As midnight drew on, I grew weary of gazing at the same endless diversity of grain-fields, vineyards, rows of trees, &c., though the bright moon was now shining, and, shutting out the chill night-air, I disposed myself on my old great-coat and softest carpet-bag for a drowse, having ample room at my command if I could but have brought it into a straight line. But the road was hard, the coach a little the uneasiest I ever hardened my bones upon, and my slumber was of a disturbed and dubious character, a dim sense of physical discomfort shaping and coloring my incoherent and fitful visions. For a time I fancied myself held down on my back while some malevolent wretch drenched the floor (and me) with filthy water: then I was in a rude scuffle and came out third or fourth best, with my clothes badly torn; anon I had lost my hat in a strange place and could not begin to find it; and at last my clothes were full of grasshoppers and spiders who were beguiling their leisure by biting and stinging me. The misery at last became unbearable and I awoke.—But where? I was plainly in a tight, dark box, that needed more air: I soon recollected that it was a stage-coach, wherein I had been making my way from Ferrara to Padua. I threw open the door and looked out. Horses, postillions and guard were all gone: the moon, the fields, the road were gone: I was in a close court-yard, alone with Night and Silence: but where? A church clock struck three; but it was only promised that we should reach Padua by four, and I, making the usual discount on such promises, had set down five as the probable hour of our arrival. I got out to take a more deliberate survey, and the tall form and bright bayonet of an Austrian sentinel, standing guard over the egress of the court-yard, were before me. To talk German was beyond the sweep of my dizziest ambition, but an Italian runner or porter instantly presented himself. From him I made out that I was in Padua of ancient and learned renown (Italian Padova), and that the first train for Venice would not start for three hours yet. I followed him into a convenient Café, which was all open and well lighted, where I ordered a cup of chocolate and proceeded leisurely to discuss it. When I had finished, the other guests had all gone out, but daylight was coming in, and I began to feel more at home. The Café tender was asleep in his chair; the porter had gone off; the sentinel alone kept awake on his post. Soon the welcome face of the coach-guard, whom I had borne company from Bologna, appeared; I hailed him, obtained my baggage, hired a porter, and, having nothing more to wait for, started at a little past four for the Railroad station, nearly a mile distant; taking observations as I went. Arrived at the dépôt, I discharged my porter, sat down and waited for the place to open, with ample leisure for reflection. At six o'clock I felt once more the welcome motion of a Railroad car, and at eight was in Venice.
XXIX.
VENICE.
Milan, Wednesday, July 9, 1851.
Venice! Queen of the Adriatic! "City of the Heart!" how can I ever forget thee? Brief, too brief was my halt amid thy glorious structures, but such eras are measured not by hours, but by sensations, and my first day in Venice must ever hold its place among the most cherished recollections of my life.
Venice lies so absolutely and wholly on the water's bosom that the landward approach to her is not imposing and scarcely impressive. The view from the sea-side may be somewhat better, but not much—not comparable to that of Genoa from the Mediterranean. No part of the islets upon and around which Venice was built having been ever ten feet above the surface of the Adriatic, while the adjacent mainland for miles is also just above the water level, you do not see the city from any point of observation outside of it—only the distant outline of a low mass of buildings perhaps two miles long, but which may not be three blocks wide, for aught you can see. Formerly two miles of shallow lagoon separated the city from the land; but this has been overcome by the heavy piling and filling required for the Railroad which now connects Venice with Verona, via Vicenza, and is to reach this city via Brescia whenever the Austrian Government shall be able to complete it. At present a noble enterprise, through one of the richest, most populous and most productive Agricultural regions of the earth, and connecting the Political with the Commercial metropolis of Austrian Italy, is arrested when half-finished, entailing a heavy annual charge on the Treasury for the interest of the sum already expended, yet yielding little or no net revenue in return, because of its imperfect condition. The wisdom of this would be just equal to that of our ten years' halt with the Erie Canal Enlargement, except for the fact that the Austrians would borrow and complete if they could, while New York has had no such excuse for her slothful blunder.
The approach to Venice across the Lagoon is like that of Boston across the Charles River marshes from the West, though of course on a much grander scale. The embankment or road-bed was commenced by gigantic piling, and is very broad and substantial. You reach the station just in the edge of the city, run the Passport gauntlet, and are let out on the brink of a wide canal, where dozens of gondoliers are soliciting your custom. I engaged one, and directed him (at a venture) to row me to the Hotel l'Europe. This proved (like nearly or quite all the other great Hotels) to be located on the same line or water-front with the Ducal Palace, Church of St. Mark, and most of the notabilities of modern Venice, with the inner harbor and shipping just on the left and the Adriatic in plain sight before us, only two or three little islets covered with buildings partially intervening. Of course, my first row was a long one, quite through the city from west to east, including innumerable turnings and windings. After this, whomsoever may assert that the streets of Venice are dusty or not well watered, I shall be able to contradict from personal observation.