I stayed at Padua till the 6th of November, and then obtained a place in the diligence for Venice. One of my fellow passengers let lodgings at Venice, and I have since found my account in the circumstance. The road side is adorned with good houses for some miles after we leave Padua, and what is more, they seem to be in good order. About half the journey was by land. For the other half, we were either towed by a horse down the canal of the Brenta, or rowed across the Lagune. This canal is some feet below the level of the river, so that it has always plenty of water, and the locks are not managed with any view to economize it. Indeed all the canals in this part of Italy are running streams, and sometimes pretty considerable ones. The banks are flat, and generally without large trees: the best parts resemble perhaps those of the Thames at Fulham, but the stream is narrower, and the houses are larger, all of them white, and the trees smaller. The lands behind are low, and probably wet; they are not however naked, like our marshes, but have abundance of willows, and some mulberries and vines, and are cultivated with corn. My vision of these objects was not however very distinct; for it was quite dusk when we entered the boat, and we did not reach Venice till half past eleven. It was very cold, and the stucco floors at this time of the year are damp and comfortless. I occupied a large room at first, but I have since moved into a smaller, which has a stove in it, and this suits me much better.

I will now give you an account of my mode of life here. I breakfast at a coffee-house, usually at the Gloria, which is on my way to St. Mark’s Place. I afterwards continue my walk through the Place, to an excellent inn, called the Favretti, where I find my three friends, Messrs. Finch, Lee, and Wathen; and usually also a young Greek physician of the name of Vracliotti, who has paid us great attention, and we all sally forth to see pictures and churches; about four we adjourn to dinner at the Trattoria de’ Pellegrini, where, besides our party, we usually meet as many more Italians and Greeks, who frequent the place, and with all of whom we have formed a sort of acquaintance. After dinner, and a cup of Mocha coffee at the Florian, I get home as quickly as I can, to prepare my lessons; and at about half past five, or a quarter before six, comes my Italian master, who stays till seven, and would stay longer if I would let him: then I run off to Signor Vlandi, (??a?t?) who gives me lessons in modern Greek, which last to about half past eight. In my way back, I look in at the Genio, a coffee-house where they play at chess. I have not played there much, and at first I mostly lost. You know a chess-player never wants an excuse for losing, but I really think in this case I had very good ones. In the first place, the men, though better than the French, are not well distinguished. Then the difference of the game in the castling, and in the privilege which the pawns have “di passar battaglia,” put one out a good deal. Add to these, a headful of sights, and continued anxiety not to forget any thing that I have seen, and the odd corners filled up with two languages. Latterly, I have in some degree regained my credit. At half past nine, or ten, I step into the theatre for an hour or two, and some time between eleven and twelve go to bed, a practice which excites admiration at Venice, where parties are made after the theatre; and if a man feel himself indisposed, he begins at midnight to talk of going to bed very early. I do not however do all this every day; indeed it is only about every other day that the whole is performed: on the others something is omitted, to leave room for a little writing.

Firing is very dear at Venice, and the apartments are not well contrived for warmth. Indeed, as far as I can see, no Venetian ever thinks of making his room warm; if his apparatus of mats, foot-bags, great coats, and caps, are not sufficient, he either makes a little fire, just to warm himself, or goes to the coffee-house, where however, the warmth is derived from the crowds who frequent them, and not from the fires. The ladies are better off, as they have little chafing-dishes to put their feet upon, which as they sit, are hidden under their petticoats, and even the beggars in the streets have these conveniences. The theatre, the church, and the coffee-house are the lounging places of the Italian, where he goes neither to see, nor to do any thing; but merely because he has nothing to do. There is seldom any amusement in the coffee-houses, beyond a little languid conversation; three-fourths of the people seem dreaming, and neither eat, drink, nor talk. You may observe a solitary individual come in, and seat himself on the well stuffed cushions, with an air, not of enjoyment, but of mere listlessness, and sit in a sort of stupid contentedness, saying nothing and doing nothing; but it is winter here in the moral and political, as well as in the physical world.

I went several times to the theatre at Milan, and once to the opera: the latter was very stupid, and I was very much pleased to find the Italians can go to sleep at it, as well as the English. The comedy is a good school of language. You pay about sevenpence for entrance into the house, but if you wish to obtain a seat in a box, you must pay for the whole box. At Venice, at one theatre you pay sixty-six centimes for admittance. At another the price is fifty centimes, but you are to give fifteen more for a seat. The opera here (at the MosÈ) is sixty-six centimes for admittance, and ten, or sometimes twenty more, for a seat. At the MosÈ I found a notice posted up at the door, forbidding all expression of disapprobation. It seems that a favourite actress of the governor did something to displease the public, and in consequence was so hissed that she could not be heard: an order was issued to prohibit hissing, but stamping with the feet was found to answer the purpose just as well. Then appeared the order, which still remains, and as the audience could no longer disapprove, they had recourse to applauses, and at last fairly got the victory, and drove her off the stage. In most of the Italian theatres the seats in the pit are divided, so that you are certain of not being crowded; and in many of them they are numbered also, and you sit according to the number; and as in France, there are always soldiers placed to preserve order. At Milan, the pit is flat, not rising as it recedes from the stage; but on the other hand, in some theatres, the centre boxes are higher than those on the sides. One of the pieces I have seen represents Harlequin in Paris and in London. I suppose we borrowed Harlequin from Italy, but he has been strangely transformed on the passage. The original has indeed the checkered dress and the wooden sword, but every thing else is different. He is a poor simple clown, generally the gull of some cheat, continually making blunders, but mixing with his blunders and simplicity a sort of cross-purpose wit. He borders upon the pot-bellied, has no activity, no transformations, no magical powers, and his clumsy wooden sword is entirely without flexibility. Columbine is also a country lass. In the piece which I have just mentioned, it is not Harlequin which interests us, but the Italian notion of the character and manners of the French and English. At Paris, encouraged by the freedom of manners in the females, he attempts to be very gallant, and makes love to various ladies. At last one of them gives him a very good lesson, and tells him, that because they are free, they are supposed to be vicious, but that it is unfair to judge of the morals of one country by the comparison of their manners with those of another nation, and that he will find as much virtue and constancy at Paris as elsewhere. An Englishman is introduced at Paris, dressed in a sort of great coat, with the ends of his neckcloth hanging down to his waist. I fancy this is some old standard of the Italian stage, for the other Englishmen are much more correct. Afterwards we find ourselves in an English coffee-house, and this to be sure is a magnificent room. One Englishman comes in after another, each calling out in one word for what he wants, and this is mostly birra. In many parts of Italy, bottled beer is very much drunk in the coffee-houses, and as England is famous for beer, they naturally suppose that we do the same in a much higher degree. This is not half so ridiculous as a scene in one of Goldoni’s plays, where he introduces an Englishman paying attentions to an agreeable Italian lady, till a silent countrywoman of his own appears. Nothing will induce her to speak a single word; but she merely expresses by signs her assent and dissent. The Englishman is quite enchanted, and as it is morning, is anxious to get something for her breakfast; will she have beer? No; tea? No; punch? The lady nods assent. But once more to our Harlequin, who soon makes his appearance in this English coffee-house, and attempts to converse first with one, and then with another, but is answered by frowns and threats; the latter consisting of pointing alternately to a stick and to his back, for not a word is uttered except by Harlequin himself. Some ladies enter; every body rises in silence to offer them the best seats; and Harlequin, attempting to get acquainted with them, gets actually beaten by the gentlemen. In spite of the gross mistakes and caricatures, there was enough of truth to make the representation very amusing.

The old Italian comedy had four masks; Harlequin, who was originally of Bergamo, but who now speaks Venetian; Brigella, more knave than fool; a blustering Bolognese doctor; and a Neapolitan. The outline of the story was given them, what they had to do was written down, not what they were to say. This seems quite gone by, and though the masks are very frequently introduced, and something is left to the wit and ingenuity of the actors, yet I believe the dialogue is now always prepared for them.

By arriving in the dark, I lost the distant view of Venice, but I am informed by my companions here, that it presents merely one line of building, without any prominent object, and consequently is not fine. I shall not pretend to carry you in detail through all the architecture of this singular place; and as for paintings, it is a subject on which I dare not venture. A great many bad engravings of bad views in Venice are to be met with all over Europe, which to me, now that I have seen the objects, speak an intelligible language, but from which otherwise, I could form no idea of the beauty of the churches and palaces, of the whimsical architecture frequently displayed in them, or of the magnificent effect of the whole. I will endeavour to analyze a few of the leading objects. The morning after my arrival I repaired to the Place of St. Mark, which I entered by a sudden turn under some arcades, and on the first burst, it appeared to me the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. Had I been suddenly transported there from some distant place, I should have known at once where I was, from the views I had seen of it. The strange looking church, and the great ugly Campanile could not be mistaken; but although I had an idea of the architecture, I had none of the effect. The Place of St. Mark is a well proportioned avenue to a great building, which is of sufficient consequence, both by its size, and the richness of its decoration, to merit such an avenue. This seems to me the great outline of the composition, and that to which it very much owes its impressive character. Round three sides of this place are deep arcades. The faces of the houses above the arches, are all of stone, and enriched with a good deal of ornament; nothing looks poor or neglected. The architecture of these parts is rich, but not correct; and bears perhaps the stamp of riches and power, more than that of good taste; yet that of one side is very handsome, even considered alone. Each side is uniform in itself, though not similar to the other, and each is continued in one unbroken line: had they been composed of a centre and wings, they would have distracted the attention by forming each a separate composition; as it is, they unite with the objects at the end to form one whole.

The objects are three, the Orologio, the Campanile, and the church of St. Mark, to which the two former seem appendages. There is also another great building, the Ducal Palace, but this hardly comes into the view; and there are three tall red poles looking like masts of ships, supported on handsome bases of bronze, or perhaps more like long red tapers, fixed into very large, but low candlesticks, if you can but magnify your images sufficiently. They are emblematical of the three kingdoms of Cyprus, Candia, and the Morea, once subject to Venice; and on feast days support large flags. Singly, they are certainly not beautiful, but I think they add to the general splendour of the scene. The Orologio, or clock-tower, forms the termination of the left hand side, and rises above it, but not above the church. It is not good in itself, and I think contributes nothing to the whole effect. I do not say this of the Campanile, though it is merely a great square tower, above 300 feet high, terminated by a pyramid, and having no intrinsic beauty. Its power of pleasing is owing to the strong contrast it affords, running up so high upon a narrow base, to the long continued horizontal lines of the Place, and to the lumpy forms of the cathedral. The exterior of this church surprises you by its extreme ugliness, more than by any thing else. It is of two perfectly distinct styles. The lower belongs to that degraded Roman which we call Norman, adorned with numerous little columns, and abounding in ornament; but the ornaments are merely such; neither forming, nor interrupting the lines of the architecture, but entirely subordinate to them. On the contrary, the finishings of the upper parts are of the Italian Gothic of the fifteenth century, much resembling in form our own ornamental architecture in the early part of that period, but without its lightness; and the enrichments are excessively heavy and overcharged, so that the architecture seems made for them, rather than they for the building. A number of figures start up among the terminating pinnacles. Still then the magnificence is produced by the exhibition of riches and power, and not by just proportion in the different parts; and this sentiment is increased upon a nearer approach, when we contemplate the multitude of columns of porphyry, verd antique, and other precious materials, the profusely ornamented capitals, and the rich mosaics on a gold ground, which decorate even the external arches.

This building was founded in 977, under the direction of architects from Constantinople. There is a story that the principal architect was directed to make the most beautiful church possible, and was put to death afterwards, on boasting that he could have made one more perfect; but this tale is told of several buildings. The naked construction, which it seems is of brick, was finished in 1071, but some walls and columns of an old church founded in 831, were left standing. A public order was given, that every ship coming from the Levant should transport the most beautiful marble to be found in those parts, in order to embellish the building, without any regard to the expense. In 1072, the doge, Domenico Selvo, incrusted it with marble, and probably began the pavement, but the edifice was not consecrated till 1111. In 1455, the council authorized the procurators of St. Mark to make use of the stones and columns of the ruined church of St. Andrea de Aimanis; this indicates that considerable works were then going on at St. Mark, and probably points out the time of the upper finishings; for it is remarkable, that though a great deal has been published on the subject, no direct notice is taken of these additions. There are many other edifices in Venice which exhibit precisely the same style of architecture, and were built about that period. The bronze horses and other precious ornaments, were brought from Constantinople in 1204.

The front is 170 English feet wide, and 72 high, without the figures. The nave is 245 feet long; the transept 201; the middle dome internally 90 feet high, the others 80.

I now return to my description of the outside. In the lower part of the front are five recessed doorways, each adorned with two stories of little columns, which are mostly gouty and ill made. Some of these columns are of their original length, and exhibit the ancient necking and fillet at the base; others have been shortened. A most curious work might be formed by an analysis of the various fragments of which this church is composed; but it would take months to unravel all its intricacies. The capitals are almost all different, all in bad taste, and disproportioned to the columns; varying not so much in height as in diameter, some being too large, and others as much too little. As the columns were the spoils of Constantinople and the Levant, and perhaps in great measure also of Aquileia and Altino, one might imagine the capitals also to have belonged to ancient edifices at the same places; did not a certain rudeness both of design and execution, which prevails in all of them, shew them to be productions of the middle ages, or at least of the lower empire. I was disappointed in finding no good ones among all this number, and all this variety. It is true they are not equally bad, and some are doubtless the spoils of older buildings; yet if we reject all which have this appearance, and only compare those, which from a certain similarity of design, appear to have been made for the present edifice; we shall find the extreme of disproportion both ways remaining as strongly marked as ever. Many peculiarities of what has been called (improperly enough) the Lombard style of architecture, which is twin-sister with our Norman, might be traced to this building, and probably through it to Constantinople; yet this is only in some of the subordinate parts. The general style and character of the architecture is, and always must have been, perfectly distinct from the Lombard, which was formed certainly before the completion, and in part before the commencement of the present edifice; nor does the erection of this church appear to have produced any impression upon the taste of the country; for the Lombard pointed style, which began probably early in the twelfth century, is more widely different from the architecture of this building, than the fashion with semicircular arches, which preceded it. The front, and indeed the whole atrium, or external gallery in front, and on the side of the nave, is supposed to be of a design somewhat later than the body of the building; yet we cannot place them later than 1072, when they began to encrust the whole with marble. In some parts of this gallery, and in the sacristy, we meet with obtusely pointed arches; and what is more remarkable, there are compound arches with the reversed curve over three of the front doorways; and from the appearance of the workmanship, from the character of the parts connected with it, and from the sculpture with which they are ornamented, I am almost induced to believe, that they are component parts of the original structure.

Over these five front recesses is a gallery, in the centre of which are now replaced the famous bronze horses of Lysippus. Just behind them is a great circular window, which was once highly decorated, but all the ornament has been taken out, in order, I suppose, to throw more light into the church, for the ornamented windows still remaining give very little. I send you a sketch of one of the side ones, where the original disposition is sufficiently clear, and great part of it perfect. It is rather against my theory, that the lower part of this is filled up, but the window is in a position from which a strong light could not in any case, be cast into the church. The two small square divisions within the arch, which are now entirely open, appear to have been originally filled up with basket-work like the rest. In the upright parts of the recess, there is at present no opening; but slabs of marble, between small mouldings, fill them up entirely; I rather suspect, however, that these have been added to the original design. The capitals of the little columns dividing the window, are as varied and as whimsical as those of the doorways below, some of them are completely baskets in stone, while some of the bases have the character and mouldings of capitals reversed.

Can I let you enter without saying one word of those enormous, ugly ill-shaped domes, which crown the building? Such as they are, beauty, not use is their object; for there is a wide space between them and the internal domes. They are covered with lead, and entirely without ornament; surmounted by little lanterns with lead-covered cupolas contracted at the base, and brought out to a point at the summit.

On passing the bronze doors, we find first, a spacious portal occupying the whole width of the front, and returning on each side like the portico of a peripteral temple, as far as the transept. It is vaulted with obtusely pointed arches, seemingly composed of two circular curves, the centres of which are little distant from each other, and the point of which is cut off by the key-stone; but as the whole vault is covered with mosaics, the exact form is not distinguishable with certainty. The ground of all these mosaics is formed of pieces of gilt glass; the figures are of coloured glass and composition, and some of them, which are executed from the designs of Titian, and Paolo Veronese, are really very beautiful; the sober reflected light which they receive, not permitting the splendid ground to be glaring. This vaulting on the side next the church, rests on columns, whose capitals offer some singular imitations of the Ionic order. The portal is also adorned with eight columns of oriental black and white marble, which have capitals of Istrian stone, (a sort of imperfect marble, or hard limestone) with a whimsical composition of birds and arabesques, and support nothing. These are said to have been part of Solomon’s temple, and the singularity of the capitals is appealed to by the Venetians as a proof of the truth of the tradition; not reflecting, that the nature of the material decidedly contradicts it. The shafts, like so many others, were probably brought from the Levant, possibly from Jerusalem, and that is the utmost extent of rational belief.

On entering the body of the church, the display of riches is still more striking; the vaulting and great part of the walls are covered with mosaic, and the rest with rich marbles; the columns of porphyry, verd antique, and Oriental and African marbles; the pavement of minute pieces, of white and coloured marbles, jasper, agate, lapis lazuli, &c. variously and for the most part beautifully disposed; the inlaid ornaments and gilded capitals, produce a degree of astonishment and admiration in the mind of the spectator. The gilding on a fine day is rather glaring, but this is owing to the alteration which has been made in the ancient windows, in order to obtain more light. The change is certainly injurious to the general effect, though some parts of the building are still abundantly gloomy. The plan is a Greek cross, with a dome over each of the five parts, and a circular recess at the end. Two of these domes (those of the nave and intersection) are larger than the other three, but each part seems intended in itself to present the idea of a Greek cross, the lateral parts being rather the arms of these secondary crosses, than continued side aisles. Neither are they kept subordinate in height to the principal avenue which connects the domes, but are merely separated from it by a screen of columns sustaining arches, with an open gallery above them. These columns have capitals of different forms, but all approaching to the Corinthian, and with at least one row of leaves, and all have a double abacus. The capital, including the lower abacus, is gilt, while the upper abacus has a painted or mosaic ornament. The lower parts shew themselves to be of white marble; a sort of warm brown coating attributed to the dampness of the situation, which elsewhere covers that material, being here rubbed off. The columns against the wall have in general a sort of capital which may be traced perhaps to the Ionic, but with an immense clumsy abacus. Those which support the

canopy over the altar, are of white marble or alabaster. They were divided in height into nine bands; the circumference of each band exhibits nine arches, supported on Corinthian columns, and a figure of rude workmanship under each arch. There are multitudes of other little particulars in this church, which are interesting to an observer on the spot, but would hardly be so to you who have never seen the edifice.

If, on entering the Place of St. Mark, under the arcades, where once stood the church of St. Geminiani, you keep to the left, and walk under the arcade on the northern side, you gradually obtain a view of the Ducal Palace. Another great edifice thus opening upon you, stimulates the imagination and enhances the beauty of this square. Still farther, you catch a view of the great harbour, and some of the fine buildings around it, which still increases the variety of the scene, without destroying its unity; and strengthens the sentiment. The Ducal Palace is even more ugly than any thing I have previously mentioned; it offers a double range of comparatively small arches, supporting a great wall with a few large windows in it. Considered in detail, I can imagine no alteration to make it tolerable, but if this lofty wall had been set back behind the two stories of little arches, instead of standing upon them, it would have been a very noble production. To recapitulate then, the leading points of my observations on this famous Place, its effect is produced by the impression of power and riches everywhere displayed, and by a certain justness of proportion (the result of accident, not of design) in the great masses, and this greatly heightened by the variety of scenery it displays. Take away the appearance of riches and power, and nothing remains; take away the justness of proportion, and you would have nothing that pleases. The union of the two is necessary to produce the impression which every body feels, and nobody can tell why. Some persons are of opinion that irregularity is a necessary part of its excellence. I am decidedly of a contrary sentiment, and am convinced that a regular design of the same sort would be far superior. Let an oblong of good architecture, but not very showy, conduct to a fine cathedral which should appear between two lofty towers, and have two obelisks in front; and on each side of the cathedral, let other squares partially open into the first, and one of these extend down to a harbour, or the sea-shore, and you would have a scene which might challenge any thing in existence. I would not carry my symmetry so far as to make these two subsidiary squares alike; they never come into one view, and for the sake of variety it is better that they should be different.

After St. Mark’s Place, and in some respects even superior to it, the scenery which most demands admiration is that of the harbour, and of the canal of the Giudecca, which is a continuation of it. This affords a succession of great objects, and of some individually very fine ones; as the Zecca, the Prigione, the church of St. George, and that of the Redentore. Other buildings not so good in themselves, yet by their mass and character, have an importance which adds greatly to the magnificence of the Place. Such are the Ducal Palace, and the church of Sta. Maria di Salute. In what does this character consist? I should answer that it arose from the expression of unity of design, combined with considerable size. The Ducal Palace, with all its defects, has not that of being frittered into a number of small parts, into wings, pavillions, and corps de logis. It is evidently one great public building; and a large church, especially a church with a dome, must be very badly managed not to have that appearance. The irregular winding of the canal of the Giudecca presents these objects in different points of view, while it always offers in itself, a fine expanse of water. In a straight street or canal, when the parts are large and well disposed, a more magnificent effect is produced, than it is perhaps possible to obtain by curved lines; but if the artist fail in this one point, nothing remains. Among the numerous combinations arising from irregular forms, it is hardly possible that there should not be some good ones, and perhaps the variety and succession of scenery thus displayed, is well worth the happiest effort of magnificence produced by straight lines, and may even, by the reiterated impression, produce upon the whole a sentiment of still greater sublimity. After the canal of the Giudecca, comes the great canal, which however is comparatively very small, though large in relation to the little Rios which divide Venice into a thousand islets. It winds like an S, and may vary from about 100 to 160 or 180 feet in width, and the number of fine houses which come successively into view, and the combinations they display with the smaller buildings, form a continued source of interest and pleasure. Few of these palaces are of good architecture, some of very bad; others are whimsical, but present among their strange forms many happy ideas. One very prevailing taste, has been to put several windows very near together in the centre, while those of the sides are wide apart. Sir J. E. Smith complains that it cuts the building into two, and it does so when adopted in every story, but in the best examples this arrangement is only followed in the principal, or at most in the two principal floors, leaving greater repose and plainness to the basement and upper story, and the effect is then very pleasing. In the earlier examples of this sort, the windows are Gothic-headed, and frequently trefoiled. The architects immediately before Sansovino made them round-headed, and introduced a little more of Roman architecture in the details, without altering the general disposition; and Sansovino himself frequently exhibits traces of this taste. The fashion seems to have prevailed all through the Venetian states, and in its earlier forms, Verona exhibits better specimens than Venice itself. The architects of that period did not confine themselves to one disposition, but endeavoured sometimes to produce the appearance of a centre, by other arrangements of the windows, but still without making any break in the wall. Whatever the architecture of these Venetian palaces may be, their size and number produce a great show of magnificence. Venice appears the residence of princes. It must be confessed that in their present state, they seem to be the dwellings of poor princes, but perhaps the ideas of wealth and power which no longer exist, are not less interesting than those of present prosperity. They are indeed of a very different sort, but they harmonize better with the fallen state of Venice; fallen probably to rise no more; for the Austrian government bestows its favour on other ports; and amidst the political revolutions with which Europe is still menaced, one can hardly imagine one which would restore her power and consequence to Venice.