CXV.
Venice, Italy, July 1, 1856.
The Duchies of Modena and Parma (the latter is in a state of siege since the assassination of the Duke), were among the few points in all Italy I had never visited; so I was induced to diverge from my route to this city to look in upon these little courts, whose fortified capitals contain some forty to fifty thousand inhabitants each, and whose territories might bear some resemblance in size to the little states of Rhode Island and Delaware, surrounded by their more opulent neighbors; but the usual forms of visitation of baggage, examination of passport, and other annoyances of the police, must be submitted to.
The strict censorship, and tax upon the home press, and the suppression of liberal foreign journals—even those of patriotic Sardinia, across the frontier, are forbidden—and keep the people in ignorance. The country is rich and fertile, closely cultivated from necessity by a redundant population. The palace of the Duchess Regent of Parma is strongly guarded by Austrian soldiery, which is also the case in many parts of the Pope’s dominions.
Strangers are looked upon with suspicion by the authorities, as they well know the masses are much dissatisfied with the result of the Peace Congress at Paris, having hoped for reform in Italy; they fear, therefore, an outbreak of popular resentment. The parade and pomp observed by the small potentates of Italy and Germany, aping their superiors in all the forms and etiquette of court life, to the exhaustion of their subjects, often brings to my mind the burlesque on royalty of the black emperor Soulouque, before whose palace entrance I noticed more ebony soldiers than I had ever seen Cossacks before the winter palace of the late Czar Nicholas.
From Parma I proceeded north-east some forty miles, passing over a perfectly level agricultural country, with waving fields of wheat, rye, hemp, hedges of trees, and festoons of climbing grape vines. The peasantry were picking the leaves of the mulberry for the silkworms, which are here a great source of revenue.
We crossed the rivers Po and Olio in scow boats, and came to Mantua, renowned for its gallant defence during several sieges. This Lombardian city and fortress, which contain some thirty-five thousand inhabitants, have been much strengthened under Austrian possession, and look impregnable. There are some objects of interest, but not sufficient to detain the tourist long.
Crossing a famous stone bridge over a river, seven hundred and eighty yards in length, at a distance of three miles, one is rejoiced again to strike a railroad, which conducts to this extraordinary city. Had it not been for several days’ indisposition, I really think I should have enjoyed this my third visit to this unique city as much as the first. After having escaped the noise, bustle, and dust of continental cities, it is a great relief to get where you are surrounded with comparative quiet and solitude, away from the rattling of carriages and tread of horses, with free circulation of salt air from the lagoons of the Adriatic, and particularly during this season of salt bathing. I am located on the Grand Canal near the Piazza San Marco, and am annoyed with the continual chattering of the Gondoliers, whose songs are inspiriting, but whose noisy disputes are disturbing to the temporary invalid.
You are aware that Venice is built upon many small islands, mounted upon piles, and connected by means of bridges and canals in the lagoons, thus separated from the sea. I will not undertake to describe this wonder of the world, the seat of the Doges; the vast commerce of its two hundred thousand inhabitants in the fifteenth century, now reduced to one hundred and twenty-five thousand; its gorgeous palaces, its magnificent churches, its narrow streets, its theatres, its valuable collections of art by the old masters, and its four hundred and fifty bridges, connecting one hundred and thirty-six islands with its water communication by one hundred and fifty-four canals. The natural bubbling of a fountain is unknown, and horses are objects of curiosity; thousands of gondolas and other craft supply the places of carriages, both private and public; you step out of your palace or hotel door into your vehicle to be transported for pleasure or business, as in a cab. The Grand Canal winds in the form of an S through the city, and is divided into two parts.
A gay scene presents itself these bright moonlight nights, with the hundreds of boats, containing families, beautifully dressed ladies, and a fair share of strangers, floating gracefully along, while the balconies of the antique marble palaces of Gothic, Byzantine, and other styles of architecture are filled with their residents. The grateful and refreshing breeze disperses the smoke of the lovers of good cigars, and new objects of attraction are continually presented to the eye.
We will here step out for the present and wind our way through the narrow streets lined with tiny stores and shops filled with all that art and taste can conceive of, following the multitude like a swarm of bees through the intricate lanes and alleys from four to twelve feet in width, in order not to lose our way; we will suppose it is eight or nine o’clock in the evening, and they are proceeding to the public square San Marco, which has been lighted with gas since my last visit here. Venice has some four hundred cafés, and here under the porticos of the palaces forming the large piazza, or square, are twenty-five of them, with thousands of chairs and benches for the accommodation of the immense throng, where fashion and beauty partake of ices, and other refreshments, listening to the music of the Austrian band, the interim being filled with the songs and recitations of strolling minstrels. Baskets of confectionery are moving about in the crowd, and groups of promenaders saunter along the well-paved and commodious piazza, which has scarcely a particle of dust to soil their beautiful dresses. There in front stands the Cathedral San Marco, now nearly eight hundred years old, with its symmetrical cupolas and façade of porphyry and other antique marbles, its scriptural figures in golden mosaic, and its four bronze horses brought from Corinth, taken to Paris by Napoleon, but afterwards restored.
There stands the Campanilla, three hundred and thirty-four feet in height, from which a fair view may be obtained by daylight, and near by is the Doge’s Palace, in all its grandeur, communicating by the Bridge of Sighs with the prisons. The columns of the Lion of San Marco and Saint Theodore stand towering in bold relief as you approach the water’s edge, where hundreds of gondolas are waiting to receive their precious freight.
This is the bright side of the picture. My letter is now too extended to give in detail the private communications of those who suffer in spirit and in purse from the arbitrary exactions of the power which now gores them.