University of Virginia Library

38. LETTER XXXVIII.

In a first visit to a great European city it is difficult
not to let many things escape notice. Among several
churches which I did not see when I was here before,
is that of the Jesuits. It is a temple worthy of the celebrity
of this splendid order. The proportions are
finer than those of most of the Venetian churches,
and the interior is one tissue of curious marbles and
gold. As we entered, we were first struck with the
grace and magnificence of a large heavy curtain, hanging
over the pulpit, the folds of which, and the figures
wrought upon it, struck us as unusually elegant and
ingenious. Our astonishment was not lessened when
we found it was one solid mass of verd-antique marble.
Its sweep over the side and front of the pulpit is as
careless as if it were done by the wind. The whole
ceiling of the church is covered with sequin gold — the
finest that is coined. In one of the side chapels is the
famous “Martyrdom of St. Lawrence,” by Titian. A
fine copy of it (said in the catalogue to be the original)
was exhibited in the Boston Athenæum a year or two
since.

It is Sunday, and the morning has been of a heavenly,
summer, sunny calmness, such as is seen often
in Italy, and once in a year, perhaps, in New England.
It is a kind of atmosphere that to breathe is to be
grateful and happy. We have been to the Armenian
island — a little gem on the bosom of the Lagune, a
mile from Venice, where stands the monastery, to
which place Lord Byron went daily to study and translate
with the fathers. There is just room upon it for
a church, a convent, and a little garden. It looks
afloat on the water. Our gondola glided up to the
clean stone stairs, and we were received by one of the
order, a hale but venerable looking monk, in the Armenian
dress, the long black cassock and small round
cap, his beard long and scattered with gray, and his
complexion and eyes of a cheerful, child-like clearness,
such as regular and simple habits alone can give. I
inquired, as we walked through the cloister, for the father
with whom Lord Byron studied, and of whom the
poet speaks so often and so highly in his letters. The
monk smiled and bowed modestly, and related a little
incident that had happened to him at Padua, where he
had met two American travellers, who had asked him
of himself in the same manner. He had forgotten
their names, but from his description I presumed one
to have been Professor Longfellow, of Bowdoin university.

The stillness and cleanliness about the convent, as
we passed through the cloisters and halls, rendered
the impression upon a stranger delightful. We passed
the small garden, in which grew a stately oleander in
full blossom, and thousands of smaller flowers, in neat
beds and vases, and after walking through the church,
a plain and pretty one, we came to the library, where
the monk had studied with the poet. It is a proper
place for study — disturbed by nothing but the dash of
oars from a passing gondola, or the scream of a sea-bird,
and well furnished with books in every language,
and very luxurious chairs. The monk showed us an
encyclopædia, presented to himself by an English lady
of rank, who had visited the convent often. His handsome
eyes flashed as he pointed to it on the shelves.
We went next into a smaller room, where the more
precious manuscripts are deposited, and he showed us
curious illuminated copies of the Bible, and gave us
the stranger's book to inscribe our names. Byron
had scrawled his there before us, and the emperess Maria
Louisa had written hers twice on separate visits.
The monk then brought us a volume of prayers, in
twenty-five languages, translated by himself. We
bought copies, and upon some remark of one of the
ladies upon his acquirements, he ran from one language
to another, speaking English, French, Italian,
German, and Dutch, with equal facility. His English

was quite wonderful; and a lady from Rotterdam,
who was with us, pronounced his Dutch and German
excellent. We then bought small histories of the order,
written by an English gentleman, who had studied
at the island, and passed on to the printing-office — the
first clean one I ever saw, and quite the best appointed.
Here the monks print their bibles and prayer-books in
really beautiful Armenian type, beside almanacs, and
other useful publications for Constantinople, and other
parts of Turkey. The monk wrote his name at our
request (Pascal Aucher) in the blank leaves of our
books, and we parted from him at the water-stairs
with sincere regret. I recommend this monastery to
all travellers to Venice.

On our return we passed near an island, upon which
stands a single building — an insane hospital. I was
not very curious to enter it, but the gondolier assured
us that it was a common visit for strangers, and we consented
to go in. We were received by the keeper,
who went through the horrid scene like a regular
cicerone, giving us a cold and rapid history of every
patient that arrested our attention. The men's apartment
was the first, and I should never have supposed
them insane. They were all silent, and either read
or slept like the inmates of common hospitals. We
came to a side door, and as it opened, the confusion of
a hundred tongues burst through, and we were introduced
into the apartment for women. The noise was
deafening. After traversing a short gallery, we entered
a large hall, containing perhaps fifty females. There
was a simultaneous smoothing back of the hair and
prinking of the dress through the room. These,
the keeper said, were the well-behaved patients, and
more innocent and happy-looking people I never saw.
If to be happy is to be wise, I should believe with the
mad philosopher, that the world and the lunatic should
change names. One large, fine-looking woman took
upon herself to do the honors of the place, and came
forward with a graceful courtesy and a smile of condescension
and begged the ladies to take off their bonnets,
and offered me a chair. Even with her closely-shaven
head and coarse flannel dress, she seemed a lady.
The keeper did not know her history. Her attentions
were occasionally interrupted by a stolen
glance at the keeper, and a shrinking in of the shoulders,
like a child that had been whipped. One handsome
and perfectly healthy-looking girl of eighteen,
walked up and down the hall, with her arms folded,
and a sweet smile on her face, apparently lost in pleasing
thought, and taking no notice of us. Only one
was in bed, and her face might have been a conception
of Michael Angelo for horror. Her hair was uncut,
and fell over her eyes, her tongue hung from her
mouth, her eyes were sunken and restless, and the
deadly pallor over features drawn into the intensest
look of mental agony completed a picture that made
my heart sick. Her bed was clean, and she was as well
cared for as she could be, apparently.

We mounted a flight of stairs to the cells. Here
were confined those who were violent and ungovernable
The mingled sounds that came through the
gratings as we passed were terrific. Laughter of a
demoniac wildness, moans, complaints in every language,
screams — every sound that could express impatience
and fear and suffering saluted our ears. The
keeper opened most of the cells and went in, rousing
occasionally one that was asleep, and insisting that all
should appear at the grate. I remonstrated, of course,
against such a piece of barbarity, but he said he did
it for all strangers, and took no notice of our pity.
The cells were small, just large enough for a bed, upon
the post of which hung a small coarse cloth bag,
containing two or three loaves of the coarsest bread.
There was no other furniture. The beds were bags
of straw, without sheets or pillows, and each had a
coarse piece of matting for a covering. I expressed
some horror at the miserable provision made for their
comfort, but was told that they broke and injured
themselves with any loose furniture, and were so reckless
in their habits, that it was impossible to give them
any other bedding than straw, which was changed every
day. I observed that each patient had a wisp of
long straw tied up in a bundle, given them, as the
keeper said, to employ their hands and amuse them.
The wooden blind before one of the gratings was removed,
and a girl flew to it with the ferocity of a tiger,
thrust her hands at us through the bars, and threw
her bread out into the passage, with a look of violent
and uncontrolled anger such as I never saw. She
was tall and very fine-looking. In another cell lay a
poor creature, with her face dreadfully torn, and her
hands tied strongly behind her. She was tossing about
restlessly upon her straw, and muttering to herself indistinctly.
The man said she tore her face and bosom
whenever she could get her hands free, and was his
worst patient. In the last cell was a girl of eleven or
twelve years, who began to cry piteously the moment
the bolt was drawn. She was in bed, and uncovered
her head very unwillingly, and evidently expected to
be whipped. There was another range of cells above,
but we had seen enough, and were glad to get out
upon the calm Lagune. There could scarcely be a
stronger contrast than between those two islands lying
side by side — the first the very picture of regularity
and happiness, and the last a refuge for distraction and
misery. The feeling of gratitude to God for reason
after such a scene is irresistible.

In visiting again the prisons under the ducal palace,
several additional circumstances were told us. The
condemned were compelled to become executioners.
They were led from their cells into the dark passage
where stood the secret guillotine, and without warning
forced to put to death a fellow-creature either by this
instrument, or the more horrible method of strangling
against a grate. The guide said that the office of executioner
was held in such horror that it was impossible
to fill it, and hence this dreadful alternative. When
a prisoner was about to be executed, his clothes were
sent home to his family with the message, that “the
state would care for him.” How much more agonizing
do these circumstances seem, when we remember
that most of the victims were men of rank and education,
condemned on suspicion of political crimes, and
often with families refined to a most unfortunate capacity
for mental torture! One ceases to regret the
fall of the Venetian republic, when he sees with how
much crime and tyranny her splendor was accompanied.

I saw at the arsenal to-day the model of the “Bucentaur,”
the state galley in which the doge of Venice
went out annually to marry him to the sea. This
poetical relic (which, in Childe Harold's time, “lay
rotting unrestored”) was burnt by the French — why,
I can not conceive. It was a departure from their
usual habit of respect to the curious and beautiful;
and if they had been jealous of such a vestige of the
grandeur of a conquered people, it might at least
have been sent to Paris as easily as “Saint Mark's
steeds of brass,” and would have been as great a curiosity.
I would rather have seen the Bucentaur than
all their other plunder. The arsenal contains many
other treasures. The armor given to the city of Venice
by Henry the Fourth is there, and a curious key constructed
to shoot poisoned needles, and used by one
of the Henrys, I have forgotten which, to despatch
any one who offended him in his presence. One or
two curious machines for torture were shown us —
mortars into which the victim was put, with an iron
armor open only at the ear, which was screwed down
upon him till his head was crushed, or confession
stopped the torture.