A wash of waters, a play of lights, a breeze that cools like the perfumed water of the Narguilé, a constant interchange of accents musically softened from the soft Italian itself, which seems hard in comparison with them; rows of palaces that have swallowed their own story; churches modelled upon the water like wax-flowers upon a mirror; balconies with hangings of yellow-brown and white; dark canals, that suggest easy murders and throwing over of victims; music on the water; robust voices, of well-defined character; columns and arches, over which Mr. Ruskin raves, and which for him are significant of religion or irreligion; resolute-looking men and women; a world of history and legend which he who has to live in to-day can scarcely afford time to decipher,—this is Venice as I have seen her, and would see her again. Rejoice, O sister cities, that she is free. Visit her with your golden rain, O travellers; with your golden sympathy, O poets! Enrich her, commerce! Protect her, Christian faith of nations, for she is free—free!
To me she is already a recollection. For after the days of which I have so briefly told, a far summons carried me to an elder land, a more mournful mystery. Looking, but not loving my last, I packed the wearisome trunk, paid for the nights and dinners, owing little else at my lodging. A certain nightingale, who, at eight precisely every morning, broke in upon my slumbers with delicious singing, did not figure in the bill. But remembering his priceless song, I almost regret my objections to certain items set down in the account against me. And I had a last row in the gondola, and a last ice in the Piazzetta, and, last of all, a midnight embarkation on board the Austrian steamer for Trieste. Farewell, Sebastiano, my trusty gondolier. I shall not hear you cry, "Oh, juiné" (giovine) again. I see the line of the Piazzetta, defined by the lamps. Brightly may they burn; glad be the hearts that beat near them. And now they are all out of sight, and the one outside light is disappearing, too. Farewell, wonderful Venice. Thou wert painfully gotten together, no doubt, like other dwelling-places of man. Thou camest of toiling and moiling, planning, digging, and stone-breaking. But thou lookest to have risen from the waters like a dream. And this wholeness of effect makes thee a great work of art, not henceforth to be plundered by the powerful ones of the earth, but to be cherished by the lovers of beauty, studied by the lovers of art.
I will return upon my steps to mention one feature in the new Venice, a small and obscure one, whose significance greatly interested me. Having heard of a Protestant Italian congregation in the neighborhood of one of the great Catholic temples, I turned my steps one evening towards one of its meetings, and found, in a large upper chamber, a numerous assemblage of Italians of various grades, chiefly people of the poorer class, who listened with attention to a fervent address from a young clergyman of their own nation. The discourse had much of the spirit of religion, little of its technic, and was thereby, I thought, the better adapted to the feeling of the congregation. A sprinkling of well-dressed men was observable. A prayer followed the discourse, in which the auditors joined with a hearty amen. This little kernel of Protestantism, dropped in a field so new, gave me the assurance of the presence of one of the most important elements in the progress and prosperity of any state, to wit, that of religious liberty.
It is quite true that the sects under whose protection the Protestant Venetian church has sprung up—the Scotch and Swiss Presbyterians—can in no sense be considered as exponents of liberal ideas in religion. Calvinism, per se, is as absolute as Catholicism, and as cruel. The Calvinistic hell is but an adjourned Inquisition, in which controversialists have as great satisfaction in tormenting the souls of their opponents as Torquemada had in tormenting their bodies. Yet Calvinism itself is a rough and barbaric symbolization of great truths which the discipline of Catholicism tended ever more and more to distance from the efficient lives of men. The principle of individual responsibility, the impossibility of moral action without religious liberty, the inward character of religious acts and experiences, in contradistinction to the precepts and practice of a religion which had become all form, all observance. These ideas, gathered together by a vigorous mind, and made efficient by the constitution of a sect or party, were capable of regenerating modern Europe, and did so. For it will be found that all of its Protestant piety ran within the bounds of this somewhat narrow channel. But even here, the liberalizing influences of time are irresistible, and although the cruel and insufficient doctrines are still subscribed to by zealous millions, the practice and culture of the church itself become more and more liberal. The zeal for propagandism, which characterizes the less tolerant portion of the Protestant sects, makes their ministration on new ground efficient and valuable. The material hell, from which, in good faith, they seek to deliver those who hear them, symbolizes the infinite danger and loss to man of a life passed without the impulses and restraints of religion. A more philosophic statement would be far less tangible to the minds alike of teacher and disciple. Their intervention in communities characterized by a low grade of religious culture is therefore useful, perhaps indispensable. And while I value and prize my own religious connections beyond aught else, I am thankful to the American missions that support Waldense preaching in Italy. They at least teach that a man is to think for himself, pray for himself; and their worship, even when rudest and most uncultured, is more an instruction of the multitude than a propitiation of the infinite love which is always ready to do for us more and better than we can ask.
So, little Protestant congregation in Venice, my heart bids you God speed! But may the love of God be preached to you rather than the torment of fear, and may the simplicity and beauty of the Christian doctrine and example preserve you alike from the passional and the metaphysical dangers of the day.
GREECE AND THE VOYAGE THITHER.
"in a transition state."
We have left Venice. We have passed an intolerable night on board the Austrian steamer, whose state-rooms are without air, its cabin without quiet, and its deck without shelter. So inconvenient a transport, in these days of steamboat luxury, makes one laugh and wonder. Trieste, our stopping-place, is the strangest mongrel, a perfect cur of a city (cur-i-o-sity). It is neither Italian, Greek, nor German, but all three of these, and many more. The hotel servants speak German and Italian, the shop-keepers also. Paper money passes without fight or agio upon the prices demanded. It seems to be par, with gold and silver at a premium. Much Oriental-looking merchandise is seen in the shop windows. The situation is fine, the port first rate.
Our consul here, Mr. Alex. Thayer, is the author of the Life of Beethoven, already favorably known to the world as far as the first volume. The second, not yet completed, is looked for with interest. Mr. Thayer's kind attentions made our short stay in Trieste pleasant, and our transit to the Austrian Lloyd's steamer easy, and within thirty-six hours after our arrival we found ourselves embarked on board the latter, en route for Syra, where we should find another Austrian Lloyd waiting to convey us to the Piræus, the well-known port of Athens.
Our voyage began with a stormy day. Incessant rain soaked the deck. A charming little upper cabin, cushioned and windowed like a luxurious carriage, gave us shelter, combined with fresh air—the cordial of those who "cœlum et animum mutant, quia trans mare current." Here I pillowed myself in inevitable idleness, now become, alas! too familiar, and amused myself with the energetic caquet of my companions.