fortunately without paying any duty. I found a trifling bribe go
farther than a boat-load of quiet civility or resignation, a papal
custom-house officer being devoid of all feeling save the modicum
existing in his palms, which when tickled with a small coin, generally
expand to the traveller’s advantage. On our arrival at Osimo, where our
vetturino gave us some breakfast, we discovered to our chagrin, that
our road would not lead us by Loretto, a disappointment for which we
had to thank ourselves in not making a better bargain, and we had the
mortification to catch a tantalizing glimpse only of the towers of “Our
Lady,” to which we had all been anticipating a pilgrimage. Continuing
our journey, we slept at Tolentino, at a most miserable and dirty
inn, and were really glad when the waiter called us at the somewhat
early hour of two (!) to resume our journey. It was of course quite
dark, and moreover, was raining heavily. I went to the stable to call
the driver, whom I found fast asleep between his jaded horses, and we
experienced some of the shivering pleasures of _vetturino_ travelling,
as we waited for him to “put to.” The waiter endeavoured to increase
our discomforts, by offering coffee and bread in the middle of the
night, our coachman declaring that he had to pay for it, and that if
we refused it, we should get no more. We enlightened him, however, by
afterwards pulling up at a little inn at the foot of the Appenines,
where we had our coffee, when we were able to enjoy it. About five
in the afternoon we reached Fuligno, where I had to bid a temporary
adieu to my friend Heinrich and his amiable family. The waiter of the
hotel informed me that he had a little one-horse vettura, which would
take me comfortably to Assisi for fifteen pauls, and closing with his
offer, I agreed to set off next morning. It seemed, however, as if the
rainy season had thoroughly set in--the water poured down in torrents,
splashing in at the ill-closed windows of my old-fashioned vehicle, and
I had a miserably wet ride, passing through the ancient town of Spello,
and reaching Assisi about one o’clock. An old Roman acquaintance had
recommended to me the Casa Carpinelli, whither I ordered the boy
to drive, and found the family just sitting down to dinner. There
were already two visitors in the house, one a countryman of my own,
and the other a French artist, but I found excellent accommodation,
and can offer a willing tribute of acknowledgment to the kind care
of the Signor Lorenzo, who boarded and did for me, at the rate of
three-and-a-half pauls per diem.
The Church of San Francesco is of course _the_ lion of Assisi, and is a
very fine specimen of early Gothic architecture, abounding also in rich
frescoes, by Giotto and others. There are three distinct churches, one
over the other, the lowest of the three being cut in the rock, which
serves as the foundation of the entire building. Hundreds of pilgrims
resort hither annually, to worship at the shrine of San Francesco,
whose bones repose within this splendid temple. The convent of the
order of Francescans is attached to the church, and standing out
boldly as it does, from the face of the rock, has the appearance of a
strong fortification. The church of Santa Chiara is also well worth a
visit. It was formerly adorned with superb frescoes which, by command
of some infatuated bishop, were covered with whitewash, and all but
obliterated. There are yet a few remaining over the altar, and these
serve by their beauty to increase the regret one feels at the fate of
their companions.
I staid a few weeks at Assisi, spending the greater portion of my time
in extended rambles through the neighbouring country, which, though
offering but few subjects for the pencil, is beautifully wooded, and
abounds with pleasing landscape. In the town I made many acquaintance,
of whom the most entertaining was a musical shoemaker, whom I had
called on with an order. I was I believe, whistling as I entered his
little workshop, though I should hardly have known that I was so doing,
had not my new friend exclaimed, “_quello é un bel pezzo, Signore_!”
and I should still have been at a loss to know whether he alluded to
my _morceau_, or to the leather in his hand, had he not, quick as
thought, whipped out a Cremona, and played me the whole of the piece
with remarkable precision and clearness. Giuseppe really _did_ possess
a soul above buttons, as I found out when I became better acquainted
with him. He had fitted up a large room at the back of his house as a
_stanza di musica_, where he instructed a number of young men of his
acquaintance, in the mysteries of counterpoint.
The shoemakers of Italy are remarkable for their devotion to harmony,
and my Assisi friends may be cited as a favourable specimen of the
craft, who, if unable to afford money to purchase instruments, and
time to use them, will sing glees as they sit at work, with a degree
of proficiency that is sometimes astonishing. Nor do they confine
their vocal powers to the shop only. When work is over, and they are
about to separate for the evening, they will be seen with their hands
rammed down into their pockets, and their heads close together, either
singing at a street corner, or marking time with measured pace, as
they take the road homewards. Giuseppe and his companions, who were
all instrumentalists, devoted two nights in the week to the private
performance of concerted pieces, to which as a stranger I was kindly
invited, and it will be long before I lose the remembrance of these
agreeable and unpretending little réunions.
I quitted Assisi on the day of _Tuttisanti_, or All Saints, making a
bargain with the Fuligno postman to take me that far in his carrettina
for the sum of four pauls. Taking a last peep into the Cathedral church
of San Rufino, where some imposing ceremonies were going forward, I
took leave of my Assisi friends, and got away about two. It rained hard
all the way to Fuligno, but the monstrous campagna umbrella kindly lent
me by the Signora Carpinelli, covered both myself and the postman, and
saved us from a thorough drenching. On alighting at the “Croce Bianca,”
I found a vetturino who was to start the next morning for Rome, and
with him I soon came to an arrangement.
The waiter called me at five, bringing a cup of coffee, and having
hastily dressed myself, I got into my corner of the _legno_. The rain
was descending in sheets, and I wondered that our driver would venture
out before day-break in such weather. As soon as the light had dawned,
I discovered my travelling companions to be two priests and a lady, who
soon commenced an animated conversation, that served to shorten the
ride to Spoleto, where our vetturino pulled up at the hotel, declaring
he would proceed no farther in such _tempaccio_. His half-dripping
freight had nothing to do but to submit, and I therefore entered the
inn and ordered a bed, determined to make the best of a forced halt. In
the coffee-room, up stairs, I found a stout lady at a table, eating,
with a lot of damp Italians gazing at her in astonishment. On a rainy
day, a weather-bound traveller may be excused a trifling liberty, and
I therefore stared with the rest, though I really did not observe
anything remarkable until the lady addressed the gaping half-dozen.
“Ah! you may stare; pity you ai’nt got nothing better to stare at!”
The Italians seemed surprised and edified, and looked at each other
in silence, and then again at the stout lady, who resumed. “Yes, I
only wish _looking_ at them cutlets ’ud make em bigger! Here, garsony,
some salad!” “Eccomi qua Signora!” said the waiter, who emerged from
behind a screen, at the far end of the room, where he had concocted
a genuine _insalata_ of highly lubricated beans, with a garnish of
anchovies, which he now set down in triumph before the astonished
lady. “Well, I never,” exclaimed she, “cold French beans with ile and
vinegar--no, no, I aint _quite_ come to that yet, neither, the very
look on ’em makes me ill!” And my graceful countrywoman, producing a
capacious case-bottle, drank her own health with infinite gusto, and
then pledged the crowd of admirers, who bowed and took another long
stare. At this juncture a good-humoured looking vetturino entered the
room, whom she no sooner caught sight of, than she poured out for him
another _petit verre_, and shaking her head ruefully, pointed to the
dessert and remains of her repast which had evidently consisted of some
few and very light materials, and had by no means come up to _her_
understanding of the agreement made with the vetturino. But her wily
driver, who swallowed the cognac, declined taking the hint, beckoning
her away with a notice of “Siamo pronto, Signora,” and in defiance of
both wind and water, they were soon again on their road northwards
before I could get an opportunity of speaking the strange sail. The
rain did not hold up until the moon rose, when it was too late to go
forward; so we staid the night at Spoleto, and on the following day
managed to reach Strittura, where we again met with a detention of
some hours. At Terni, we dropped one of the priests, and took in his
place a worthy sort of man, Governor of some little country district,
and exceedingly self-important. On arriving at Narni, our vetturino
drove to the “Campana,” or Bell Inn, a poor place enough, though said
to be the best in the town. The waiter, who took us for a party of
natives, from whom he would scarcely derive as much profit, as from
a carriage-load of travelling “Inglese,” was impudent and abusive,
but had no sooner detected a little badge of office worn by the
Governatore, who unfastened his upper Benjamin to that intent, than he
altered his tone, and shewed us excellent rooms. In the dining-room,
I fell in with more than a score of English, principally ladies, and
most amusing was it to me to hear their remarks upon our little party,
our dress and personal appearance being freely canvassed, without the
least affectation of whisper or concealment. I had my revenge upon them
in the evening, when it was decided that we should amuse ourselves by
having a song from every one present, the priests only being exempted.
On its coming round to me, I selected something in the mother tongue,
which, as the language was entirely unanticipated by certain of the
young ladies, produced so strange an effect, that they left the room in
confusion, and could scarcely be induced to return.
On reaching Otricoli the next day, we found a great number of vehicles,
public and private, as well as the Corriera or mail, detained there
by the overflow of the Tiber at the Ponte Felice. We were disposing
ourselves to pass the remainder of the day in this miserable village,
when a post-boy with some return horses, having brought the news that
the water was not more than three palms over the road, we all decided
to venture, and arrived at Civita Castellana without difficulty. At
Rome I put up at an inn in the Via del Orso, with my Italian friend
the Governor, until I could suit myself with a lodging, and on walking
to the Lepri, fell in with many of my old artistical acquaintance at
Aurelio’s table, who received me with many expressions of welcome.