University of Virginia Library

VENICE.

SCENES.

Early on the day succeeding my arrival in Venice,
I was lolling upon the cushioned seats, and beneath
the little dark awning of a gondola, and was
thus carried along through numberless canals; the
stroke of the oar, and occasional salutation of the
gondolier alone breaking upon the impressive quietness.
Passing by the old and seemingly deserted
habitations which line the less public ways, I
silently but thoughtfully contemplated the surrounding
scene. One moment gliding beneath one
of the many short but massive bridges, another sailing
noiselessly under a window whence some listless

observer was gazing, now coming almost in contact
with a passing gondola, and again occupying the
solitary waters of a minor course. The steps and
lower portions of the buildings, green with humid
vegetation, the mouldering walls, the sad repose of
neglect, and the palpable evidences of time's corroding
finger, were circumstances too unique not to
be observed, and too interesting to be unimpressive.

I was introduced by the custode of the Tribunal
of Justice, upon the Bridge of Sighs—the lofty and
covered archway connecting the prison and palace.
I found it an exceedingly massive structure, consisting
of two passages, the two entrances communicating
with the general prison, and one of the two
leading into the palace being closed up. By examining
the locality, I soon perceived the error which
has been justly ascribed to Byron, that of supposing
that a passage from the palace to the prison was a
fatal path. On the contrary, he who was so happy
as to escape the condemnation of `the Ten,' was
acquitted, or remanded to his former cell, instead of
being consigned by the private staircase to the
secret dungeons beneath. Hence to him, in either
case, the path was joyful rather than sad. Well,
however, may such a heavy and short way between
the tribunal and the jail be called the Ponte di Sospiri;
for it must full often have re-echoed the heavy
sighs of innumerable sufferers. Descending by
the golden stairs, so called, I was guided to the
awful prisons beneath, and examined the rude in

scriptions and bloody stains still existent in the
gloomy vaults so long the secret scenes of suffering
and destruction.[1]

Landing near the church of St. Georgio Maggiore,
I admired, for some time, its architectural
neatness and simple grandeur. Next proceeding
to the Chiesa di Carmelitani, I was much interested
in examining the numerous precious marbles
which line its interior. Much time was
consumed in viewing some of the most important
churches, and in perusing the peculiar architecture
of many of the crumbling and blackened
palaces bordering the main canal. I remarked that
the former edifices were much lighter, and the marbles
more vivid than is the case with most of the
churches, out of Lombardy, which I had previously
seen. In one of these I was interestingly
occupied in viewing the monument to Canova;
one of the sculptured figures which adorn it
carries an urn containing the heart of the great
artist. The Academy of the Fine Arts engaged
much of my attention. In what has been called Titian's
master-piece—the Assumption, there seemed
to me exceeding richness without corresponding

effect; but in the `Marriage of Cana,' by Pardaronino,
I deemed the countenance of the bride one of
the most beautiful faces I had seen upon canvass,
with the exception of several of Raphael's Madonnas.

The more I saw of this peculiar school of painting
called Venetian, the more was I captivated with
its unrivalled richness and depth of colouring, and
the more regretful of its frequent lack of powerful
expression. This latter quality seems pre-eminently
requisite for the production of any thing like permanent
impression upon the mind of the spectator.
When I recall some of Raphael's works, the sentiment
embodied in the picture is before me, and
strongly identified with his unequalled images; but
even after a comparatively short interval, many of
the larger pictures of the Venetian school were
merged, in my imagination, in the splendour of their
own gorgeous hues.

I next disembarked at the Rialto, interesting
from its Shakspearian associations. Alas! no rich
Venetian merchants are now to be seen upon its
still bustling walk, though every traveller will find
something of the Shylock spirit lingering yet. A
subsequent object was the Arsenal, where the antique
statues before the entrance, the various instruments
of war and torture, and the models of the old
barques, proved quite curious, and worthy of attention.
Several fettered workmen, prisoners, passed
to and fro in the extensive yards, and the appearance

of active business was striking for this part of
the world.

I walked through the lower hall, and up the deserted
staircase of the Palazzo Barbarigo, with a
sentiment of melancholy sympathy for the changes
which time and events have wrought within and
without it. Here are the very rooms which were
graced with the presence of a venerable ancestry of
Venetian nobles, which had been the home of a
Doge, the studio where some of Titian's best efforts
were completed, and the final scene of his being.
Long did I sit in the front room, in one of the old
gilded chairs, gazing upon his Venus and Magdalene,
but especially up at the weeping, yet lovely countenance
of the latter, looming upon the air through the
encrustment of three hundred years of time and neglect.
I turned, too, frequently, to look upon the
painting of his daughter in the embrace of a Satyr,
and that member of the illustrious family who
patronized his young genius, and whom he has so
graphically depicted in his ducal cap. The old
Turkey carpet beneath my feet, the ancient portraiture
around me, the musty odour of the apartment,
and the deep quiet which prevailed, forced me
to feel that I was indeed in the palace of an old
Venetian, and that this very room had echoed the
voice and witnessed the anxious labours of one of
the most admired of the old masters.

THE DUCAL PALACE.

I proceeded to a scene of observation anticipated
with feelings much more deep than had been aroused
by other similar expectancies. I was about to
enter an aged and peculiar fabric, around which
some of the strongest associations of the place are
clustered. In Rome there is great generality in the
spontaneous interest with which we regard her antiquities.
Here an individual action, and there a remarkable
event, hallows the locality or the architectural
fragment. One may have his favourite scene
of history, or select from the scattered mass a single
object; but the principle in human nature, which is
the true spring of enjoyment in such observations—
the principle of association is linked with the whole
site of an ancient city's greatness and decline; and
the Forum, Coliseum, Tombs, Pillars and works of
art, while they realize more perfectly the local ideas
of the observer, do not, for that reason, dissever
them from their general object—from Rome as a
whole. But here, there is one comparatively small,
and therefore intensely interesting point, where are
concentrated the various historical associations, from
the brightest to the most mournful; there is one

scene teeming with the dream-like memory of that
peculiar government, and of those thrilling events,
which render the very idea of Venice so richly attractive
to the imagination and the heart.

And upon this spot I stood, amid these shadowers
forth of the past. The dark Gothic form of the
Ducal Palace was before me, and I slowly entered
the main portal, ascended the marble stairs, and
was upon the very spot where the successive Doges
of the republic were crowned, and where Marino
Faliero was decapitated; before me the richly wrought
marble gallery of the Senate, and at my right, the
apertures to which the lions' heads were attached,
into whose extended jaws so many fatal messages of
destruction were dropped. I thought of the grave,
richly robed forms of the Venetian Fathers; of the
trembling hands and wandering glances of the anonymous
accusers; of the gay peopling of those silent
corridors on the day when the new Doge entered
upon his office; of the happy, yet dignified bearing
of the patriarchs themselves, when they were thus
ushered into the highest station of the republic; of
the sad sternness of the old war-stricken soldier,
who died ignominiously where his fairest laurel was
won; of his young and despairing wife, and of the
outcry of the impatient multitude at the gate;—

A few moments elapsed, and I was within the
Grand Council chamber, upon the immense walls of
which are pictured, in tints which time has only
mellowed, some of the most illustrious incidents in
Venetian history. There they are, enclosed in
heavy, rich gilding, as when the wise men of a free
and victorious city looked to them for inspiration.
Above are hung the portraits of the long line of
Doges, exhibiting scarcely a face which does not
bear marks of strong mind and venerable experience.
Here, too, is the gloomy interruption to the singular
corps—the black veil and its sad inscription—hic
est locus Marini Falieri decapitati per crimine.
I tarried successively in the chamber where were
wont to convene the Senate, the Councils of the
Ten and the Forty, and the reception-room for ambassadors,
even the seats of which remained unviolated
but by decay. In the second, while studying
the paintings, a bat fluttered to and fro among the
cornices—a fit living concomitant of such a scene.
Here, too, the line of portraiture is again broken,
not by any insignia of crime, but by that of abrupt
cessation, the places prepared for succeeding Doges
presenting but a void.

THE ARMINIAN CONVENT.

An hour's gondola sailing brought me to St. Lazarus,
a pretty island about two miles from Venice; and
my application to view the very interesting convent
there situated, was very politely received by one of
the venerable and worthy brotherhood, Padre Pascal,
who, in his dark robes and long gray beard
looked like, what indeed he may justly be called, a
moral apostle of learning. Under his kind and intelligent
conduct I viewed this delightful institution;
the lovely and tranquil situation of which, the
neatness and order displayed in its interior arrangements,
and the works of useful and happy influence
going unassumingly on within its consecrated walls,
attracted my earnest sympathy and respect. In the
beautiful library I found books in all languages,
and a fine bust of the founder of the institution, by
Canova. At the table upon which this stood, my
conductor had given lessons in Arminian to Lord
Byron, who frequented the convent for that purpose,
and assisted his teacher in preparing a grammar
of the language. In a smaller library I was
shown many interesting works printed in the convent:

among others, a prayer book in twenty-four
languages, Milton's Paradise Lost, and Rollin's
Ancient History, translated into Arminian by the
learned padre. Having looked at the press below,
and enjoyed the fine view from various parts of the
building, I took my leave, eminently gratified
with this visit to one of the seemingly truly admirable
institutions extant. Its objects are primarily
the instruction of Arminian youth, the general dissemination
of knowledge, and the cultivation of literature
in connexion with theology. Its members,
strictly speaking, are Arminians, but education is afforded
to others, through visits to the island. Brethren
are continually sent forth; my good friend himself
had been a considerable traveller, and I could
readily believe his assertion, that in all his wanderings,
he had found no spot like this.

THE LAST EXCURSION.

The day was drawing to a close when I embarked
for a final excursion, and, having reached the lido,
passed a pleasant hour in promenading the Adriatic
shore, with that beautiful expanse of water stretching
beyond the limits of vision, and soothingly laving
the sands at my feet. Upon returning, the sun was
below the horizon, and the deep, pompous outline
of the Tyrol rose commandingly in the distance; a
rich glow suffused the face of the western sky, and
the evening star gleamed peacefully. The still waters
of the gulf reflected with beautiful distinctness
the spires and adjoining buildings, and the few vessels
in the port lay perfectly tranquil upon its bosom.
At that hour, when the associations of Venice are
so earnestly excited by its own quiet beauty, my
old gondolier grew communicative. To-morrow, he
said, was the anniversary of one of the most splendid
festas of the republic. On that day, fifty years ago,
the doge, senators, nobility and distinguished strangers
embarked in the golden barge, and when arrived
at the lido, the former dropped a ring into the sea,

and then the whole company repaired to a neighbouring
church to celebrate a solemn function, after
which a grand fete was partaken of at the palace, and
innumerable comfits distributed upon the piazza;
thus, yearly, were observed the nuptials of the Adriatic.
He had been in the service of Byron three
years and a half, and during that time, had daily,
after dinner, transported the poet to the shore, where
he rode along the sands for some hours; and often
had he followed him with the gondola as he swam or
floated for miles upon the calm surface of the bay.
The little white house to which the curious repaired
to see him mount his horse, and the convent which
he daily frequented, were pointed out; and as an
instance of his lordship's generosity, the bargeman
bid us remember that when the printer whom he
employed in Venice lost his establishment by fire,
he privately sent him a hundred louis d'ors. As
an evidence of the fallen fortunes even of the gondoliers,
he declared that immediately prior to the
downfall of the republic, he received forty francs
per day from two Signori Inglesi, for fifteen days,
beside a buonamano of a suit of clothes; while an
eighth of that sum is the present stipend. I induced
the old man to sing a stanza of Tasso, as I thus
approached the city. The evening gun resounded,
a band of music struck up, and silently contemplating
the realization of my dreams of Venice, I
touched the steps of the quay, and emerged from
that silent solemnity upon the illuminated and gaily
occupied Piazza of St. Marco—to feel with him of
whom I was just conversing, that