The Pigeons in St. Mark’s Square: Further description of the interior: The Palace of the Doges: “The Bridge of Sighs”: The general Archives of Venice: The Church of Santa Maria dei Frari: London Polytechnic Party: Some of the slums of Venice: Our farewell.

In the Piazza of St. Mark’s there may be seen, almost any time, some hundreds of pigeons. They are very tame, we passed them so closely I think we could have picked them up in our arms. There is an old legend that these pigeons are the safety valve of Venice. How? it is difficult to learn, but they are regarded almost with reverence. Twice a day they are fed by the public authorities. A huge bell is rung, and they come from all quarters of the city. They know the time of feeding and to show visitors that this is true, when the bell is not rung, the pigeons are there. If anyone hurts or kills one of these pigeons, he is fined heavily for the first offence, if it is repeated he is imprisoned. We went inside this beautiful church of St. Mark’s and at first we could not realise the magnificence, the beauty, the costliness of its interior. The columns of porphry and amalachite and verde antique, panels glittering with gold and gems, pavements dazzling in mosaic work.

After some time we began to realize the splendours by which we were surrounded. Mr. Ruskin, I think, gives a fine picture in very simple words of the beauties and richness of St. Mark’s: “Then opens before us a vast cave hewn out in the form of a cross, and divided into shadowy aisles by many pillars. Round the domes of its roof, the light enters only through narrow apertures, like large stars; here and there a ray or two from some far away casement wanders into darkness, and casts a narrow phosphoric stream upon the waves of marble that heave and fall in a thousand colours upon the floor. What else there is of light is from torches or silver lamps burning ceaselessly in the recesses of the chapels. The roof sheathed with gold, and the polished walls, covered with rich alabaster, gives back at every curve and angle some feeble gleaming to the flames: and the glories round the heads of the sculptured saints flash out upon us as we pass them, and sink into gloom. Under foot and over head a continual succession of crowded imagery, one picture passing into another as in a dream; forms beautiful and terrible, mixed together, dragons and serpents and ravenous beasts of prey, and graceful birds that in the midst of them, drink from running fountains and feed from vases of crystal. The passions and pleasures of human life symbolized together and the mystery of its redemption; for the mass of interwoven lines and changeful pictures lead always at last to the Cross lifted and carved in every place and upon every stone, sometimes with the serpent of eternity wrapped around it, with doves beneath its arms, and sweet herbage growing forth from its feet. But conspicuous most of all is the great road that crosses the church before the altar, raised in the bright blazonry against the shadow of the Apse.”

To describe all the interior of this lovely structure would be as easy as to describe our British Museum in London. We were enchanted, bewildered, surprised. The baptistery, with its sculptured front, and for an altar piece a massive granite slab, on which, it is alleged, our Lord stood when he preached to the inhabitants of Tyre. Then the choir stalls are rich in carvings of every description, indeed, everywhere about us are treasures unspeakable. The outside is hardly less wonderful than the inside, with its domes, spires, statues, arches and columns, which fairly bewilder you, as for the first time your eyes fall upon such marvellous productions of the skilful workmanship of man. The King’s palace or what is called the Palace of the Doges is just against the Piazza or Square of St. Mark’s. Against one of the columns at the entrance I took a snapshot of my dear wife and our friend Miss Himmel. This place is full of things ancient and interesting. Ruskin says of its many coloured marbles, columns, arches, and curiously sculptured windows: “A piece of rich and fantastic colour, as lovely a dream as ever filled the imagination.” It has been twice destroyed by fire, but from the ashes it has arisen more beautiful than ever; here it stands to-day a monument of a strange and eventful history of over one thousand years.

Mrs. Wardle and Miss Himmel by The Doges Pillar, Venice

The power of the Doges it seems, was an absolute power for a time, yet was of uncertain tenure. Out of fifty, it is said, five abdicated, nine were exiled, five were banished and their eyes put out, and five were massacred, this up to 1172. Life was of little value in those days, even amongst kings, nor was it less so amongst the people, as often a man accused was condemned without trial, punishment was swift and sure and secret, generally by strangulation in prison, or by drowning, hands tied and body weighted. It was no uncommon sight in those days in this land to see a body swinging from the gallows by the wayside. No one dared to enquire about the unhappy man’s fate, or he stood in danger of similar treatment. Everywhere there was unsafety and fear. As Rogers, one of our poets, puts it:

“A strange mysterious power was there,
Moving throughout; subtle, invisible
And universal as the air they breathed.
A power that never slumbered, never pardoned,
All eye, all ear, nowhere, and everywhere;
Most potent when least thought of—Nothing dropt
In secret, when the heart was on the lips,
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly
Observed and judged—A power that if but glanced at
In casual converse, be it where it might,
The speaker lowered at once his eyes, his voice
And pointed upwards as to God in heaven.
But, let him in the midnight air indulge
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice,
And in that hour he vanished from the earth.”

Those were dark days in this city of wealth and power. We were not permitted inside the palace, but were allowed to ascend the staircase at the head of which is the famous “lions’ mouths,” into which, in ancient times, were placed terrible denunciations, secret letters, etc., which meant, what I have already referred to, imprisonment, torture or death. Also, along a long corridor, where we could see the busts of the Venetian heroes, whose names were enrolled in the “Golden Book.” Beyond is the hall of the Grand Council, in which are some of the richest and most valuable pictures in Venice. There is Tintoretto’s masterpiece, “The glory of Paradise,” the largest picture (74 feet long) ever painted on canvas, the most precious thing in Venice to-day. From the hall of the Grand Council, there is further on the hall of the Council of Ten. Indeed, the rooms are so many, so large and so full of things of interest, we left the place greatly interested and very tired.

Another marvellous old church we visited was erected in 1565. It is, however, much like other churches, full of pictures, bronze statues and carvings in wood in great variety. The tomb of Titian is an object of interest in the Church of Frari, but time does not permit us to dwell upon it. The offices of the general archives of Venice are very fine buildings, they were in the cloisters of the Frari, they are now simply the resting places of the most ancient records of the old republic. It is said there are now over fourteen million volumes of immense value stored there. They occupy thirteen large rooms. The museum is a place worth a visit to those who are interested in curios. It belongs to the city, and in it are many curiosities, chiefly artistical and archaeological—antique medals, armoury, engravings, books, ivory, engraved stones. It is a place of great interest.

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.