Chapter V: Part 5

Venice, which I seek to hold fast, is already a thing of yesterday. "Haste is of the devil," truly says the Koran, whose prophet yet knew its value. But the strokes of the pen need deliberation as much as those of the sword need swiftness. Strength goes with Time, and skill against him.

Little of either had I after a night in the cars between Florence and Venice,--hot, dusty Florence, and cool, glassy Venice,--a night of starts and stops, morsels of sleep set in large frames of uneasy waking. The steep ascent of the Apennines is only partially descried through the darkness. It begins at Pistoia, and when it ends, Pistoia lies vertically under you, at the bottom of what seems in the darkness an abyss, in which its lights shine brightly. Tunnels there are in plenty on this road, and one of these threatens us with suffocation. For the engine was unduly replenished with coal at Pistoia in view of the hard task before it, and the undigested food vented itself in unwholesome gases, which the constraints of the tunnel drove in upon us, filling the lungs with mephitic stuff which caused them to ache for more than an hour afterwards. This part of the journey was made pleasant to us by the presence of a Venetian lady, handsome, intelligent, and cordial. At Bologna we lost her, making also a long stop. The hour was three in the morning; the place, a bare railroad depot. The hour passed there would not have been patiently endured by an American public. But Italians endure every possible inconvenience from the railway management, which is clearly conducted on _pessimistic_ principles. On reaching the cars again, another pleasant companion shortened the time with easy conversation. Not but that we dozed a little after the weary night; and the priest in the opposite compartment fell asleep over his morning prayers. But my new companion and I made our way through a shoal of general remarks to the _terra firma_ of a mutual acquaintance, in whose praises both of us grew warm. And at length we began to see marshes, and waters, and a fortress. "That is Venice," said the captain; and I replied with sincere surprise, "Is it possible?" For Venice, as approached by the railroad, makes no impression, presents no _coup d'oeil_. And this marks a precaution for which the devisers of railroads in this country may deserve praise. Being pure men of business, and not sentimentalists, they do not wish to find themselves mixed up with any emotions consequent upon the encounter of the sublime and beautiful. They cannot become responsible for any enthusiasm. And so, in their entrances and exits, they sedulously avoid the picturesque, and lead the traveller into no temptation towards stopping and lingering by the way. Of two possible routes, they, on principle, choose the more prosaic; so that the railroad traveller nowhere gets less beauty for his money than in this same Italy, the flower-garden of the world.

The arrival even in Venice becomes, therefore, vulgar and commonplace in their management. And soon one gets one's luggage out of the clutches of guardians and porters, and cheaply, in an omnibus gondola, one swashes through a great deal of middling water, landing finally at Hotel Barbesi, where breakfast and the appliances of repose are obtained.

We did not prudently devote this first day to sleep, as we ought to have done. The energy of travel was still in us, and we aroused ourselves, and went forth. The _valet de place_, with high cheek-bones, a fresh color, and vivacious eyes, led us on foot to the Place and Cathedral of St. Mark, the Ducal Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, and prisons of the condemned. We visited the great council-halls, superb with fretted gilding, and endless paintings by Tintoretto and Bellini. We saw the Lion's Mouth, into which anonymous accusations were dropped; the room of the Ten; the staircase all in white and gold, sacred to the feet of Doge and Dogaressa alone. As magnificent as is the palace, so miserable are the prisons, destitute of light, and almost of air--a series of small, close parallelograms, with a small hole for a window, opening only into a dark corridor, containing each a stony elevation, on which, perhaps, a pallet of straw was placed. Heaven forbid that the blackest criminal of our day should confront the justice of God with so poor a report to make of the mercy of man! In the dreaminess of our fatigue, we next visited a bead factory, and inspected some of its delicate operations. And then came the _table d'hote_, and with it a little whiff of toilet and hotel breeding, sufficiently irksome and distasteful. In the evening there was to be a Fresco, or procession of gondolas on the great canal, with lanterns and music, in honor of Prince Plomplon, who was at Danieli's hotel. Uncertain whether to engage a gondola or not, I sat in the garden balcony of Barbesi's, immediately over the canal. I saw the gondolas of high society flit by, gay with flags and colored lanterns, the gondoliers in full livery. Their attitude in rowing is singular. They stand slanting forward, so that one almost expects to see them fall on their faces. In the gondola, however, one becomes aware of the skill and nicety with which they impel and guide their weird-looking vehicles.

The Fresco was to be at nine o'clock; but by an hour earlier the gondolas were frequent. And soon a bark, with lanterns and a placard announcing an association of artists, stopped beneath our balcony, while its occupants, with vigorous lungs, shouted a chorus or two in the Venetian dialect. The effect was good; but when one of the singers asked for a "_piccola bottiglia_" and proceeded, hat in hand, to collect from each of us a small contribution, we felt that such an act was rather compromising for the artists. In truth, these men were artisans, not artists; but the Italian language has but one word for the two meanings, contriving to distinguish them in other ways.

The stream of gondolas continued to thicken on the canal, and at nine o'clock, or thereabouts, a floating theatre made its appearance--a large platform, brilliantly lighted, and bearing upon it a numerous orchestra and chorus. The _chef d'orchestre_ was clearly visible as he passed, energetically dividing the melody and uniting the performers. This lovely music floated up and down the quiet waters, many lesser lights clustering around the greater ones. Comparison seems to be the great trick of descriptive writing; but I, for my part, cannot tell what the Fresco was like. It was like nothing that I have ever seen.

And I saw it in the intervals of a leaden stupor; for, after the sleepless night and active day, the quiet of Barbesi's balcony was too much for me. Fain would I have hired a gondola, have gone forth to follow the musical crusade, albeit that to homage a Napoleon be small business for an American. But by a new sort of centaurship, my chair and I were that evening one, and the idea of dividing the two presented itself only in the light of an impossibility. Roused by the exclamations of those about me, I awoke from time to time, and mechanically took note of what I have here described, returning to sleep again, until a final wrench, like the partition of soul and body, sent me with its impetus to the end of all days--bed.

The fatigue of this day made itself severely felt in the waking of the next morning. Shaking off a deadly stupor and dizziness, I arose and armed for the day's warfare. My first victim was the American consul, who, at the sight of a formidable letter of introduction, surrendered at discretion. Annexing the consul, I bore him in triumph to my gondola, but not until I had induced him to find me a lodging, which he did speedily; for of Barbesi and many francs _per diem_ I had already enough, and preferred charities nearer home to that of enriching him. I do, moreover, detest hotel life, and the black-coated varlets that settle, like so many flies, upon your smallest movement. I have more than once intrenched myself in my room, determining to starve there rather than summon in the imps of the bell. With the consul's aid, which was, I must say, freely given, I secured to myself the disposal of a snug bedroom and parlor, with a balcony leading into a music-haunted garden, full of shiny foliage, mostly lemon and myrtle trees, having also a convenient access to the grand canal. After this, we proceeded to the Church of the Frari, rich with the two monuments of Titian and Canova. Both are architectural as well as sculptural. That of Canova is a repetition of his own model, executed in the well-known Vienna monument, with the addition, I thought, of a winged lion and one or two figures not included in the other. The monument of Titian stands opposite to that already described. The upper portion of it presents a handsome facade enclosed in three arches, each of which contains a bas-relief of one of his great pictures. The middle one presents the Assumption, in sculpture; that on the right the Entombment of Christ; that on the left the St. Peter Martyr--the picture itself being in the sacristy of the Church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. The Frari also contains a curious and elaborate monument to a doge whose name I forget. Above sits the doge in his ducal chair; below, four black slaves clad in white marble, their black knees showing through their white trousers, support the upper part of the monument upon their heads. Two bronze Deaths, between the doge and the slaves, bear each a scroll in white marble, with long inscriptions, which we did not read. The choir was adorned with the usual row of seats, richly carved in black walnut. From this rich and interesting temple we passed to the Academia delle belle Arti.

This institution contains many precious and beautiful works of art. The Venetian school is, however, to the Florentine much as Rossini's Barbiere to Dante's Divina Commedia. Here all is color, vitality, energy. The superabundance of life and of temperament does not allow the severer deliberations of thoughtful art. The finest picture of this school, the Assumption of Titian, is the intense embodiment of the present, an ideal moment that presupposes no antecedent and no successor. It is as startling as a sudden vision. But it is a vision of life, not of paradise. The Madonna is a grand, simple, human woman, whose attitude is more rapt than her expression. She stands in the middle of the picture, upon a mass of clouds, which two pendent cherubs deliciously loop up. Above, the Eternal Father, wonderfully foreshortened, looks down upon her. Beneath, the apostles are gazing at the astonishing revelation. All is in the strongest drawing, the most vigorous coloring. Yet the pale-eyed Raphaels have more of the inward heaven in them. For this is a dream of sunset, not of transfiguration. So great a work of art is, however, a boon beyond absolute criticism. Like a precious personality, its value settles the account of its being, however widely it may depart from the standard recognized in other things.

In the same hall is the last work of Titian, a Pieta, or figure of the dead Christ upon his mother's knees. This picture is so badly placed that its effects can only be inferred, absolute glare and darkness putting out its light and shade. Far from the joyous allegro of Titian's characteristic style, the coloring presents a greenish pallor, rather negative and monotonous. The composition of the picture is artistic, tonic, and harmonious; its expression high and pathetic. The ebbing tide of the great master's vitality left this pearl on the shore of time.

The Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple, by Titian, is another of the famous pictures in this collection. The Virgin is represented as a maiden of ten years, ascending the steps of the temple at Jerusalem. The figure and the steps are both of them seen in profile. Her pale-blue dress is relieved by an oblong glory which surrounds her from head to foot. More famous is a large Paul Veronese, representing Christ at supper in the house of the Pharisee. The richness of the Venetian costumes, the vigor and vitality of the figures, give this picture its great charm. It is no nearer to Christ and Jerusalem "than I to Hercules." A large painting by a French artist, in this hall, replaces the great Paul Veronese taken to Paris by Napoleon I.,--the Cena,--and, to my mind, replaces it very poorly. The huge paintings of Tintoretto are among the things that amaze one in Venice. How one hand, guided by one brain, could, in any average human life, have covered such enormous spaces of canvas, is a problem and a puzzle. The paintings themselves are full of vigor, color, and variety. But one naturally values them less on account of their great number. Of course, in the style of Raphael or Perugino, a single life could not have produced half of them. The Venetian school is sketchy, and its figures often have more toilet than anatomy.

I am almost ashamed to speak of these pictures at all, since I speak of them so inadequately. Yet, gentle reader, all is not criticism that criticises, all is not enthusiasm that admires. Copious treatises are written on these subjects by people who know as little of them as is possible for a person of average education. Americans have especially to learn that a general tolerable intelligence does not give a man special knowledge in matters of art. Among the herd of trans-Atlantic travellers who yearly throng these galleries, they know most who pretend least to know.

A brief interval of rest and dinner enabled us to visit the Armenian Convent at San Lazzaro. For this excursion two rowers were requisite. Starting at five P. M., we reached the convent in half an hour. It stands upon an island which its walls and enclosures fill. The porter opens to us. We have a letter of introduction from Ex-Consul Howills to Padre Giacomo, and bring also a presentation copy of the late consul's work on Venice. The padre receives us with courteous gravity. We make acquaintance with his monkey before we make acquaintance with him. The monkey leaps on the neophyte's hat, tears off a waxen berry, and eats it. His master thoughtfully leads us through the dreamy rooms and passages of the convent. Here is the room that Byron occupied; here is his name, written in Armenian in his own hand. Here also is Prince Plonplon's name, written by him in the book of illustrious visitors. After showing it, the padre offers another book, for commonplace visitors, in which he invites me to enter my name: I humbly comply. We visit the chapel, which is handsome, and the pleasant garden. The printing establishment interests us most. These Armenian fathers are great polyglots, and print books in a variety of languages. Padre Giacomo, who speaks good English, shows us an Armenian translation of Napoleon's Life of Julius Caesar, which we are surprised and rather sorry to see. We afterwards hear it suggested that the expense of this work has probably been borne by the French emperor himself, with a view to the Eastern question. Among the antiquities of the convent we find a fine Armenian manuscript of the fourth century; among its modern curiosities, a book of prayers in thirty languages. In the refectory is a pulpit, from which one monk reads aloud, while the others dine. Connected with this convent is a college for the education of Armenian youths, either for the priesthood or for active life. Another institution, in Venice proper, receives from this those scholars who decide upon an ecclesiastical profession. Padre Giacomo had already bought Consul Howill's book for the convent library. He led us, lastly, into a small room, in which are kept the publications of the convent, to be sold for its benefit. Here we made a few purchases, and took leave, trusting to see Padre Giacomo again.

One of my earliest acts in Venice, after the first preliminaries of living, was to get from a circulating library the first volume of Mr. Ruskin's Stones of Venice. I have never been a reader of Mr. Ruskin, and my position towards him is that of an outside unbeliever. I shun his partisans and disbelieve his theories. The title of this book, however, seemed to promise a key to the architectural mysteries of the mirror city, and I, taking him at his word, reached out eagerly after the same. But Mr. Ruskin's key opens a great many preliminary doors before admitting you to the point desired, and my one busy week was far too short to follow the intricacies of his persuasions. I could easily see that the book, right or wrong, would add to the pleasure and interest of investigating the city. Mr. Ruskin is an author who gives to his readers a great deal of thought and of study. His very positive mode of statement has this advantage; it sums up one side of the matter so exhaustively as to make comparatively easy the construction of the opposite argument, and the final decision between the two. Yet, while the writer's zeal and genius lead us to follow his reasonings with interest, and often with pleasure, his judgment scarcely possesses that weight and impartiality which would lead us to acquiesce in his decisions. Those who fully yield to his individual charm adopt and follow his opinions to all extremes. This already shows his power. But they scarcely become as wise as do those who resist, and having fully heard him, continue to observe and to think for themselves. And as, in Coleridge's well-known lines, anxiety is expressed as to the human agency that can cleanse the River Rhine when that river has cleansed the city of Cologne, we must confess that our expectations always desire the man who shall criticise Mr. Ruskin, when he has criticised to his full extent. For there is one person whom he cannot criticise, and that is himself. To do this would involve a deliberation of thought, an exactness of style, to which even Mr. Ruskin cannot pretend.

With his help, however, I did observe the two granite columns in the Piazzetta, to whose shafts he gives fifteen feet of circumference, and to their octagonal bases fifty-six, a discrepancy exceeding the difference which the eye would measure. But he certainly ought to know. And I found also the columns brought from St. Jean d'Acre, which are, as he does not mention, square, and of a dark marble, with Oriental capitals and adornments. And I sought out, in the church of SS. Giov. e Paolo, two dogal monuments, of which he praises one and criticises the other with stress. The one praised is that of Doge Mocenigo; the other, that of Doge Vendramin. I did not find in either a significance to warrant the extensive notice he gives them. Having learned, with great satisfaction, that the artist of the monument which "dislikes" him was afterwards exiled from Venice for forgery, he proceeds to speak of "this forger's work," allowing no benefit of doubt. And this was my account with Mr. Ruskin, so far as the Stones of Venice are concerned; for time so shortened, and objects so multiplied, that I was constrained thereafter to dispense with his complicated instruments of vision, and to look at things simply with my own eyes.

We made various visits to the Cathedral of San Marco, whose mosaic saints, on gold backgrounds, greet you in the portico with delight. The church is very rich in objects of art and in antiquities. It has columns from Palestine, dogal monuments, tessellated pavements, in endless variety. But the mosaics in the sacristy were for me its richest treasure. They comprise the conscientious labors mentioned by George Sand, in her Maitres Mosaistes. The easy arch of the ceiling allows one to admire them without the painful straining usually entailed by the study of fresco or other ceiling adornment. In a small chapel we were shown a large baptismal font brought from Palestine, and the very stone on which John Baptist's head was cut off!

We went in, one Sunday, hoping to see the famous _palle d'oro_, an altar-covering in massive gold, exhibited only on rare Festas, of which this day was one. But while we wedged ourselves in among the crowd, one of our party descried a boy with the pustules of small pox still fresh upon his face. We fled in precipitation, marvelling at the sanitary negligence which allows such exposures to take place at the public risk.

We visited the Church of the Scalzi (Barefooted Friars), and found it very rich in African and other marbles. It boasts some splendid columns of _nero antico_. One of the side chapels has four doors executed in Oriental alabaster, together with simulated hangings in _rosso antico_, the fringe being carved in _giallo_. Another was adorned with oval slabs of jasper, very beautiful in color and in polish. The ceiling, painted in fresco by Tiepolo, was full of light and airy grace.

From this, we went to the Church of the Gesuiti, in high repute for the richness of its adornments. We found it a basilica, its sides divided by square piers, and the whole interior, piers and walls, covered with a damasked pattern wrought in verd antique upon a ground of white marble. The capitals of the piers were heavily gilded. The baldecchino of the high altar was dome-shaped, and covered on the outside with a scolloped pattern in verd antique, each scollop having a slender bordering of white marble. The baldecchino is supported by four twisted columns formed of small rounded pieces of verd antique closely joined together. The pulpit has a heavy marble drapery, with simulated fringe, all in the pattern already mentioned. The whole is more luxurious than beautiful. Its art bears no proportion to its expense. To those who think of the Jesuits in general as I do, it will hardly stand as a monument of saintly service and simplicity. Near the high altar rest the ashes of the last Doge of Venice. The spot is designated by a simple slab, forming part of the pavement. On it is written, "_AEternitate suoe Manini cineres_."

We visited two very good collections of antiquities, in one of which we found the door of the Bucentaur, and its banner of crimson silk, with gilded designs. Here were portraits of doges, curious arms, majolicas, and old Venetian glass, much finer than that of the present day. Here also are collected many relics of Canova, the most interesting of which are the small designs for his great works. Over the door of this museum stands a pathetic inscription to the effect that Michel Correr, "_vedendo cadere la patria_" had collected here many things of patriotic and historical interest.

But these prosaic recounts are only the record of actual steps. The charm, the delight of Venice they do not and cannot express. My recollections of the city invest her with a solemn and stately personality. I did not see her bowed beneath the Austrian yoke, betrayed, but not sold, refusing to be cajoled and comforted. That cloud was removed. The shops were busy and prosperous, the streets thronged with people, the canals gay with gondolas, bearing also barges and large and small boats of very various patterns. The Piazza was filled at night with social groups of people, less childish, methought, than other Italians, and with a more visible purpose in them. Still, the contrast of the past and present, no longer shameful and agonizing, was full of melancholy. Venice can never be what she has been. The present world has no room for a repetition of her former career. But she can be a prosperous and happy Christian commonwealth, with her offices and dignities vested in her own sons, with education and political rights secured to all her children. And this is better, in the present day, than to be the tyrant of one half of the world, the fear and admiration of the other. For Peace, now, with open hands, bestows the blessings which War formerly compelled with iron grasp and frowning brow. The true compulsion now is to compel the world to have need of you, by the excellence of your service. Industry has a deeper mine of wealth than piracy or plunder can ever open. A man's success is in strict proportion to his use; and the servant of all is the master of all. So the new Venice for which I look is to be no more like the old Venice than the new Jerusalem will be like the city of David. Moral grandeur must make her great. Justice must make her people happy. And so beautiful and delightful is she, that I cannot help echoing the Psalmist's exclamation, "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! They shall prosper who love thee!"

A wash of waters, a play of lights, a breeze that cools like the perfumed water of the Narguile, 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, juine" (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 Piraeus, 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 "_coelum 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.

An elderly Greek gentleman, Count Lunzi of Zante, with a pleasing daughter; a young Austrian, accompanied by a pretty sister; an elderly Neapolitan bachelor,--these were our fellow-passengers in the first cabin. In the second cabin were eleven friars, and an intelligent Venetian apothecary, with whom I subsequently made acquaintance. The captain, a middle-aged Dalmatian, came and went. He wore over his uniform a capote of India rubber cloth, which he laid aside when he came into our deck-parlor for a brief sitting and a whiff of tobacco. The gentlemen all smoked without apology. The little Greek lady soon became violently seasick, and the Austrian maiden followed. The neophyte and the Austrian brother felt no pang, but the neophyte's mother was dizzy and uncomfortable. Count Lunzi and the Neapolitan kept up a perpetual conversation in French, having many mutual acquaintances, whose absence they found it worth while to improve. I blessed their loquacity, which beguiled for me the weary, helpless hours. We went down to dinner; at tea-time we were _non compos mensis_. The state-rooms below being intensely hot and close in consequence of the rain, we all staid up stairs as long as possible, and our final retreat was made in the order of our symptoms.

The following morning brought us the sun. The rain was at an end, and the sea grew less turbulent. The day was Sunday, and the unmistakable accents of theological controversy saluted my ears as I ascended the companion-way, and took my place in the deck-parlor. Count Lunzi, a liberal, and a student of German criticism, was vigorously belaboring three of the friars, who replied to him whenever they were able to get a word in, which was not often. His arguments supported the action of the Italian government in disbanding all monastic fraternities throughout its dominions, giving to each member a small pension, and inviting all to live by exercising the duties of their profession as secular priests. Our friars had concluded to expatriate, rather than secularize, themselves, and were now _en route_ for Kaiafa, a place concerning which I could only learn that it was in Syria. They were impugned, according to the ancient superstition, as the causes of our bad embarkation and rough voyage. They were young and vigorous men, and the old count not unreasonably urged them to abandon a career now recognized as useless and obsolete, and to earn their bread by some availing labor. The circle of the controversy widened. More friars came up from below. The ship's surgeon joined himself to them, the Venetian siding with the count. The Neapolitan stood by to see fair play, and a good part of the day of rest was occupied by this symphony of discord.

I confess that, although the friars' opinions were abhorrent to mine, I yet wished that they might have been let alone. Even Puritan Milton does not set a Calvinistic angel to argue with Adam and Eve concerning the justice of their expulsion from Paradise. The journey itself was pain enough, without the reprobation. As the friars had been turned out of their comfortable nests, and were poor and disconsolate, I myself would sooner have given them an obolus unjustified by theory than a diatribe justified by logic. But the old count was sincere and able, and at least presented to them views greatly in advance of their bigotry and superstition. While this conversation went on, we passed Lissa, where the Italian fleet was repulsed by the Austrians, during the war of Italian unity. Our fellow-passenger of the nation second named quietly exults over this event. He does well. Austrian victories have been rare of late. Of the day following my diary says,--

June 17.--In sight of the Acroceraunian mountains and shore of Albania. Vessel laboring with head wind, I with Guizot's Meditations, which also have some head wind in them. They seem to me inconclusive in statement, and insufficient in thought, presenting, nevertheless, some facts and considerations of interest. At a little before two P. M., we pass Fano, the island in which Calypso could not console herself; and no wonder. At two we enter the channel of Corfu, but do not reach the shore itself until five o'clock. A boat conveys us to the shore, where, with our Austrian friends, we engage a carriage, and drive to view the environs.

This is my first experience of Greece. The streets are narrow and irregular, the men mostly in European costume, with here and there a _fustanella_. Our drive took us to a picturesque eminence, commanding a lovely prospect. It led us through a sort of Elysian field, planted with shade trees, where the populace on gala days go to sip coffee, and meet their friends and neighbors. Returning to the town, we pass several large hotels and cafes, at one of which we order ices. I puzzle myself in vain with the Greek signs over the shop windows. Our leave of absence having expired, we hasten back to the steamer, but find its departure delayed by the labor of embarking a Turkish dignitary, Achmed Pacha, who, with a numerous suite, male and female, is to take passage with us for the Dardanelles.

A steamer, bearing the Crescent flag at her mast-head, was anchored alongside of our own. Our hitherto quiet quarters were become a little Babel of strange tongues and costumes. Any costume artist would have gone mad with delight over the variety of coats and colors which our new visitors displayed. Those wonderful jackets and capotes, which are the romance of stage and fancy-ball attire, here appeared as the common prose of every-day dress. Every man wore a fez. I remember a handsome youth, whose crimson head-gear contrasted with a white sheepskin jacket with wide, hanging sleeves--the sleeves not worn on the arms, but at the back; the close vest, loose, short skirt, and leggings were also white--the whole very effective. He was only one figure of a brilliant panorama, but treacherous memory does not give me the features of the others.

Our vessel, meanwhile, was engaged in swallowing the contents of the Turkish steamer with the same deliberation with which an anaconda swallows a bullock. The Turks and Albanians might scream and chatter, and declaim the whole Koran at their pleasure, the great crane went steadily on--hoisting bale after bale, and lowering the same into our hold. This household stuff consisted principally of rugs and bedding, with trunks, boxes, and kitchen furniture, and some mysterious bundles whose contents could not be conjectured.

The sight of this unwholesome-looking luggage suggested to some of us possible communication of cholera, or eastern plague. The neophyte and I sat hand in hand, looking ruefully on, and wondering how soon we should break out. But when the dry goods were disposed of, the transfer of the human merchandise from one vessel to the other seized our attention, and put our fears out of sight.

Our first view of the pacha's _harem_ showed us a dozen or more women crouching on the deck of the Turkish steamer, their heads and faces bundled up with white muslin veils, which concealed hair, forehead, mouth, and chin, leaving exposed to view only the triangle of the eyes and nose. Several children were there, who at first sight all appeared equally dirty and ill-dressed. We were afterwards able to distinguish differences between them.

The women and children came on board in a body, and took up a position on the starboard side of the deck. With them came an old man-servant, in a long garment of whitish woollen cloth, who defined their boundaries by piling up certain bales of property. In the space thus marked off, mattresses were at once laid down and spread with coverlets; for these women were to pass night as well as day on deck. Five ladies of the pacha's family at once intrenched themselves in one of the small cabins below, where, with five children, they continued for the remainder of the voyage, without exercise or ventilation. Too sacred to be seen by human eyes, these ladies made us aware of their presence by the sound of their incessant chattering, by the odor of their tobacco, and by the screaming of one of their little ones, an infant of eight months.

When these things had been accomplished, our captain sent word to the pacha that he was ready to depart. The great man's easy-chair--by no means a splendid one--was then carried on board, and the great man himself, accompanied by his son-in-law and his dragoman, came among us. He was a short, stout person, some fifty years of age, and wore a dark military coat, with a gold stripe on the shoulder, and lilac trousers. His dragoman was a Greek. He and his suite smoked vigorously, and stared somewhat, as, with the neophyte on one side and the little Austrian lady on the other, I walked up and down the deck. The women and the old servant all slept _a la belle etoile_. The pacha and his officers had state-rooms in the saloon; the other men were in the third cabin. I forgot to say that at Corfu we left Count Lunzi and his amiable daughter, whose gracious manners and good English did credit to Mrs. Hills's excellent tuition, which the young lady had enjoyed for some years at her well-known school in Athens.

When we came on deck the next morning, we found some of the Turkish women still recumbent, others seated upon their mattresses. Two of the children, a girl of ten years and a boy of twelve, went about under orders, and carried dishes and water-vessels between the cabin and the deck. We afterwards learned that these were Albanian slaves. The girl was named Haspir, the boy Ali. The first had large dark eyes and a melancholy expression of countenance; the boy also had Oriental eyes, whose mischievous twinkle was tempered by the gravity of his situation. The old servant, whom they called Baba, ate his breakfast in a corner. He had a miscellaneous looking dish of fish, bread, and olives. The women fed chiefly, as far as I could judge, on cucumbers and radishes, which they held and munched. Water was given from a brazen pitcher, of a pattern decidedly Oriental. Coffee was served to the invisible family in the small cabin. I did not see the women on deck partake of it. But from this time the scope of my observations was limited. A canvas partition, made fast to the mast overhead, now intervened, to preserve this portion of the _harem_ from the pollution of external regards. Henceforth, we had glimpses of its members only when a lurch of the steamer swayed the canvas wall far out of equilibrium. The _far niente_ seemed to be their fate, without alternative. Nor book nor needle had they. The children came outside, and peeped at us. Baba, grim guardian of the household, sat or squatted among his bales, oftenest quite unoccupied, but sometimes smoking, or chattering with the children. I took my modest drawing-book, and, with unsteady hand, began to sketch him in pen and ink. He soon divined my occupation, and kept as still as a mouse until by a sign I released him, when he begged, in the same language, to see what I had drawn. I next tried to get a _croquis_ of a pretty little girl who played about, wearing a pink wadded sack over a gown and trousers of common flowered calico, buff and brown. She was disposed to wriggle out of sight; but Baba threatened her, and she was still.

Presently, the slave-boy, Ali, came up from the select cabin below, bearing in his arms an ill-conditioned little creature, two years of age, who had come on board in a cashmere pelisse lined with fur, a pink wadded under-jacket, and a pair of trousers of dirty common calico. He had now discarded the fur-pelisse. On his round little head he wore a cap of pink cashmere, soiled and defaced, with a large gold coin attached to it. A natural weakness drew me towards the little wretch, whom I tried to caress. Ali patted him tenderly, and said, "Pacha." This was indeed the youngest member, save one, of the pacha's family--the true baby being the infant secluded down stairs, whose frequent cries appealed in vain for change of air and of scene. The two-year-old had already the title of bey.

"Can a baby a bey be?" I asked, provoking the disgust which a pun is sure to awaken in those who have not made it.

We met the pacha at meals, interchanging mute salutations. He had a pleasant, helpless sort of smile, and ate according to the orthodox standard of nicety. On deck some attendant constantly brought him a pipe composed of a large knob of amber, which served as a mouth piece, and a reed some eight inches in length, bearing a lighted cigar.

As we sat much in our round house, it was inevitable that I should at last establish communication with him through the mediation of a young Greek passenger, who spoke both Turkish and French.

It was from the pacha that I learned that Haspir and Ali were slaves. The little girl whom I had sketched was his daughter. I inquired about a girl somewhat younger, who played with this one. The pacha signified that he had given the mother of his daughter to one of his men, and that the second little girl was born of this connection. The two younger children already spoken of were born of another mother, probably each of a different one.

"O Christian marriage!" I thought, as I looked on this miscellaneous and inorganic family, "let us not complain of thy burdens."

With us the birth of a child is the strongest bond of union between its parents; with the Oriental it is the signal for separation. No society will ever permanently increase whose structure rests on an architecture so feeble. The Turkish empire might spread by conquest and thrive by plunder. But at home it can never compete with nations in which family life has individuality of centre and equality of obligation. With Greeks and Albanians to work for them, and pay them tribute, the Turks are able to attain a certain wealth. It is the wealth, however, which impoverishes mankind, exhausting the sources of industry and of enterprise. Let the Turk live upon what he can earn, and we shall hear little of him.

The women sometimes struggled out from their canvas enclosure, and went below on various errands. On these occasions they were enveloped in a straight striped covering, white and red, much like a summer counterpane. This was thrown over the head, held together between the teeth, and reached to the feet. It left in view their muslin head-dresses, and calico trousers, gathered at the ankle, nothing more. A few were barefoot--one or two only wore stockings. Most of them were shod with _brodequins_, of a size usually worn by men.

At a late hour in the afternoon, Ali brought to their enclosure a round metal dish of stewed meat, cut in small pieces for the convenience of those whose customs are present proof that fingers were made before knives and forks. A great dish of rice simultaneously made its appearance. Baba chattered very much, Ali made himself busy, and a little internal commotion became perceptible behind the canvas wall.

My opportunity of observing Turkish manners was as brief as it was limited. Having taken the Moslems on board on Monday, well towards evening, the Wednesday following saw, at ten A. M., my exit from the steamer. For we were now in the harbor of Syra. When I came on deck, soon after five A. M., the pacha sent me coffee in a little cup with a silver stand. It was prepared after the Turkish manner, and was fragrant and delicious. While we were at breakfast, Mr. Saponzaki, American consul at Syra, came on board in search of me, followed soon by an old friend, Mr. Evangelides. With real regret I took leave of the friendly captain and pleasant companions of the voyage. I shook hands with the pacha, not unmindful of the miseries of Crete. Baba also gave me a parting salutation. He was a nice observer of womanly actions, and his farewell gesture seemed to say, "Although barefaced, you are respectable;" which, if he really meant it, was a great deal for him to allow. Our luggage was now transferred on board the smaller steamer, which was to sail at six P. M. for the Piraeus, and the neophyte and myself soon found ourselves under the shelter of Mr. Evangelides' roof, where his Greek wife made us cordially welcome.

SYRA.

Mr. Evangelides was one of a number of youths brought to the United States, after the war of Greek independence, for aid and education. The latter was the chief endowment with which his adopted country returned him to his native land. The value of this gift he was soon to realize, though not without previous hardships and privations. After a year or two of trial, he commenced a school in Syra. This school was soon filled with pupils, and many intelligent and successful Greeks of the present day are among his old scholars. Besides methods of education, he brought from America a novel idea--that of the value of real estate. Looking about Syra, and becoming convinced of its inevitable growth, he invested the surplus of his earnings in tracts of land in the immediate neighborhood of the then small town, to the utter mystification of his neighbors. That one should invest in jewels, arms, a house, or a vineyard, would have seemed to them natural enough; but what any man should want of mere land scarcely fit for tillage, was beyond their comprehension. The expected growth was not slow in coming. Mr. Evangelides soon began to realize handsomely, as we should say, from his investment, and is now esteemed a man of wealth. His neighbors thereafter named him "the Greek Yankee;" and I must say that he seems to hold equally to the two belongings, in spite of the Scripture caution.

Under the escort of my old friend, I went out to see the town, and to make acquaintance with the most eminent of the inhabitants, the custom of the country making the duty of the first call incumbent upon the person newly arrived.

Unfurling a large umbrella, and trembling with the fear of sun-stroke, I proceeded to climb the steep and narrow streets of the town. We first incommode with our presence the governor of the Cyclades, a patriotic Greek, who speaks good English and good sense. We talk of Cretan affairs; he is not sanguine as to the efficient intervention of the European powers.

We next call upon the archbishop, at whose house we are received by a black servant in Frank dress, speaking good French. Presently the prelate appeared--a tall, gentlemanly person in a rich costume, one feature of which was a medallion, brilliant with precious stones of various colors. His reverence had made his studies in Germany, and spoke the language of that country quite fluently. Tholuck had been his especial professor, but he had also known Bauer; and he took some pains to assure me that the latter was not an irreligious man, in spite of the hardihood of his criticism. He deplored the absence of a state religion in America. I told him that the progress of religion in our country seemed to establish the fact that society attains the best religious culture through the greatest religious liberty. He replied that the members should all be united under one head. "Yes," said I, "but the Head is invisible;" and he repeated after me, "Indeed, the Head is invisible." I will here remark that nothing could have been more refreshing to the New England mind than this immediate introduction to the theological opinions of the East.