CHAPTER XIX.ToC

"Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stoneMore grateful, while the wrong and shame endureTo see not, feel not, is a benediction;Therefore, awake me not; oh, speak in whispers!"

The other and more imposing statue of Lorenzo, grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent, is a truly wonderful study. The figure is seated in a perfectly natural attitude, one hand supporting the head, which is covered by a kind of helmet; the shadowed face is full of intense thought, and the stone almost seems to breathe beneath your gaze. The statue is worthy of the master mind which designed it. Allegorical figures, representing Morning and Evening, are recumbent on either side.

There are many other churches to visit in Florence, but although they may well repay the trouble, I think, as a rule, that visitors waste much time and money in making a point of seeing every individual church and chapel in each place they stop at. The hotel-keepers, who make the objects of interest as numerous as possible, derive by far the greatest benefit from it.

Florence is truly wonderful in picture-galleries, and nearly every antique shop is worth stopping at, to look at the copies of great works, though there is too frequently a doubt as to their genuineness; for there is great difficulty in obtaining permission to copy some of the most celebrated of the old masters, therefore the demand for these copies far exceeds the supply, and the shopkeepers resort to unscrupulous means to satisfy their customers and fill their own pockets. Many a British householder has pictures hanging upon his walls with which he is so well pleased, that it would be a pity to question their genuineness and undeceive him.

The chief and most important of the Art Museums are, the Uffizi or National Gallery of Florence, and the royal Pitti Palace. These two buildings, although on opposite sides of the river, are connected by a picture-gallery some seven hundred yards long, which extends across one of the bridges of the Arno. It is impossible to view separately, or form a very connected after-idea of, all the various treasures gathered here—a collection which equals any other in the world. Thechief and most universally admired paintings by the old masters are contained in one room called the Tribune—here are also five of the most beautiful of antique statues—the Wrestlers, the Dancing Faun, the Apollino, the Slave, and lastly, the famous Venus de' Medici. Of this last I may truly say, with Hawthorne, "It is of no use to throw heaps of words upon her, for they all fall away, and leave her standing in chaste and naked grace, as untouched as when I began." It is very, very beautiful, but not to be compared with that perfectchef d'œuvreof sculpture, the Venus of the Capitol, of which it is supposed to have been a copy.

The statues are hardly seen to the best advantage, as the paintings behind them, and the many beautiful art treasures in the room, distract the attention and weary the eye. In fact, in visiting all these celebrated galleries in Italy, one is really unable to devote to each the attention and admiration it deserves, and which we should naturally accord were we not simply overwhelmed and dazzled with such profusion of treasure; the mind refuses to store away all the beautiful and tender thoughts that crowd into it in wild confusion—they pass away almost as swiftly as they come, leaving our after recollections in a sadly fragmentary state, with a feast of undigested mental food.

It is said that both painting and sculpture are almost lost arts at the present time in fair Italy; and that the former has emigrated to England, and the latter to Germany.

Besides paintings, there are some very beautiful mosaics, representing scenes from Roman life. One room also contains a very rich collection of gems, priceless relics of the Medici family set in jewels.

"Precious stones, never grow old."

There are some cabinets wonderfully inlaid and adorned with the smallest possible miniature paintings, representing Scripture scenes in infinitely minute compass; they are exceedingly curious and beautiful, and must have occupied years of patient toil and persevering talent. There was noble and appreciative patronage in those days! Some of the tables in the different rooms are marvellously inlaid and studded with precious stones, the subjects being very beautiful in harmony of colour. One great table, said to be worth £30,000, was sent, I believe, to the exhibition of 1851.

The Pitti Palace was originally built by a rich merchant of that name, and afterwards sold to the Medici; it now belongs to the King of Italy. The gardens at the back of the palace are well worth walking through, chiefly on account of the fine views of Florence obtainable from the upper terraces.

One of the most enjoyable trips outside Florence is to Fiesole (the mother of Florence), the ancient Fiesula, an Etruscan town, older even than Rome. It is situated in the mountains some thousand feet above the valleys. We took a carriage thither, winding our way up the hillsides, and passing many apicturesque-looking villa. One of them, Villa Mozzi, is the property of an English artist, Mr. William Spence; another, the Villa dei Tre Visi—celebrated in one of Boccaccio's tales—belongs to the Earl of Balcarres. This site is much esteemed for the views it commands of the beautiful plains and valleys by which fair Florence is environed. Many of Italy's men of genius have retired to these peaceful abodes, to recruit their health and meditate on those imperishable works of art and literature which are now the admiration of the whole world, adding greatly both to its pleasure and instruction.

In about half an hour we reached the quaint little village at the top, having enjoyed our drive exceedingly, and having bought some pretty, quaintly shaped straw baskets from the peasant womenen route. After passing into the Cathedral—there is no town or village in Italy too small to boast of its Duomo, or Cathedral—we mounted still higher to the little chapel on the site of an old monastery, and here we had a magnificent view of the valley of the Arno, for nearly half its extent. Florence, with her great Duomo reposing in the centre of a beautiful plain, and numerous convents, villas, and villages lying here and there around, some in the glens and valleys, others on the hillsides, the whole encircled by the fine chain of mountains which formed a circular boundary-line to the landscape. We found, a few minutes' walk from this spot, the remains of a half-circular Etruscan amphitheatre, in fairly good preservation. WhereverI have seen these coliseums and open-air theatres, I have always found them most admirably situated for grand and extensive views of the country beyond, and this, I think, must have greatly added to the impressiveness of the performance, and perhaps dignified the cruel and barbarous exhibitions that took place there, as the silent and solemn forest scenery raised the superstitious sacrifices of the ancient Druids to acts of veneration and worship.

We found here a very pleasant restaurant called theAurora Café. It is owned by the artist I before mentioned as the proprietor of one of the charming villas. We partook of some refreshment, and I was offered sundry coins and antiques, supposed to have been dug up from the amphitheatre, or the still more ancient Etruscan village. I selected an iron coin, with a fine superscription.

On descending the hillside, we met an English coach and four, and our Italian driver fully shared in our enthusiastic admiration of the fine "Hyde Park" turn out, and the skilful manner in which the horses were handled on these mountain heights. Late in the evening we met the same team, admirably coached through the narrow and crowded streets and lanes of Florence.

We found the climate of Florence bright and pleasant, bracing and healthful, but it was rather too dear a place for those with a limited income. We had heard that it was an expensive city, and so indeedwe found it, for with all our efforts to be economical our bill at the Hotel de Russie was astonishingly high; nor were we alone in this experience, our fellow-travellers averring that it was quite necessary "to cut down your hotel bill, and not to pay quite all that was demanded, as you were always overcharged," and we all remembered what the "Innocents Abroad" had to say on the subject. As far as I have seen of Italian travel, it is a system of "spoiling the Englishman," whenever there is a chance, and the traveller might save himself the trouble of ever taking his hand out of his pocket. As a specimen, we were actually charged a franc each for four small mutton cutlets, and three francs (2s. 6d.) for a cauliflower! Of course I complained, and got one or two francs knocked off. I believe most of the landlords are fully prepared to reduce their bills, but Englishmen as a rule pay the exorbitant prices charged, contenting themselves with a hearty growl at the same on departure. I told the landlord plainly myself, that the English seldom objected to pay liberally, but hated extortion. The charge of two francs a day for attendance is a snare and a delusion, for it is well known that this does not in the least exonerate one from feeing the waiter, chambermaid, porter, boots, and even the omnibus tout. It is a system of blackmail throughout, and I think something should be done to abolish it, for it is undoubtedly one of the greatest drawbacks to foreign travel. At present there seems a private understanding among the servants, that oneand all are to establish some sort of claim on you, thus:—you ring—the chambermaid appears; you ask for candles—she withdraws and sends the sommelier with them; and every trifling duty is performed by a different personage, instead of one servant taking the entire attendance, to whom you might feel some satisfaction in giving a remuneration. I think that, under the presentrégimethere is little doubt that the visitors pay the servants wages rather than the landlord, and therefore the item of "attendance" charged in the hotel bill is simply a fraud.

Then, at the railway stations you have a regular chain of porters for your luggage, as formidable as the array of officials who receive and show you into your hotel, one and all expecting a fee for the service ofwelcome(?) they have rendered. Hence, it is far cheaper to travel by Cook's Tickets; and if you decide to remain a week or longer at a place, it is a good plan to select apension, where you will be charged so much a weekinclusive.

Such is the system of extortion in Italy, that if you purchase anything at a shop—mosaics, jewellery, or what not—you are held in contempt if you at once pay the price that is demanded, the shopkeepers naming a sum perhaps three times as much as what they finally take and consider as a good bargain.

The 29th of March, the morning of our departure from Florence, was as bright and bracing as a real old-fashioned English May morn, and we felt it tobe truly enjoyable as we sped over the well-cultivated and sunny plains of the Florentine Basin, the outlines of the distant scenery charmingly developing in the clear Italian atmosphere. Indeed, it is this atmosphere which renders Italy so beautiful, every feature displayed to the best advantage, and the eye allowed to roam from one object to another; whilst in our London, for instance, during one half the year, the view too frequently presents a blurred mass, little really to be seen with distinctness, the buildings and great edifices looming darkly through a half fog—no dimpling lights and shadows, giving life, warmth, and animation, quickening one with admiration and rapture. It is like an otherwise beautiful woman spoiled by a bad complexion.

We passed through fine open plains, then a series of tunnels, rocky defiles, over mountain streams and fertile valleys, until we reached Pracchia. We had been steadily ascending to higher ground, and were now nearly at the top of a mountain range, a wild defile and stream on the one side, a mountain road on the other. Then craggy cliffs, waterfalls, and snow-capped mountains follow in grand succession; sometimes a deep valley, with a mountain torrent plunging far, far into the depths below, the water hanging from the rocks in long petrified icicles. Men and women, like specks in the distance, toiling up the steep hills and winding paths, laden with faggots. We seemed to have been circling round two great mountains whilst having these enchanting glimpsesof ever-varying scenery, with no end of intervening tunnels. At last we appear to have passed through a final one, and, emerging quite into daylight, find we have attained the topmost part of the mountains at a station called Pittachia, where we found a good buffet. We here encountered a great many little country maidens, offering bunches of beautiful primroses and violets—veritably a sweet refreshment!

Now we swiftly descend, a mountain stream chasing us on the right, gradually swelling into a river, the Reno. In one part was the wreck of a stone bridge which had evidently been carried away during the inundations of December and January. Many parts of the river-bed were silted up by the action of wind and water on to the great overhanging sandstone mountain, enormous landslips in some places blocking up the river and changing its course. We thus saw how the sand is carried down to the mouths of the rivers into the sea, and how the great sand-banks are formed, such as those on which Venice is built. Everything in Nature is done progressively, never hasting, never resting.

At Bologna we had an opportunity of tasting the famous sausage-meat, and found it exceedingly good, the flavour being somewhat like spiced beef. The dogs of Bologna were, I believe, once a celebrated breed, which is now almost extinct. I do not mean by this remark to induce any uncomfortable reflections with regard to the sausages, but I really was surprisedthat nothing in the shape of a dog made itself visible in this town.

Journeying round from here, I could not help thinking what a total contrast the scenery now presented to our view. It was one monotonous level, a lagoon-like plain, partly swamped with water, the only features in the landscape being the stunted trees, to which, at regular intervals, the vines were symmetrically trailed and spread. Yet in the far distance we caught the outline of the Apennine range, their snowy summits almost disappearing in the warm blue-grey sky. Slightly in the foreground the darker outline of the nearer hills bounded the basin of the level plains.

At Monselise the scenery improves, and we saw some very picturesque castle ruins, conical-shaped hills lying round; and on approaching Padua we again obtained a fine view of the snow-clad Alps, with the huge mound of hills at their base. We did not stop at Padua, having decided to do so on our return. It is only an hour's journey from Venice, which we were now rapidly nearing, and we eagerly scanned the horizon ever and anon to catch the first glimpse of the wonderful city—the "eldest child of liberty." We had the sea on our right, from whence blew a most refreshing breeze; but soon it spread ahead and to the left, and then we caught sight of little glittering minarets in the midst of the waters, and then Venice, fairy-like disclosed herself to our admiring eyes, rising slowly from the sea, and strangely bringingto mind Tennyson's description of the magic city of Camelot:

"Fairy Queens have built the city,They came from out a sacred mountain-cleftToward the sunrise, each with harp in hand;And built it to the music of their harps."

Gradually the marble city took form, the slim towers and great domes forming a lovely outline against the clear and cloudless beauty of the evening sky.

Arrival in Venice—The Water City—Gondola traffic—Past glories—Danieli's Royal Hotel—St. Mark's Piazza—The Sacred Pigeons—St. Mark's—Mosaics—The Holy Columns—Treasures—- The Chian Steeds—The modern Goth.

Arriving at the station, our luggage was quickly carried to the canal-side, where there were numbers of gondoliers awaiting us with their hearse-like gondolas, which, as Byron describes in one of his letters, "glide along the water, looking blackly just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, where none can make out what you say or do." (There is no name in either past or present times more sadly and inextricably associated with Venice than that of George Gordon, Lord Byron.) It was indeed a change from the usual noise and confusion at the end of a railway journey, and it seemed strange not to see the usual array of omnibuses. "The means of arrival in Venice, indeed, are commonplace enough, but, lo! in a moment you step out of the commonplace railway station into the lucid stillness of the water city—into poetry and wonderland." The gondoliers are quite as clamorous as the liveried omnibus legion. However, we soonfound a representative of the Hotel Danieli with a handsome gondola waiting to receive us. We stepped in quickly, though most carefully—nay, even solemnly, and were soon gliding over the silent water. There was a momentary tremor and hesitation at first entering the long, slender, black craft with its funeral-like hood or canopy; but the inside was luxuriously easy, and the black cushions and drapery so comfortable that we speedily dismissed our gloomy ideas, and began to enter into the busy moving scene around us with the greatest delight and interest.

The gondolas were originally put into black by the order of the State, as a rebuke to the lavish magnificence of the Venetians: they look now as though they were in mourning for the past glories of the city. The dress of the gondoliers was fortunately not included in the statute; and the fine, stalwart fellow, who was quite winning our admiration by his graceful movements in propelling our gondola, was attired like a Venetian sailor, with a blue scarf round his waist, trimmed with silver lace. These gondoliers, for the most part, are a light-hearted and obliging race. They certainly hand you to your seat with a very solemn politeness, giving you somewhat the impression of being handed into your grave; but such thoughts are but for a moment, and soon disappear as a smile flits over the bronzed, sailor-like countenance, and as the boat glides rapidly between rows of great houses and marble palaces, which rise out of the water on your right and left, "Giacomo"obligingly pointing out the objects of interest as you pass along.

The aqueous road to our hotel lay for some distance down the Grand Canal, and then turned aside into some of the numerous narrow lanes of water which branch off in every direction; and it seemed truly marvellous to us how skilfully the rectangular corners were turned, the gondolier uttering a brief guttural shout of warning as we shot round, in case of another gondola approaching from an opposite direction. As it was, we had several very narrow shaves, and more than once stood in danger of colliding. We were amused at seeing some of the hotel gondolas that had preceded us from the station, stopping at the water-side post-office for letters—woman, the true letter-lover, generally being the most conspicuous applicant. And now we reach the steps of our hotel, and are soon comfortably housed.

I feel we are at last really in Venice, and the memory of all her former glory and greatness flits through my mind as we come under the fascination of her magical influence. First comes a faint echo from distant ages, of those ancient Veneti, who were powerful almost a thousand years before the present Venice came into existence; then a vision of the old Paduans, fleeing from their once wealthy city before the devastating conqueror Attila. Driven from the land, they seek the sea, and take refuge on the long spits of sand lying in a vast lagoon beyond the mouths of several rivers. Settling down on the Rivo Alto(Rialto), they commence to build a city, henceforth to be the wonder and admiration of the world. Then a thousand years of glorious and active life. There is a thrill almost of amazement at the magnificent courage and audacity of this wondrous city, risen like Aphrodite from the sea, and a shudder at the crimes that stain her annals—crimes as unique in their matchless horror as any other part of her singular history. Lastly, the gradual decay of her power, and the final catastrophe of her fall.

Since leaving the train, we had almost been in dreamland, wandering in the dark ages; but we were very suddenly brought back to bustling nineteenth-century life, when the dazzling lights of the hotel broke upon our visions, and we caught a glimpse of the numerous visitors thronging the staircase—old men and matrons, young men and maidens, all ascending totable d'hôtein the great dining-room with an air of pleasing interest and excitement.

Danieli's Royal Hotel, which, I believe, was originally one of the Doge's palaces, is situated on the quay opposite the harbour, its side entrance being in one of the narrow canals. In the evening, after dinner, a band of musicians came into the inner court below, and serenaded the visitors with Venetian love-songs.

We enjoyed a peaceful night's rest after the fatigues of travel, fully anticipating a delightful awakening in this wonderful city.

The morrow came, with a lovely blue sky andbracing atmosphere, and after breakfast we took our first walk in Venice. Crossing the quay and certain of the little marble bridges that span the canals, and turning to the right, round the Doge's Palace, we found ourselves inSt. Mark's Piazza—a great square, with colonnades of shops andcafésrunning round three sides of it; the apartments of the royal palace rising some three stories on one side, and at the other end the beautiful Byzantine Temple ofSt. Mark's, with its antique mosaic arches, surmounted by the famous bronze horses and quaintly hooded domes, rising in exquisite outline against the clear blue sky. Around and above us flitted soft-hued pigeons in narrowing circles, alighting on the pavement in flocks to be fed by the visitors and children, not unfrequently perching on the hands of those who scattered food among them; and then flying off once more to "nestle among the marble foliage of St Mark's, mingling the soft iridescence of their living plumes with the tints, hardly less lovely, that have stood unchanged for seven hundred years." These little feathered beings are supposed to have some mystic influence over the welfare of Venice, and are believed by the legend-loving people to fly three times round the city every day.

At the entrance of the piazza towards the sea are two solitary columns, supporting the mighty emblems of St. Mark.

"The spouseless Adriatic mourns her love;St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood,Spared but in mockery of his withered power."

The first step taken towards seeing Venice was to ascend the great tower. Though its size is imposing, being some 320 feet high, it is an ugly structure, but commands most splendid views. The ascent is most easy—no tiresome steps, but simply inclined planes with brick-work flooring. On arriving at the top and looking down, I saw Venice flooded with the noonday light—"a golden city paved with emerald," stretching before me like a realized dream; the innumerable canals running up from the sea at right angles, while around and beyond lay the Adrian Gulf and the great sea, dotted with tiny islands covered with buildings;—the whole one vast lagoon or delta formed by the alluvial soil washed down from the mountains and deposited by the rivers. The city is built upon thousands and thousands of piles, the hard and costly wood for which was brought with vast expense from the East, and driven down into the earth and sand below. It was at such cost that the Venetians obtained so admirable a position, and were enabled to command the commerce of the world. The harbours were full of well-protected shipping, the narrow passages of deep water by which alone large vessels could pass, being marked by piles. It was strange to see the city, with its large and solid buildings and churches, floating as it were on the water:

"Underneath Day's azure eyes,Ocean's nursling, Venice lies—A peopled labyrinth of walls,Amphitrite's destined halls,Which her hoary sire now pavesWith his blue and beaming waves."

When I descended the tower, I felt, as when on the Capitol of Rome, that I now understood more of the position of the city than many books could have told me.

Of course, it was not long ere we passed under the portal of St. Mark's, though we lingered long outside, admiring its beautiful proportions, described by Ruskin in a burst of pure poetry as "a multitude of pillars and grey-hooded domes clustered into a long, low pyramid of coloured light: a treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaics and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as ivory—sculpture, fantastic and involved, of palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the branches, all twined together in an endless network of buds and plumes; and in the midst of it the solemn forms of angels, sceptred and robed to the feet, and leaning to each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light as it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first its gates were angel-guarded long ago."

This description of the great art-master, I of course accepted as from a highly cultured æsthetic source; but fear that, from want of true poetic light and art culture, I did not quite appreciate or realizeit in the interior, though to me the exterior outline and architecture were always soft and beautiful. Unfortunately, one is greatly pestered outside by a voracious band of touts, miscalled guides, some of them mere uneducated-looking, parrot-like roughs, and whom it is laughable to suppose could have any pretensions to refined knowledge and art history—irreverent monsters who have no sympathy with, or appreciation of, anything, except what you may have in your pockets.

The interior of St Mark's reminded me more of an Eastern mosque than a Christian temple, with its heavy arches, arcades, galleries, colonnades, and Protean gloom. "A grave and dreamy structure," says Dickens, "of immense proportions; golden with old mosaics; redolent of perfumes; dim with the smoke of incense; costly in treasures of precious stones and metals, glittering through iron bars; holy with the bodies of deceased saints; rainbow-hued with windows of stained glass; dark with carved woods and coloured marbles; obscure in its vast heights and lengthened distances; shining with silver lamps and winking lights; unreal, fantastic, solemn, inconceivable throughout."

When the eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness, the soft rainbow colours of the mosaics come stealing out to view one by one. Nearly the whole of the interior, more especially the vaulting, is beautified by these millions upon millions of tiny cubes of coloured and gilded glass, arranged withinfinite labour and skill, and wonderfully illustrating the most beautiful and impressive parts of Holy Writ, with reference to the history of mankind, from the creation. To blend these soft, harmonious colours must have been the work of ages, especially those portions which necessitated the patient artist working on his back, while fixing each tiny cube into its proper place in the ceiling. The antique pavement, undulating from sheer age and tread of multitudes of worshippers in the past, and also probably from a sinking of the foundation, is likewise tessellated with all the colours of the prism, arranged in mystic symbols and intricate figuring. But it appeared to me, at least, that this wonderful, Mosque-like building only wanted great groups of monster idols, to complete a perfect resemblance to some vast Hindoo temple of a dark bygone age, when the people's conception of the Deity was of a being rather to be feared than loved, rather to be dreaded than trusted.

Various services were going on in the numerous little chapels; and when the principal morning service at the chancel was over, we ascended the steps of the high altar in order to examine and admire the ancient twisted red alabaster pillars, said to have been originally a part of Solomon's Temple at Jerusalem; for nearly every stone in St. Mark's has its history. The bronze folding doors came from the Mosque of St. Sophia at Stamboul; the pillars at the entrance of the baptistery were part of the booty of Arre; while there are three red flagstones on which Barbarossaknelt to do reverence to St. Peter, in the person of the Pope. The guide held a lighted taper on one side of the column, that we might observe its glowing transparency. I could well enter into the feeling of noble triumph which must have animated those great and powerful Doges of past times, in thus being able to beautify their own Christian temple in Venice at the expense of the unbelieving, barbarous Turk, whose usurpation of these sacred relics and of the Holy Land was righteously considered a scandal and a shame to the Christian world.

We visited the Treasure Chapel, and saw the precious things of the temple—offerings of princes, potentates, and devotees, collected from all ends of the world. Each apartment was secured by no end of bolts, bars, and locks. Among other curiosities we were shown a cover of the books of the Gospels, embellished with gold and jewels, from the Church of St. Sophia, Constantinople; a crystal vase containing the blood of the Saviour (!); a silver column supporting a fragment of the pillar at which Christ was scourged; a cup of agate containing a portion of the skull of St. John; the sword of the Doge Morocini; cuneiform writings from Persepolis; an episcopal throne of the seventh century, said to have been St. Mark's; and many other things, the genuineness of which to try and believe was of course next to impossible; and one could only marvel at the credulity of many good men and women, who must have dearly liked to be deceived, and who almostworshipped these lying relics, and would only look at them devoutly on their knees. One heartily wishes that a valiant Luther had arisen amongst them in those days, to set them free from this miserable bondage, and teach them that Christ's atonement was surely enough for them.

On leaving the chapel, we were allowed as an exceptional privilege to ascend the galleries round the interior, and look closely into the beautiful mosaic-work, most of which is in a wonderful state of preservation, though some of it is much defaced and decayed by damp. The mosaics now being used in the restoration are made on a new principle, being glazed over to preserve the surface and colour from the effect of the air. We next went out into the open façade gallery, overlooking the great Piazza, and stood between the famous bronze horses, whose Arab-like symmetry we greatly admired.

"Before St. Mark's still glow the steeds of brass,Their gilded collars glittering in the sun."

I hardly recognized the justice of Goethe's observation, of their appearing to be somewhat heavily and clumsily modelled on a close survey, considering their slender elegance when seen from below.

We found a great many masons and workmen employed, both inside and outside St. Mark's, on the restoration and repairs. Fragments of the beautiful mosaic were scattered about in heaps, which it seemed almost desecration to tread upon. I swept them carefully together, and called the attention of theworkmen to the neglect of such precious bits of antique workmanship. I believe these restorations are greatly exciting the anger of lovers of art in England, by the imputed Vandalism of the committee who are employed in directing the work. As this outcry is principally raised by many eminent artists, who look on St. Mark's as a perfect gem of antiquity, there must be some good reason for this righteous anger, which, however, I much fear will be ineffectual to stay the hand of the Goth.

I must confess, though with secret misgiving as to how such heresy will be received, that as a whole, and apart from its antiquity and interesting historical associations, and the exquisite mosaics, so rich in colouring and design, I was rather disappointed in St. Mark's. Certainly the exterior is beyond praise in its beautiful curving outlines; but the interior is so exceedingly dark and heavy, that the radiant beauty of the mosaics can only succeed in very partially relieving the deep gloom. As a perfect specimen of the dark ages, commend me rather to that little ancient Mosque beside the new Cathedral modelled from it at Marseilles, with its low-arched domes and roofs, and "dim, religious light."

A water-excursion—The Bridge of Sighs—Doge's Palace—Archæological Museum—The Rialto—The streets of Venice—Aids to disease—Venetian Immorality—The Arsenal—Nautical Museum—Trip to Lido—Glass works—Venetian evenings—The great Piazza—Scene on the Piazzetta—Farewell to Venice.

Stepping into a gondola one sunny day, we glided past the marble palaces, at the landing-stages of which Venetian "water-carriages" were moored. We sped down the Grand Canal, passing under the great Rialto with a thought of the early Venetians who had settled there nearly two thousand years ago; then round by the narrower and more shaded canals of the silent city, and presently in one of the narrowest parts we passed beneath a covered marble arch—the fateful Bridge of Sighs, with a sympathetic shudder of pitying remembrance. We breathed more freely as we emerged from these shadowed water lanes, and caught a glimpse of the bright blue sea fronting us.

On another day we visited the Bridge of Sighs in more orthodox fashion, so that we might quote with due veracity Byron's ever recurring lines—

"Istoodin Venice,onthe Bridge of Sighs,A palace and a prison on each hand;"

and treading in the footsteps of generations of friendless and oftentimes guiltless criminals, we passed over from the Hall of Justice in the Doge's Palace, through secret passages, to the Piombi, or state prison, and thence to the Pozzi, a series of gloomy rock-hewn dungeons, where the air felt heavy with the breath ofmurderdignified by the name of judicial punishment, and where many a hopeless wretch had sighed out his love, his hopes, and finally his cruelly persecuted life.

Our visit to the Doge's Palace was full of the deepest interest. Mounting the beautiful fretwork marble staircase, just at the rear of St. Mark's, we entered the great colonnade, and ascended to the rooms above, which are all heavily decorated and adorned on wall and ceiling with paintings by the great masters. The Hall of the Great Council is esteemed one of the finest rooms in Europe. It is indeed a magnificent apartment: but perhaps a more particular interest centres in the Sala del Consiglio dei Dieci, or Hall of the Inquisition, as it was sometimes appropriately called. Here the chairs of the terrible Ten still remain, as though for some impending solemn conclave. Awful pictures of bloodshed and death frown down from some of the walls in this Palace of council chambers, and in one hall may still be seen two slits in the wall, once lions' mouths, where secret information was lodged against conspirators, or those suspected of being so, and by which the lives of innocent people were sworn away.But there was a painful contrast between the gorgeous chambers above and those noisome dungeons below.

We were greatly interested in the Archæological Museum, especially in the library, which contains 120,000 volumes, and some 10,000 valuable manuscripts, among which are many rare and beautifully illuminated literary treasures: Cicero's "Epist. ad Familiaries," the first book printed in Venice, 1465; a Florence "Homer," on vellum, 1483; Marco Polo's Will, 1323; a Herbary, painted by A. Amadi, 1415; Cardinal Guinani's Breviary, with Hemling's beautiful miniatures; and the manuscript of the "Divina Commedia,"—are only a sample of the treasures here contained, over which we could have lingered with great enjoyment for a far longer time than we could well spare. Many of these books were the loving work of devoted monks, who lived before the age of printing, and wished to hand down to posterity the books they themselves had loved. Such was their idea of the value of these religious books, and more especially of the New Testament, that they were bound in costly covers, adorned with precious stones—the labour of transcribing and illuminating them being almost incalculable. The invention of machinery, alas! in these latter days has banished for ever such conscientious labours of love, and neither books nor anything else are impressed with men's minds, hearts, and handiwork as they used to be. It is an age of mechanism, sensational, æsthetical, and artificial devotion, and very little is sacred but Self. Though it is good, inone sense, that sacred books have been thrown broadcast on the world; it has, to a certain extent, divested them of much of their peculiar value in the minds of the multitude. This was strangely exemplified to me some few years ago, when engaged in the suppression of the slave trade, on the east coast of Africa. There was a sale of European effects at Zanzibar, and amongst other articles was an Arab Bible—i.e.the Koran, translated into English. British residents bid high for this prize; but the Arabs, determined that their sacred book should not fall into the hands of those whom they deemed as infidels, bid still higher, and eventually carried it off. By-and-by there was an English Bible put up, and, in a spirit of tit-for-tat, the Arabs bid high for this, supposing the religious zeal of the British would have compelled them to bid still higher. They, however, did nothing of the kind, and it was knocked down to the disgusted Arabs, who now considered us a nation of infidels indeed. It may be, that even in this way it was a good thing that a copy of our Bible should fall into the hands of the zealous Mohammedans.

The Rialto is a graceful double bridge of white marble, which by a single span bridges the Grand Canal, leading from the bustling market-place to the opposite side, which is almost as busy. Like old London Bridge, it is crowded with little hucksters' shops; and I fancy there is little real change in the scene it presents from the time when the immortalShakespeare drew his Shylock and Antonio from life. The Hebrew is still a prominent figure in the thronged thoroughfare; but his victim, let us hope, is conspicuous by his absence. Humanity is somewhat softened since those days of yore.

Although there are no wheel-vehicles in Venice, and horses are still as scarce as in Byron's time (when there were said to be only eight horses in the city—four on the top of St. Mark's, and four in his lordship's stables), it is easy to walk from one end of Venice to the other when you once know your bearings, which are rather difficult to obtain, unless you carry a pocket-compass, as all the places are so much alike, and it is as easy to lose your way as in a forest. The streets are narrow and crowded with shops, being connected by small bridges spanning the canals at all points. Some of these smaller canals are in anything but a wholesome or odorous condition, receiving, as they do, foulness of all kinds from the houses. They must certainly render the city far from healthy during the summer, when canal malaria and fever are prevalent. Indeed, being almost tideless, they have to be occasionally dammed up and cleaned out. Many of the narrow streets are also singularly unsavoury; and though a foreigner should always be slow to judge of the moral condition of a city by mere casual observation, the presence of a very decided immorality is forced on one's notice in many ways in Venice; it is impossible to doubt that not a few of these streetscontain perfect dens of filth and iniquity, judging by the brazen-faced, abandoned-looking females who peer down at one from the windows. It is hardly to be wondered at if this is so, pent up as the population is between labyrinths of stone and water, streets and houses. We know its condition in Byron's sad and reckless days, and it does not seem to have improved much since.

I believe it is possible to walk nearly two-thirds round Venice by the quays. It was in this way, only crossing the necessary bridges, that we one day walked to the Arsenal, and visited the ancient Venetian ship-building yard. We were particularly interested in the Nautical Museum of the Italian Admiralty, just within the dockyard gates. Here there is a very fine collection of models, from the historic gondola "Bucentoro," on board which the Doges performed the singular ceremony of "wedding the Adriatic," and the ancient war-ships which had met and defeated the Turks, Greeks, and Genoese in many a tough encounter,—down to the great ironclads of the Italy of to-day. We also saw a variety of armour such as was worn in the ancient days of Venice, and a very quaint old gun or mortar used in the days of her glory: it was entirely of leather, and fired a large stone shot. On the poops and forecastles of the ancient galleys were several guns on the modern mitrailleuse system, to sweep down the slaves and criminals—who sat manacled by the feet, while pulling the oars—in case of rebellion ordisobedience. There are many such sad mementoes at Venice, of an age of cruelty and tyranny, when men were condemned unheard, to death or a life of slavery. But in spite of these blemishes on a great name, Christendom is eternally indebted to Venice, and her terrible but valiant Doges, for was she not—

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