I would have liked to call upon our sculptor Greenough[97] to see how the statue of Washington is coming on, but had not time.
At sunrise I was on the mountain-summits, among the clouds, which a strong wind for a moment blew aside, and gave me some magnificent views. We journeyed for some hours in this elevated region, but at length crossed the Tuscan frontier and were once more in the country of his Holiness. Just as we commenced our descent, which is very abrupt, a dense fog enveloped us and it began to rain; in consequence of this I lost the view which you often have of the Adriatic and the Mediterranean at the same time, as well as the plains of the Po on the north. This was the first rain I encountered, excepting a few drops at Rome, since I left Lyons; so you may judge of the dryness of the climate in the south of France and Italy. It is very different, however, near the mountains. At length, after a long and rapid descent, we arrived at the foot of the mountain, and stopped at a comfortable inn to take our dinner and breakfast at once, it being about two o’clock. Several carriages were there before us, and just before I left another arrived, bringing with it a most genuine Yankee, who amused me excessively. It seems that he came out in the Great Western, a few weeks ago, had seen what he thought worth seeing in London and Paris, had been even to Naples, and was now on his way from Rome to Switzerland, and expected to reach London to return by steamship in—I forget how many days! But the feat upon which he prided himself above all was that he had ascended Vesuvius and come back again in—I don’t remember precisely how many minutes, but in an inconceivably short space of time, and very much quicker than had ever been done before! to the great wonderment of the guides, as he said, and as I do not doubt. This was his chef d’œuvre, and I assure you he felt quite proud of it. I laughed most heartily at the absurdity of the thing, until I reflected how rapidly I had been doing the sights myself, and felt I might justly come in for a share of the ridicule. In this day’s journey I think I outdid the Yankee, for, arriving at Bologna about five o’clock, I immediately made arrangements for going on to Ferrara the same night, and this accomplished, I had but two or three hours to spend at Bologna, a city famous for its university and its sausages; the former decayed almost to nothing, the latter still in great demand, diffusing their abominable garlic odor from every table. I visited all the large churches, took some coffee, and before nine o’clock was on my way through the vast plain watered by the Po, which, like most large rivers, branches near its mouth into several streams. The lad who drove me did not know the road very well, and lost his way several times, so that instead of arriving before daybreak it was six o’clock in the morning when we entered Ferrara. Indeed he came near losing his horse as well as the road, for while I was sleeping soundly in the carriage I was roused by a prodigious clatter, and jumping out as quick as I could, found that he had driven into a heap of rough stones deposited to mend the road; the horse had slipped and was lying flat upon his back in the bottom of the ditch. With much ado we liberated him from the carriage and lifted him out of the ditch, repaired the injury to the harness as well as we could with bits of rope, and were again on our way. I have wondered since how I could ride thus through the night, with only a boy with me, through a country which some years ago would not have been deemed safe. But I felt not the slightest alarm, and slept as soundly as possible.
Ferrara is famous for possessing the tomb and chair of Ariosto, but except this is as uninteresting as you can imagine. It was Sunday, and I spent the day within doors as well as I could.
By making a very early ride I succeeded in reaching Padua at ten o’clock this morning; visited the university so famed of old, the churches, the splendid Caffè Pedrocchi, the Botanic Garden,—the most ancient in Italy, of which Alpinius, the elder and the younger, and Pontedera were the directors. It is under the care of Visiani,[98] to whom I brought a letter from Bentham, and who politely showed me all I wished to see. The university is a queer old place indeed, and the lecture-rooms the most dark, gloomy, and incommodious places you can conceive; everything is as old as the fifteenth century. I wish I could describe the anatomical theatre, which is the most curious specimen of antiquity I have seen. The Museum of Natural History is so-so. There is still a goodly number of students, but nothing to what there was in the olden time. The Duomo is a small affair, but the church of St. Antonio is like a mosque, the most Saracenic building I ever saw,—with its seven or eight balloon-shaped domes of various sizes, and three or four tall and slender minarets. I am sorry I can’t get a decent print of it. The interior is noble, and very rich in tombs and shrines and sculptures. Here are tombs of many of the old professors. The church of St. Augustine is in the same style, and not much inferior.... There is very much that I wish to write, but I have not the time nor the strength to write longer, and must sleep. To understand the full luxury of a bed you should sleep without one, as I have done very often of late. Good-night.
Venice, on board steamboat for Triest, lying at anchor,
Wednesday evening, May 15, 1839.
For nearly two days I have been “a looker-on in Venice,” a strange place, as unlike any other city of Europe as can be, unless Constantinople resemble it in some respects. It is more like some place you visit in dreams, some creation of fancy, than a real, earthly city, if it can be called earthly which scarcely stands upon earth.
We left Padua at five o’clock in the morning, yesterday, by the diligence, passing along the banks of a canal, bordered with numerous villas; all of them had been fine, some very magnificent, but they are now decaying. The clouds prevented me from obtaining a view of the Rhætian Alps, which bound the view on the north, but I hope to make up for this to-morrow, which will give me some amends for our detention here; for you must know that the steamboat was to have left at nine o’clock this evening, and I expected to have been in Triest this morning; but the day has been stormy, and the water is a little rough, so, forsooth, the boat is to remain until morning; but as it is to start early, I have remained on board, where I have a comfortable place to sleep, and a quiet hour to write.
Oh, I wish you could see Venice!—and the dear girls—whenever I see anything particularly queer, I think of them at once, and wish for them to enjoy it with me. And here everything is strange, canals for streets, gondolas for coaches; not a horse to be seen in the city, except the celebrated bronze gilt steeds of St. Mark; palaces of barbaric magnificence, splendid churches; people of all nations and tongues, Christians, Turks, and Jews. Surely there is nothing like it. The view from Fusina, on the mainland, which was the first I obtained, was charming....
You will wonder at the comparison, but the distant view of Venice reminded me strongly of New York, as you approach from Amboy. The gondola that brought us stopped in the Grand Canal near the Rialto, or rather the bridge of the Rialto, for the name properly belongs to the island; and in crossing this bridge during the day, I found some of the little shops still occupied by money-changers, and I saw more than one hard Jewish countenance that might sit for the picture of Shylock. This part of the town is unpleasant, although the canals are lined with what were once stately palaces, which now look as if about to sink again into the water. While on my way to a hotel, I came abruptly upon a view that seemed like enchantment: the Piazza of St. Mark, a large quadrangle, three sides inclosed by a magnificent range like the Palais Royal; on the fourth, the church of St. Mark, and adjoining it the Palace of the Doges, scarcely less magnificent, and in an equally Oriental style. In front is the Campanile, taller than that of Florence, but not handsome. As you turn out of the quadrangle in full front of the palace, you see the two granite columns, one of them surmounted with the winged lion; and you stand on the mole, with the most superb view of sea and city, shipping, churches and palaces, before and around you. I never expect again to see anything like it. I have walked over this ground again; and one is never wearied with the sight.... The street musicians here are very good. A party stops at the door of the café: a man with a violin, his wife and son each with a guitar, and they perform several airs exceedingly well, the woman sometimes accompanying with her voice. She enters the café with the little wooden cup in her hand, and is well satisfied with a kreutzer (about half a cent) from those who choose to give, and a sweet “grazia” in the softest Italian expresses her thanks. There is one café here frequented almost exclusively by Turks, who sit smoking their large pipes with such an air of ridiculous gravity. Their turbans or the red caps they often wear, their flowing robes and their nether garments, which are something between pantaloons and petticoats, are very queer....
I spare you a detailed account of my movements to-day and yesterday, of the fine churches, enough to furnish cathedrals to half a dozen cities, of the arsenal, its ship-yard, the antique lions, the public garden, the Armenian convent, the gondolas and my rides therein. I have enjoyed it greatly, and have laid up a stock for future enjoyment, for I shall read hereafter of Venice with greater interest. One who travels as rapidly as I do, if he would enjoy the full benefit of his journey, should know almost everything before he leaves home. The true way for those who have time and means sufficient is to study the history of each place on the spot with all its monuments and relics around them. So more might be learned in one month than in a year at home. If I had what I am not likely to have,—a family of children to bring up, money sufficient for the purpose, and no other duties to prevent, I think I would educate them in this peripatetic way. But now to bed.