Part 11

Recalling these Venetian exploits, I stood one evening in one of the most delightful places in all Venice,—the upper balcony of the Ducal Palace. Lingering here and looking out between the sculptured columns toward the island of San Giorgio, I thought of the old times when every year, upon Ascension Day, the Doge descended from this balcony and stepped upon a barge adorned with canopies of gold and velvet, and with a deck inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl. Then, to the sound of martial music, that splendid vessel swept out toward the sea, propelled by eighty gilded oars; till, finally, amidst the roar of cannon and the shouts of the assembled populace, the Doge cast into the blue waves a ring of gold, exclaiming solemnly: "We wed thee, O Sea, with this ring, emblem of our rightful and perpetual dominion."

But there was another side to this magnificent picture, which dimmed the splendor of Venetian palaces. For just behind the residence of the Doges, suspended over the canal,—"a palace and a prison on each hand,"—is one of the best known structures in the world,—the Bridge of Sighs. This is indeed a sad memorial of tyranny. True, recent scoffers at sentiment sneer at the associations of this bridge, and one has even called it a "pathetic swindle." But, whether or not the prisoners of Venice breathed through these grated windows a last sigh, as they relinquished life and liberty, certain it is that in the building on the right, far down below the water's edge, are some of the most horrible dungeons that human cruelty has ever designed; and any visitor to Venice may cross this bridge and grope his way down moldering flights of stone steps to behold them.

All who have done so will recollect those fetid cells, slimy with dampness, shrouded in darkness, and stifling from the exhausted air which filters to them through the narrow corridors. They will remember the iron grating through which was passed the scanty food that for a time prolonged the prisoner's life; the grooves of the old guillotine, by means of which, after excruciating torture, he was put to death; and then the narrow opening through which the body was removed at night and rowed out to a distant spot, where it was death to cast a net. Here, unillumined even by a torch, it sank, freighted with heavy stones, into the sea, whose gloomy depths will guard all secrets hidden in its breast until its waters shall give up their dead.

Connected with the Ducal residence is the world-renowned St. Mark's Cathedral. The old Venetians built not only palaces for men; they made their shrines to God palatial. I looked on this one with bewilderment. There is no structure like it in the world. Its bulbous domes and minaret-like belfries remind one of the Orient. It seems more like a Mohammedan than a Christian temple. If the phrase be permitted, it is a kind of Christian mosque. The truth is, the Venetians brought back from their victories in the East ideas of Oriental architecture which had pleased them, and were thus able to produce a wonderful blending of Moorish, Arabic, and Gothic art.

What a façade is this! Here, massed in serried ranks, are scores of variously colored marble columns, each one a monolith, and all possessing an eventful history. Some are from Ephesus, others from Smyrna, while others still are from Constantinople, and more than one even from Jerusalem. On one, the hand of Cleopatra may have rested; another may have cast its shadow on St. Paul; a third may have been looked upon by Jesus. St. Mark's is the treasure-house of Venice,—a place of pride as well as of prayer. Here was heaped up the booty which she gained from her repeated conquests. The Doge's Palace was the brain of Venice; the Grand Piazza was its heart; but this Cathedral was its soul.

The work of beautifying this old church was carried on enthusiastically for five hundred years. Each generation tried to outdo all that had preceded it. Again and again Venetian fleets swept proudly up the Adriatic, laden with spoils destined for this glorious shrine. _Viva San Marco!_ was the watchword alike of her armies and her navies; and when the captains of Venetian fleets came homeward from the Orient, the first inquiry put to them was this: "What new and splendid offering bring you for San Marco?" The dust of ages, therefore, may have gathered on this building, but it is, at least, the dust of gold. Its domes and spires glisten with the yellow lustre. It even gilds the four bronze horses which surmount its portal. These are among the most interesting statues in the world. We know not who the sculptor was that gave them their apparent life; but it is certain that they were carried to Rome and there attached to Nero's golden chariot. In the fourth century after Christ the emperor Constantine, when he transferred the seat of empire from the Tiber to the Bosphorus, took them to Constantinople, where for nine hundred years they proudly stood beside the Golden Horn. Then, when that capital was plundered by the Venetians, they were brought hither, and for five hundred years they adorned the entrance to St. Mark's. Even here their travels had not ended; for, a century ago, Napoleon, when conqueror of Italy, caused them to be conveyed to Paris, where, in the shadow of the Tuileries, they watched the triumph of the modern Cæsar. But after Waterloo, Venice once more claimed them for her own.

It is an impressive moment when one passes beneath these gilded steeds and enters the interior of the cathedral. A twilight gloom pervades it, well suited to its age and the mysterious origin of all it contains. The walls and roof are so profusely covered with mosaics and precious marbles that it is easy to understand why St. Mark's has been called the "Church of Gold," and likened to a cavern hung with stalactites of precious stones. Some of these ornaments are of pagan origin; others have come from Christian shrines. All, however, have had to pay their contribution to St. Mark's. Thus Santa Sophia at Constantinople, though still a Christian church and dedicated to the Saviour, was plundered to embellish the Venetian shrine named after His apostle. Hence, it is the literal truth that, overflowing with the spoils of other cities and sanctuaries, St. Mark's is a magnificent repository of booty—a veritable den of thieves. In the most prominent position in the church is the receptacle guarded by the statues of the twelve apostles, where is kept, as the most precious of its treasures, the body of St. Mark. On one side is the pulpit from which the old Doge, Dandolo, when ninety-three years of age, urged his people to undertake the fourth crusade.

"Men of Venice!" he exclaimed, "I am old and weak, and I need rest, but I will go with you to rescue from the infidel the Holy Sepulchre, and I will be victorious or lose my life." Hearing these words, the assembled people made these walls resound with the cry: "So be it! Lead us on! For God's sake go with us!" Then the old Doge descended from the pulpit, and standing on the steps between the jasper columns, received the badge of the Crusaders, the Cross of Christ, a miniature reproduction of the colossal crucifix, which glittered then, as it still gleams to-day, above the place on which he stood.

On leaving this marvelous structure, one steps directly into the adjoining St. Mark's Square. If it be the hour of siesta, it will appear deserted. Yet this has been for centuries the Forum of Venetian life; the favorite place for her festivities; the beautiful, historic stage on which have been enacted most of the scenes connected with her glorious past. Around it are fine marble structures, which even now are used for offices of State. Within these long arcades are the most attractive shops in Venice, and, were there only a garden in the centre, the place would remind one of the Palais Royal at Paris, which was, in fact, built in imitation of this square. To-day the popularity of the Parisian square is waning, since many of its gorgeous shops have migrated to the Rue de la Paix. But owing to its situation, the attractiveness of the Venetian court can hardly be diminished. While Venice lasts, its glory must remain undimmed by Time.

On summer evenings, when the city wakes to life and music, the famous square bursts into the gaiety of a ball-room, and is the favorite rendezvous of all lovers and pleasure-seekers, whether natives or foreigners. Here, several times a week, fine military music floats upon the air, and hundreds of men and women stroll along these marble blocks, which in the moonlight seem as white as snow. Others, meantime, are seated beneath the neighboring arches, sipping coffee or sherbet, laughing and talking in the soft Venetian dialect, and, like the Japanese, seeming to appreciate the mere joy of living, an art which many of us, alas, have lost.

One pretty feature of this historic area is its pigeons. Their homes are in the marble arches of the adjoining buildings; and shortly after midday, every afternoon, they suddenly appear in great numbers; now rising in a pretty cloud of fluttering wings; now grouped together like an undulating wave of eider-down. Foreigners, in particular, love to feed them; and in return for the kindness they receive, the pigeons at times alight upon the shoulders of a stranger or courageously pick up crumbs from outstretched hands. It is not strange that Venice should guard these birds so tenderly. Six centuries ago, when the Venetians were blockading the island of Candia, the Doge's officers observed that pigeons frequently flew above their heads. Suspecting something, they contrived to shoot a few, and each was found to have beneath its wing a message to the enemy. Acting on information thus acquired, the Venetian admiral made his attack at once and captured the island in twelve hours. The carrier-pigeons which they found there were therefore taken home to Venice and treated with the utmost kindness, and their descendants have ever since been favorites of the people.

On walking from the Piazza toward the Grand Canal, one always finds at the extremity of the Piazzetta a line of waiting gondolas. At once a shower of soft Italian syllables falls musically on the air: "Una gondola, Signore! Commanda una gondola; Una barca, Signore; Una bellissima barca; Vuol' andare? Eccomi pronto!" The speakers are Venetian coachmen, and the contrast is a startling one between the liquid vowels of their speech and the rasping cries of our American drivers: "Want a cow-pay, lady?" "Want a kerridge?" "Want a hack—hack—hack?" As for the gondoliers themselves, how picturesque they look with their white suits and colored scarfs! Who can resist the impulse to enter one of these pretty barges and give oneself to the enjoyment of the hour?

Few things are more delightful than floating here in a gondola after the heat of a summer day. We say summer, for Venice should, if possible, be always visited in warm weather—the healthiest season here. Then only can one thoroughly enjoy its outdoor life. However sultry it may be on land, in Venice it is reasonably cool, and the broad bosom of the Adriatic, as it swells and falls, breathes through the streets of Venice the delicious freshness of the sea. At such a time, to idly float upon this beautiful expanse, dreaming of art and history (perchance of love), through the sweet, tranquil hours which bear upon their noiseless wings the hint of a repose still held in the unfolded hands of Night,—that is happiness,—that is rest! At such a time one loves to call to mind the scenes which must have often taken place upon the surface of this siren sea, when Venice had no less than thirty thousand gondolas, of which at least one-third were richly decorated, and vied with one another in their gilded draperies and carvings. To such an extent, indeed, did reckless competition in them go, that the Doge finally issued a decree that they should thenceforth have black awnings only. Since then Venetian gondolas have been prosaic in appearance, though their dark awnings have increased the opportunities for crime or intrigue, and they have often been the rendezvous of hate or love,—ideal vehicles for murder or elopement.

"In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier: Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade,—but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!"

To the lover of the beautiful in Nature the most enchanting characteristic of this City of the Sea is its sunset glow. Italian sunsets are all beautiful; but those of Venice are the loveliest of all. Their softness, brilliancy and splendor cannot be described. The last which I beheld here, on a night in June, surpassed all others I had ever seen. The shadows were falling to the eastward; the hush of night was stealing on the world. The cares of life seemed disappearing down the radiant west together with the God of Day. Between us and the setting sun there seemed to fall a shower of powdered gold. The entire city was pervaded by a golden light, which yet was perfectly transparent, like the purest ether.

As we drew nearer to the Grand Canal the scene grew even more enchanting. In the refulgent light the city lay before us like a beautiful mirage, enthroned upon a golden bank between two seas,—the ocean and the sky. Her streets seemed filled with liquid sunshine. The steps of her patrician palaces appeared entangled in the meshes of a golden net. The neighboring islands looked like jeweled wreckage floating from a barge of gold. The whole effect was that of a poem without words, illustrated by Titian, and having for a soft accompaniment the ripple of the radiant waves. I have seen many impressive sights in many climes; but for triumphant beauty, crystallized in stone and glorified by the setting sun, I can recall no scene more matchless in its loveliness than that which I enjoyed, when, on this richly-tinted sea, I watched the Bride and Sovereign of the Adriatic pass to the curtained chamber of the night enveloped in a veil of gold.

End of Project Gutenberg's John L. Stoddard's Lectures, by John L. Stoddard