CXXIV.
Venice, Italy, May 15, 1857.
A seven hours’ passage by steamer brings me across the head-waters of the Adriatic from Trieste to this city. The contrast between the rumbling noises of rolling wagons and carriages over the broad, well-paved streets of the trading city, in addition to the heat and oppression from clouds of dust from the calcareous mountain roads, to the clean, quiet quays and landing-place of the steamer at Venice, strikes the stranger upon his first visit, away from noise and dust, and breathing a pure salt atmosphere. We left Trieste with the beginning of a howling Bora, or north wind, which, being after us, had no other effect than to quiet most of our passengers, giving them a taste of the horrors of sea-sickness. Both cities are free ports, and notwithstanding they are under Austrian rule, the dissimilarity is very remarkable in every particular. The dialect is different; the currency is metallic, the Lombardian states never having accepted the paper medium of the Empire, being the only exception in all the Austrian provinces; their weights and measures are not the same; the habits and customs of the people are quite unlike. In Trieste commerce predominates, and early hours are observed; here it is the reverse, the habits of the people are late, the dining hour being five P.M.; the theatres commence at nine and are out at twelve or half-past twelve; many places of refreshment are open at midnight, and others never close; during the heat of summer, the bright moonlight nights are almost wholly passed in the open air, or in excursions in gondolas, and the quietude and tranquillity of the city induces repose by daylight.
It is now nearly a year since I wrote you from Venice, and this being my fourth visit, I will not reiterate the remarkable sights of this remarkable city. Sunday evening I was standing upon the Rialto Bridge, which crosses the grand canal, admiring by moonlight the marble palaces with their quaint architecture of Byzantine, Gothic, and other styles, when I noticed the steeple of St. Apostoli, illuminated in the distance; and on inquiry, I learned that it was a festival in honor of the admission of a priest to full privileges. How many lanes or passages, called calle, from four to twelve feet in width, in this labyrinth of a city, I travelled, I know not; but prosecuting my tortuous way through the multitude, I came at last to the Campiello, or little square of the church, whose neighboring houses were gleaming with lighted torches. Bengal lights and rockets were exploding in the air; the cafés were filled; the masses, mostly the working classes, were out, the brunettes without bonnets; the booths of the Fritolero, with their bright copper kettles of boiling oil, preparing pastry, were quite surrounded; dark-eyed damsels were overhanging the balconies, listening to the sound of a guitar, or the merry song of a gondolier, whose tiny bark lay in the canal underneath. I had so often witnessed similar spectacles, that I should have been almost unconscious of the novelty, but for the presence of an American friend on his first visit, whom I was desirous of gratifying; his expressions of surprise awoke me to a sense of the peculiarities of the scene. As gondolas are used by strangers generally, who are unacquainted with the intricate passages which require long experience, much of interest is lost. One steps in his bark from the hotel door, and is rowed from church to church, from palace to palace, as well as to the theatre, by means of these intersecting canals, without the necessity of dodging in and out, and around corners, and over bridges; when time and experience permit, however, the land-route is of great interest, for one learns thereby the characteristics of the people; one may walk for miles, and find always something new and interesting.
Isolated as is Venice, every comfort and luxury can be procured here, and one naturally seeks out the sources of supply. The flower girls trip along in the morning under the porticos of San Marco, presenting strangers with early-plucked roses. Fresh butter and milk are found at the cafés. The water carriers, mostly country village girls, in funny costume, wearing boys’ fur hats of peculiar form, with feathers, are trotting bare-footed along with a pair of small copper kettles suspended from flat elastic rods over their shoulders; the markets are well supplied with shell and other fish; the landing-place for vegetables is filled with boats delivering their cargoes; the water barges are moving up the lateral canals; the wood market furnishes its quota; foreign vessels contribute the colonial supplies; oranges, cherries, strawberries, green peas, asparagus, are seen in all parts exposed for sale, and the stranger looks in vain for any signs of vegetation, or the bubbling of a fountain. The gardino publico, the work of Napoleon, at the extreme end of the city, where, within a given circuit, horse exercise may be taken, is resorted to more by foreigners than by natives. Eight of these strange quadrupeds are kept in hire for the purpose. They are now regarded less as a curiosity than formerly.
Italy is the school for music, and the nursery of the arts; but dramatic artists must not expect to acquire fortunes in it. The operas and theatres are frequented for the purposes of coquetry, and the exchange of salutations replaces visiting to a certain extent. Shakspeare’s Othello, or the Moor of Venice, translated in Italian, has had several repetitions lately here; it loses in the translation, but the scene being laid here, the costume of the Doges, the canals and bridges in the decorations, give it additional attractions. It is curious to see the cushioned and richly furnished gondolas by the light of a full moon, driving up like cabs to the front door steps of the theatre, taking in the well-clad aristocracy, or such as live remote, and do not wish to thread the narrow streets on their way home.