A steamboat, large enough for the traffic, sailed every hour from the quay in front of our hotel to the island of Lido, about two miles distant. We crossed in it one afternoon; and the sail is interesting, as the vessel passes the other islands, and fine views are had from it of the town, and, in the distance, of the mountains of the Tyrol. The island of Lido is long and narrow. Upon landing we walked across to the other side, about half a mile of road. Here we were on the borders of the Adriatic. The island is a bright little spot with a few buildings on it. Returning, we got on board just in time to escape, under cover of its awning, a thunder-shower which came pelting down very heavily, and lasted all the time we were on board.
We had now been eight days in Venice, and had been constantly going about seeing much that was to be seen, but yet only seeing it in a superficial way. There was no place in Italy which was more attractive. Its gorgeous palaces and churches, its strange, unique kind of life, the multitudinous canals teeming with gondolas, and the pleasure of moving about in them, was something we never could forget. We saw Venice usually in brilliant sunshine, with everything sparkling in light, although nearly every afternoon, with a severe punctuality which enabled us generally to be prepared for it, black clouds gathered, and a thunderstorm emptied them quickly. But perhaps the most beautiful sight of all was to see Venice in moonlight. One is familiar with photographs of the fair city, tinted with a deep blue in imitation of moonlight effect, a white spot being picked out for the moon herself (as, of course, the photographs are taken during the day), and I can hardly say that there is in these pictures much, if any, exaggeration. The blueness of the sky, and of everything with which the light is tinged in moonlight, is something remarkable and very lovely, while the effect is increased when the moon, getting behind a cloud, gives to the cloud a luminous edging of silver.
We were exceedingly unwilling to leave this bright fairyland, but became afraid to stay longer. The fact is, that with all its attractiveness Venice has not, at least to a stranger, the feeling of healthiness. It drains into the canals, where the tide rises and falls only 2 feet, and has not force sufficient to carry off the drainage. The effluvium from the narrow canals is sometimes overpowering, and yet it is said, as it is said of so many other places one might imagine insalubrious, that Venice is naturally so healthy that the people are notedly long-lived; and, indeed, one instance of this occurs in the case of Titian, who lived to the patriarchal age of ninety-nine. How this comes, ‘let doctors tell.’
We left on 23d May, pursuing our way up the Grand Canal and under the Ponte Rialto, and on to the railway station,—a long pull, but one we always enjoyed. In fact, if a visitor do nothing but obtain a sail along this canal, he sees the greater part of Venice; just as, though much less completely, a stranger sees much of London by a sail upon the Thames, and would see more were the main buildings, as at Venice, placed upon its banks; which henceforth, perhaps, there is a hope they may be. The canal is, I think, about two miles in length, and on an average not less than 100 feet wide, and is lined by palaces, churches, and houses, in the utmost irregularity of height and diversity of character and style, many of them beautiful, while the canal itself is alive with gondolas; and the tout ensemble is so picturesque, that when the sun shines, as it generally did, everything looks engaging to the eye. One by one we passed and gazed at the palaces (which had become, as it were, old friends) with many a lingering look, as if resolved we never should forget them. But the vision came to an end as we entered the modern and disenchanting railway station, whence we shortly after proceeded on our journey to Verona, the scene of Romeo and Juliet. Romance was not, therefore, to be quite at an end, and as the train issued out of the railway station the curtain was raised for a momentary glimpse; and slowly wending our way over the lagune by the long viaduct of 222 arches, we looked intently on the floating city, wondering if ever we should see it again. Losing sight of it lying on the one side, attention was forthwith drawn to the other by the line of the Tyrolese mountains, which at some distance were in view, and flanking us nearly the whole way. We passed Padua and Vicenza, and through a country which is flat, but was smiling in the greens of early summer, and after a journey of about seventy miles in four hours reached our destination.
VERONA.
We had proposed spending two nights at Verona, but American friends who came with us from Venice were anxious to get on to Milan, so that we had just two hours the following morning for a drive about the town. We regretted afterwards that our opportunity was not greater, for it is indeed a place at which one may stay for a few days with advantage. It is very picturesquely situated on the river Adige, and contains a good deal that is interesting. We first drove through the old market-place, where people were busy selling fruit, vegetables, and other things in a piazza surrounded by curious old houses. Then into the Piazza dei Signori, where are some very fine buildings, old and new, and adjoining it a small open space or square closely surrounded by houses, in which the noted and highly decorated tombs of the Scaligers, enclosed within a wall and railing, are seen. Then on to the Arena, which is not so imposing as the Colosseum or even the Arena at Nismes, and although covering more ground than the latter, was seated for fewer spectators; but it is in a very perfect condition—the most perfect, I think, of any we saw in Italy, the large marble slabs of which it is built being nearly all in place. We mounted to the top row, and had an excellent view of the country round about. From this we drove to the church of San Zenone Maggiore, a thousand years old, and very curious. The portal is peculiar, and adorned by rich marble reliefs. Within are some fine old pillars, said to be of single pieces of marble, a crypt, and cloisters—altogether a place of great interest and of striking conformation. We were only sorry we had so little time to examine it minutely, for we could take but a rapid walk round. Returning to town we entered two other churches,—San Fermo Maggiore, with an open ceiling in walnut wood, and the Duomo, which is quaintly ornamented; but we had seen so many Italian churches elsewhere that we were rather attracted to a little building at the end of a garden, said to be the tomb of Juliet. One is fain to believe in it, but as matter of fact it is discredited. This tomb so-called Juliet’s is an elegant, small, open, three-arched vault, or recessed covered place with slender double columns, containing within a sarcophagus. More certainty is attached to what is shown at a different part of the town as Juliet’s window; but, alas for the romance! the window looks into the street, and it has no balcony.
