University of Virginia Library

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.