We crossed the famous “Bridge of Sighs,” immortalised by Lord Byron, who says:
“I stood in Venice, on the bridge of sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand.”
It was built in the year 1610. We could not fail to remember Tom Hood’s pathetic poem, written, it is believed, after seeing a poor girl, one of the unfortunates, whose corpse has just been discovered in the cold black waters under this bridge of sighs—Drowned! drowned!
“One more unfortunate weary of breath,
Rashly importunate, gone to her death;
Take her up tenderly, lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair.
Touch her not scornfully, think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly; not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful, past all dishonour,
Death has left on her only the beautiful.
Still for all slips of hers, one of Eve’s family,
Wipe those poor lips of hers, oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses, escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses, while wonderment guesses
Where was her home? Who was her father?
Who was her mother? Had she a sister?
Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one
Still and a nearer one yet than the others?
Alas for the rarity of christian charity
Under the sun, Oh! it was pitiful!
Near to a city full, home she had none.
Where the lamps quiver, so far on the river,
With many a light from window and casement
From garret to basement, she stood with amazement
Homeless by night. The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and quiver, but not the dark arch
Or the black flowing river, mad with life’s history
Glad to death’s mystery, swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.
In she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly
The rough river ran.
Over the brink of it. Picture it, think of it.
Then if you can, take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care; fashioned so slenderly,
So young and so fair. E’er her limbs frigidly
Stiffen so rigidly, decently, kindly
Smooth and compose them, and her eyes close them
Staring so blindly, dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity. As when the daring
Last look of despairing, fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, spurned by contumely,
Cold inhumanity, burning insanity,
Into her rest—Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly, over her breast.
Owning her weakness, her evil behaviour,
And leaving with meakness her sins to her Saviour.”
The bridge derives its name from the fact that criminals crossed it from the judge’s chamber to the prison. This passage used to be on the bridge: “The way of the transgressors is hard.” The bridge is a single arch of one span of ninety feet. There are some nice shops on the top. Our next visit was to the church of San G. Maggiore. Amongst so many churches that we visited, I must not omit to name the old church of Santa Mari dei Frari. It is about five hundred years old. It is said the heart of Titian lies somewhere here. He died at the age of about one hundred years. A plague was raging at the time of his death, which carried away something like fifty thousand of the inhabitants of Venice. Yet such was the esteem in which he was held, the state permitted a public funeral in that season of death and terror. In this church there is a fine monument to one of the Kings “Foscari.” It is in its way a curiosity. It is over forty feet high, and is fronted in such a peculiar fashion, I could only liken it to some heathen temple. Against it are four black men, as black as the blackest marble could be, dressed in white garments of marble. Their black legs are bare, and through places that seem torn in breeches and sleeves, the shining black marble shows. Above all this sits the departed Doge or King.
“The Church of Santa Maria della Salute.” On our way home we dropped from our gondola to have a look at this sacred building. It stands nearly at the entrance of the Grand Canal. A hundred statues adorn the facades. It is said the building rests upon over one million massive piles driven deeply into the sea. It was erected in response to a vow, so it is said, in the year 1631. Sixty thousand inhabitants were swept away by a terrible plague. The then Doge vowed a vow to build a costly church in honour of the Virgin, if the plague was stayed, from the day the vow was made, no more deaths occurred, and every year this event is commemorated in a festival. Reaching home tired, we soon went to bed and rested. Rising refreshed and it being Sunday morning, we felt a need of our English Sabbath with its quiet rest and worship. This, however, was partly supplied by a party from the Polytechnic in London, who, we found, were sleeping at our hotel, so we joined them, after we had breakfasted, in their songs, and so passed a part of the sacred day happily and pleasantly. We visited one of the principal manufactories of mosaics and carvings. A gentleman, who spoke fairly good English, escorted us through these extensive works. The building was, at one time, one of the Ducal Palaces. Room after room, full of the finest mosaics, cameos, china works in every conceivable variety, statuary, and carvings. Some of these works of art are almost priceless. We bought a few small specimens of the Venetians’ workmanship. These large palaces of days long past are crumbling to ruins. Byron says:
“In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier.
Her palaces are crumbling on the shore,
And music greets not always now the ear.”
Among the many places of interest in this very interesting old-world city, that we cannot stay to describe, are the Mint, the Arsenal, the Public Gardens, Titian’s house, Academy of Fine Arts, etc. We had just a look at what we should call the slums, I mean the places where live the poor, and the poor are very poor. Someone has compared Venice to a page of music, with its curious streets, palaces, museums, canals and bridges, resembling lines, notes, double notes, crotchets, pauses; its long and straight, its short, narrow and crooked ways, its open spaces scattered up and down, its mounting and descending of bridges. The comparison holds good in as far as the stranger may easily lose his way and not easily find it again, in this maze of land and water. In Venice nearly everything is sold in the open-air in the poorer quarters, and almost everything that is eaten, is eaten in the open-air. Stalls, where fish or mutton is grilled or fried, and passed hot into the al fresco customer’s hands. Turning into a sequestered nook resembling one of the openings in our Narrow Marsh, we saw a number of girls, very good looking damsels, with guitars and dulcimers, they were giving a serenade to the poor of that quarter. They are the pearl threaders. The pearl threading is an occupation prevalent in Venice, as embroidery was at one time in England. A home of the poor was being removed from one house to another, the furniture consisted simply of a bedstead and a huge chest or coffer with a stool or two, and a small wooden table. These constituted their whole inventory. Nothing of marble or mosaic here. Nothing of gold or purple, only squalor, poverty and rags. And now we think we have seen Venice, our time also is used up or nearly so. We have surely seen enough of the profusion of costly ornamentation in the old churches. We gazed upon pictures until our eyes were weary of looking at the finest works of the painters’ art ever produced. We have surely learned something in this old-world city of the deeds and doings of bygone ages. To have seen St. Mark’s and its wonderful Campanile or Tower, and the Palace of the ancient Kings or Doges, and the Grand Square, and the Bronze Horses that figure in so many legends (it is said there are hundreds of people in this curious old city that have never seen a living horse). We think we have now seen Venice, and if this had been all we had seen on this tour, it would be worth all the cost and all the trouble to have seen this city on the sea.
Our new found friend, Miss Himmel, left us in the early morning, her next visit was to Munich. We wished her good-bye and God speed, for in our very short acquaintance we had learned to look upon her as a dear friend. And so we leave Venice, calling it as Goethe does: “a grand work of collective human effort. A glorious monument, not of a ruler, but a people.” So we departed, our gondola was at our hotel door early, we settled up, he swung out and we were at the station and caught the 9.45 for Milan.