Part 13

The second night from Ancona we slept at Rimini. At this town the Emilian and Flaminian Ways joined each other; for we had followed, most of the distance from Rome, the great route of the ancients between the capital of the world and Cis-Alpine Gaul. Here is still a triumphal arch in honour of Augustus, and a bridge as old, or nearly as old, as his age. They show a tribune, also, from which it is said Cæsar harangued the people the morning after he had passed the Rubicon! There was, at least, something manly in the audacity of this tradition.

At Rimini we witnessed a ceremony that a two years’ residence in Italy had never before given us an opportunity of seeing. There had been a long drought; and a procession, in which hundreds of the peasants from the adjoining country appeared, was made to implore rain at different shrines. A Madonna of repute was borne in front, and great devoutness and faith were manifested by those who followed. There is probably no essential difference between these prayers and those of our own Church for a similar favour; though the formalities observed on this occasion were singularly addressed to the senses. I was amused by observing that the clouds looked dark and menacing over the Apennines, and that these ceremonies were commenced under good omens. And yet it did not rain! I do not know, after all, that we are to consider these ceremonies as possessing more virtue in the eyes of the Catholics than our Church prayers possess in our own: it is but another form of petition.

Not far from Rimini is a high mountain that stands insulated from the great range of the Apennines. It is irregular in form, and a small town is seen near its summit, while, all together, it appears rather more cultivated and peopled than is common for the hills. This is San Marino, the oldest republic of Christendom. It had been my intention to visit the place, but indisposition prevented me. The territory includes the mountain and a small hilly district at its base, with a population of about five thousand souls. I was told at Rome by one who had ruled the Romagna, that this little community betrayed a good deal of jealousy of its independence, and that its government was believed to be very justly administered. Of course, such a State exists only by sufferance: the pope can, at any moment, imprison the whole community, by forbidding them to trespass on his States. At this point the Grand Duchy of Tuscany extends to the summits of the Apennines, coming within a very few leagues of the Adriatic.

It is a matter of dispute where the Rubicon really is. The inhabitants of Rimini say it is the Marcochia, the small river that is spanned by the ancient bridge I have mentioned; while those of Savignano claim the honour for the Pisatello, a still smaller stream that runs near their place. I believe the prevalent opinion is in favour of the latter; and there is certainly a monument near the road to say as much. The first, notwithstanding, is the most plausible-_looking_ stream for a boundary, as it runs nearly in a direct line across the narrow neck of land that lies between the mountains and the sea. These things are often arbitrary; but, were any one to reason coolly on probabilities, I think he would select the Marcochia for the Rubicon. As the great roads commenced and terminated at this point, it renders it still more likely that this was the Rubicon. Emilius or Flaminius would be more likely to commence such works at a frontier, than at a few miles distant. _Au reste_, I am too ignorant of the learned part of the question to give an opinion.

The stream that commonly passes for the Rubicon (the Pisatello) is a mere rivulet that certainly offered to Cæsar no other obstacle than that of the prohibition, as it might be forded with dry knees. We breakfasted, the day we left Rimini, at Cesena. This is the country of the Malatesta family; and the place contains some works of the middle ages, that are still in tolerable condition. We had now diverged from the sea, and were fairly on the great plain of Lombardy, though still in the Romagna. The road ran nearly parallel with the mountains, which here quitted the Adriatic to cross to the other sea, leaving the whole of the wide country between their bases and those of the Alps, in the vast plain of which I have already spoken. We slept at Forli, a town of some size, and which we found neat and convenient. At all these places we amused ourselves with looking at pictures, cathedrals, and ruins; but none are of sufficient note to call for an especial mention of them. Our stages were short, and the road from Ancona to Bologna was almost without hills.—Forli was the Forum Livii of the ancients, and, of course, was on the Emilian Way, which pursued nearly, if not precisely, the route of the modern road. All these great highways are kept in excellent repair; and it is not easy to find any country in Europe that has better post-routes than Italy. Indeed, most of Europe is well off in this particular; France, perhaps, ranking among the least favoured countries in this respect, notwithstanding all the praises that have been lavished on Napoleon because he caused an inlet to be made, here and there, into his conquered provinces. It is true, Italy owes the Emperor much in this respect; but the motive is too apparent to render his benefactions fit themes for eulogium. A man who left the roads between his own capital and its nearest towns in a condition to break half the carriage-wheels that pass over them, is to be distrusted when he constructs a garden-path across the Alps. This conduct reminds one of those zealots who are for converting the heathen, and who neglect their own neighbourhoods. In the one case, it is the love of excitement and a morbid zeal; while in the other, however, it was a cool and selfish calculation.

We had passed Faenza next day without stopping, having become wearied with seeing towns of ten and twenty thousand souls. This place is known for its pottery wares; whence the French word _faïence_. At Imola we breakfasted. This was another of the Forums (that of Cornelius;) and the town is said to lie on the verge of the plain of Lombardy, though in truth this plain ought to commence at Rimini, if not at Ancona. Here the poplars began to show themselves; though this tree is much more abundant in France than in the country from which it has derived its American name. Indeed, I am not sure one did not see more poplars in America twenty years ago than are now seen here; though every body seems as anxious to be rid of the tree to-day, as our fathers were to procure them. It is said at home, that the dead naked tops which are so common in the poplar, are owing to there not being a sufficient intermingling of the sexes; but the same peculiarities are observed in Europe.—From Imola we drove to Bologna, which we reached in good season.

The distance between Ancona and Bologna is one hundred and thirty-five miles, which we had passed in four easy days’ work, with scarcely a hillock on the whole road, with the exception of a little broken ground between Sinigaglia and Pesaro. Most of the country was beautiful; and the Apennines the whole time relieved the monotony of a plain. In its way, it has proved to be one of the pleasantest journeys we have yet made in all Europe.

LETTER XXIX.

Ferrara.—The Prison of Tasso.—The Flying Bridge over the Po.—Austrian Custom-house: unnecessary trouble given there.—Venetian women.—Padua.—The style of Palladio.—A Miracle.—Infidelity in mask.—Road to Mestre, and Villas on the Brenta.—Distant view of Venice.—The Lagoons.—Origin of Venice.—Aquatic Post-house.—Approach to Venice.—Canals.—The Rialto.

Our stay at Bologna was short, for we were fearful of being too late in the season for Venice. The first day’s work was to Ferrara, which place we reached early, having left Bologna with the appearance of the sun. The country was low, and had in places a _reedy_ look, bordering on the low marshy lands that environ Ravenna. The whole of the eastern margin of the plain of Lombardy is of this character, the descent from the base of the mountains being constant, as is proved by the rivers, though so gradual as to be imperceptible.

Ferrara has the most deserted air of any considerable town I remember to have seen. It lies on a dead flat, in a grassy, not to say _reedy_, region also. In the centre of the place is a massive gloomy castle surrounded by a ditch, in which the Dukes of the family of Este once dwelt; but we could not enter it. We did visit a cell that has the reputation of having been the prison of Tasso, where we found the name of Byron written on the walls. Such a homage as this may be tolerated; but one dislikes the cockneyisms of writing names on walls. Being no poet, I did not presume to leave mine in the crowd.

The streets of Ferrara are straight and wide; circumstances that render its desolation more apparent. The grass literally grew in them, and I can best compare the town with the portion of Schenectady, that lies off the canal; though allowance must be made for the ancient magnificence of this place. We saw many curious books and manuscripts here, and many memorials of Tasso and Ariosto. A small stream runs through the town; but the whole country, like Holland, while there is no sea visible, appears to be nearly “a wash.” It is said to be unhealthy in the autumn, and one can readily believe it.

We were now touching once more on the Austrian dominions. Although Ferrara belongs to the Church, it has an Austrian garrison, for the place is fortified. We reached the Po a short distance from the gates of the town, next morning, and crossed on what is called a flying bridge, or a _ponte volante_. These bridges are common enough in Europe; though, properly speaking, they are ferries. They consist of a large floating stage, or a boat, that can receive several carriages. This is anchored by a long hawser to some ground-fastening, one or two hundred fathoms up-stream; the length of the hawser being, of course, proportioned to the width of the river. To keep the rope above water, it is sustained by more or less small boats, which sheer with the motion of the ferry-boat, or stage. All that is necessary is to let the current take the bows of the latter obliquely, when it sheers across the river, as a matter of course. We crossed, with our two carriages and eight horses, in a very few minutes, and without getting out of our seats.

On the Austrian bank is a custom-house; but we were not detained longer than was necessary to examine the passport. Notwithstanding all that is said against this government, it certainly is not obnoxious to the charge of giving unnecessary trouble, except in cases that have probably excited its suspicion. Despotic governments, moreover, have a power to do polite and kind acts that free governments do not possess. In a government of equal rights, the administration of the laws must be equal, although a thousand cases occur in which this rule works injuriously to those who, it is known, might with safety be exempted from the operation of the rule; but in a government like this, instructions emanating from the power, that frames the laws may temper their administration. It is true, this faculty leads often to gross abuses; but, in an age like this, it oftener leads to an exemption from onerous, and, in the particular cases named, useless regulations. It is on this principle that men of known character and pursuits obtain passports that entitle them to proceed without the delays and trouble of the custom-house examinations.

You are not to understand, however, that I had any such privilege; what I have told you of the _bonhomie_ of the authorities in reference to my own baggage, is to be taken as general, and in no manner as particular towards an individual. You well know that I am no advocate for any government but that which is founded on popular rights, protected from popular abuses; but I am thoroughly convinced that the every-day strictures on these points that are made by a large portion of our travellers, are conceived in ignorance and prejudice, and are just as worthless as are the common strictures of Europeans on our own institutions. The disposition in every government is to do justice in all ordinary cases, and we are no more peculiar in this wish than the Emperors of Austria and of Russia. The faults of these systems lie much deeper than the surface.

We found Rovigo, where we breakfasted, much smaller certainly, and every way less important than, but with the same air of desertion as, Ferrara. In front of us, after quitting Rovigo, appeared an island of hills in the midst of the plain, and our route lay towards it. At their foot was Monselice, where we passed another night. These hills form an oasis of mountain in the desert of monotony around them. A party of Venetians were at the inn, and the women had brilliant complexions and fair hair; one had hair that was nearly red;—this was a proof that we were drawing near the scene of Titian’s works. The Signora Guiccioli, so well known to the admirers of Byron, is of the same style of beauty. It is odd that Raphael, and indeed most of the Italian masters, painted their females as _blondes_, when the prevalent style of the beauty of the women is that of brunettes. Of the eight Americans of our party, I am the only one that has not light hair and a fair complexion: a circumstance that has excited much surprise in this part of the world, where we are deemed to be, _ex officio_, black.

From Monselice we made one stage to Padua, a place that we entered with a good deal of interest. It is a large and, for Europe, a straggling town. As this was the country of Palladio, we here met his architecture. I cannot say I like it so much as I had anticipated. It has more pretension than beauty or simplicity; though it strikes me there is an effort at both. Still, this style is not without the noble. Boston is the only place I know of in America that has any thing resembling it in general outline; though Boston has nothing, within my knowledge, that can be truly termed Palladian.

The great hall of Padua pleased us extremely. It is near three hundred feet long, and near one hundred feet wide, though not very lofty. It is the largest room I have seen, with the exception of the galleries. The style is a mixed Gothic, the roof being of open rafters, and the effect is quaint and striking. I prefer it, on the whole, to Westminster-hall; though it is scarcely so noble.

A miracle had just been performed in one of the churches of Padua, a Madonna giving some signs of animation. I went to see it, but found that the visit was ill-timed; the image remaining as immovable as any other image, during the presence of a heretic. I believe these things are much less frequent than formerly, the French occupation not only destroying most of the marvels of religion, but, in a great measure, religion itself. It is a grand commentary on human wisdom and on human consistency, that one may now see a king and his courtiers carrying candles in those streets where rulers appeared in their shirt-sleeves attending a trull in the assumed character of the Goddess of Reason! Infidelity no longer comes to us naked; but it wears a mask of philosophy and logic, in the pretended character of a _mitigated Christianity_. The citadel that cannot be stormed, must be sapped.

We took the road to Mestre on quitting Padua. I cannot say that the villas on the Brenta, or the canal, at all equalled my expectation. The houses themselves were well enough; but the monotony of a country as level as Holland, and the landscape gardening that is confined to flowers and allées and exotics, compare ill with the broader beauties of the Hudson, or the finish of the lawns on the Thames. The road and river showed signs of a crowded population, and we were amused in that way, but were scarcely in raptures with a sylvan scene. A part of our road, however, was athwart a sort of common. At this point, looking across the bay on our right, a town appeared rising above the water, singularly resembling the view of New York as seen from the low lands near Powles Hook. The presence of domes and the absence of ships marked the difference between the places; but the likeness was sufficiently strong to strike us all at the same moment. I need scarcely add, that the town was Venice, and that the water was the Lagoons.

The carriage was housed at Mestre, and the luggage was put into a large gondola. We took our places in the same boat, and in less than ten minutes after reaching the shore, we were all afloat. There was a short river, or creek, to descend,—I know not which it is,—and then we fairly entered the bay. The Lagoon is formed by the deposit of several streams, and the action of the waves of the Adriatic, which have piled long low banks of sand across the broad mouth of a bay, where they have been gradually accumulating from time immemorial. A number of islands formed within this chain of banks, and channels necessarily made their own way for the passage of the waters of the rivers. On these islands the fishermen erected their huts. From this beginning, by the aid of piles, quays, and the accumulations of a seaport, Venice grew to be the Queen of the Adriatic, literally seated in the mud.

We stopped a moment at a small island, about half way across the Lagoon, to have our passports examined, but met with no delay. The place was barely large enough to hold a building or two, though the effect of this aquatic post-house was odd. Not far from this, the boat passed a line of posts with painted tops, that encircles the whole town, perhaps a mile and a half from the islands. The posts stand a few hundred feet asunder. These are to mark the limits of the place, Venice having just been declared a free port. Of course, the gondola that is caught with unentered goods within these posts would be seized.

After a pull of an hour or more, the boat entered a broad canal that was lined by palaces and noble houses. Passing through this, which proved to be short, it came out in another passage, that seemed to be a main artery of the town, smaller lateral canals communicating with it at short distances. Across the latter we could see, among the dark ravines of houses, numberless bridges trodden constantly by foot-passengers; but across the larger channel, which was the grand canal, there was only one. This was of stone, and it was covered with low buildings. Of course, its length was much greater than that of the others; and its single arch was high and pointed, though not strictly Gothic. As we glided beneath it, vessels that might contend with the Adriatic appeared beyond, the water gradually widening. The bridge was the Rialto; the water, the continuation of the canal, and the commencement of the Giudecca, which is, in fact, the port.

A gondola was lying on its oars as we approached the grand canal, recognising a boat from Mestre; and as we came up to it, Mr. C——, of Carolina, who had preceded us a day or two, jumped on board, having taken lodgings in expectation of our arrival. Under his guidance we stopped at some stone steps, and disembarked at the _Leone Bianco_.

LETTER XXX.

Arrival at Venice.—An hour’s walk by moonlight.—The streets of Venice.—The Great Square of St. Mark.—The Piazzetta.—Palace of the Doges.—The Campanile.—The Bridge of Sighs.—The Port—Travellers’ book at the Leone Bianco.

It appeared as if we were in the centre of a civilization entirely novel. On entering the inn, we found ourselves in a large paved hall, but a step or two above the water, in the corner of which lay a gondola. Ascending a flight of steps, we were received in a suite of good apartments, and I ran to a window. Boats were gliding about in all directions, but no noise was heard beyond the plash of the oar; not a wheel nor a hoof rattling on a pavement. Even the fall of a rope in the water might be heard at a considerable distance. Every thing was strange; for, though a sailor and accustomed to aquatic scenes, I have never before seen a city afloat.

It was necessary to eat, and I restrained my impatience until after dinner. By this time it was evening; but a fine moon was shedding its light on the scene, rendering it fairy-like. C—— and myself quitted the inn, for he told me he had something that he was desirous I should see before I slept. Instead of taking a boat, we passed into the rear of the inn, and found ourselves in a street. I had heard of the canals, but, until then, believed that Venice had no streets. On the contrary, the whole town is intersected in this way; the bridges of the smaller canals serving as communications between these streets, which, however, are usually only eight or ten feet wide. That we took was lined with shops, and it seemed a great thoroughfare. Its width varied from ten to twenty feet

Following this passage, in itself a novelty, we inclined a little to the right, passed beneath an arch, and issued into the great Square of St. Mark. No other scene in a town ever struck me with so much surprise and pleasure. Three sides of this large area were surrounded by palaces, with arcades; and on the fourth stood a low ancient church, of an architecture so quaint, having oriental domes, and external ornaments so peculiar, that I felt as if transported to a scene in the Arabian Nights. The moon, with its mild delusive light, too, aided the deception; the forms rising beneath it still more fanciful and quaint. You will know at once, this was the church of St. Mark.

Another area communicated with the first, extending from it, at right angles, to the bay. Two sides only of this square, which is called the Piazzetta were built on; the side next the Piazza, or Great Square, and that next the sea, being open. On one of the other sides of this area the line of palaces was continued, and on the other rose the celebrated Ducal residence. This was, if possible, still more quaint and oriental than the church, transferring the mind at once to the events of the East, and to the days of Venetian greatness and power.