Chapter V: Modern Processions and Festivals

Mediæval Venice was a city of imposing spectacles. Its church was a national church, and its Patriarch, the heir of Saint Mark, was, from the Venetian point of view, the peer of the heir of Saint Peter. It being a strictly Venetian or State church, the Doge was its head equally with the Patriarch, and indeed in a certain way was more important; for the chief church of Venice was not that of the Patriarch, but the Chapel of the Doge, while the Chapter of San Marco was far more powerful than the Bishop, who was officially its superior.

But it pleased the State to make its church prominent in its public ceremonies; and each great event in its history--be it the deliverance from the plague or a conspiracy, or a success in having proved a plague to any foe--was commemorated by a religious function. Some of these splendid processions corresponded to those of other Catholic countries and cities, such as those of the Corpus Domini and Palm Sunday; and Gentile Bellini's pictures of religious processions now in the Academy still impress us with the unequalled pomp and magnificence with which the Venetians loved to dazzle themselves and the strangers within their gates.

The festivals which were peculiar to Venice were important. The procession of the Doge to the smallest and perhaps the oldest church in Venice, San Vio, founded in 917, celebrated the deliverance of the city from the {73} conspiracy of Tiepolo in 1310; and as it occurred on the 15th of June, that lovely season in Venice, we can but regret its discontinuance. But the deliverance from the plague in 1576 and in 1631 is still celebrated each year. The ravages of the plague in Venice at various times were almost beyond belief. That of 1171 is curiously associated with the Giustiniani. A hundred or more members of this most noble house were cut off by this scourge, and its very name was in danger of extinction, since the young Niccolo, who now represented the family, was a novice in the convent of San Niccolo, on the Lido. The Doge Michieli, under these circumstances, thought it not wrong to send at once to the Pope, asking that Niccolo Giustiniani might be released from his vows, and married to Anna Michieli, the daughter of the Doge. Mrs. Oliphant pictures the interval between the departure of the messenger and his return:--

"The old Giustiniani fathers, in the noble houses which were not as yet the palaces we know, must have waited among their weeping women for the decision from Rome. And it is wonderful that no dramatist or modern Italian romancer should have thought of taking for his hero this young monk upon the silent shores of the Lido, amid all the wonderful dramas of light and shade that go on upon the low horizon sweeping round on every side, a true globe of level, long reflections, of breadth and space and solitude, so apt for thought.

"Had he known, perhaps, before he thought of dedication to the church, young Anna Michieli, between whose eyes and his, from her windows in the Doge's palace to the green line of the Lido, there was nothing but the dazzle of the sunshine and the ripple of the sea? Was there a simple romance of this natural kind, waiting to be turned into joyful fulfilment by the Pope's favorable answer? Or had the novice to give up his dreams of holy seclusion, or those highest, all-engrossing visions of ambition, which were to no man more open than to a bold and able priest?"

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The Pope could but consent under such circumstances, and the marriage was celebrated immediately. Nine sons and three daughters were born of this union; and many men of illustrious character and some great orators afterward proceeded from the Casa Giustiniani. But his life in the world, with all its good fortune, did not make Niccolo forgetful of his early vows nor of the peace of his convent; and when his duty to the State was done, he there re-dedicated himself to God's service, and his wife Anna entered her chosen nunnery, where the holiness of her life caused her to be made a _Beata_ after her death.

Four centuries later Venice was again decimated; and the deliverance from the plague of 1576 is celebrated to this day on the third Sunday of July, which is called

THE FÊTE OF THE REDENTORE.

For some days previously the city is in commotion. A pontoon bridge is thrown across the Grand Canal; and the ferrymen, whose earnings are thus lessened, receive three francs a day as compensation. Pilgrims from the neighboring islands and from the mainland are constantly arriving, and a motley crowd throngs all Venice.

All Sunday morning the Piazza of San Marco is a busy place, for there the priests from every parish of Venice gather, and form the procession that marches hence to the Church of the Redentore. The variously colored stoles of the priests indicate the parishes to which they belong; and when the procession is seen from a distance, these stripes of color are very curious in effect. As the church has a commanding position on the island of La Giudecca, one may easily have a fine view of the procession on the bridge, and by quickly crossing in a gondola lose little of the pageant in the church, which has no doubt lost much of its original splendor.

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But the great interest of the _festa_ is outside the church. The quays are filled with tents and stalls, decorated gayly with flags, and displaying cheap toys, cakes, ices, and fennel, as well as hot _fritelle_, and more solid food for those who wish. The children are never weary of these tents, while dancing-halls have been hastily improvised for their elders. And so all day long there is tramping and chattering, a sense of confusion and unrest, which invades even the interiors of the most retired houses; and one is better off to join in the festivities and fully do his part than to attempt to be quiet.

The real _festa_, however, seems to begin only when the day is ended. As soon as the sun sinks to rest, the whole Giudecca Canal is covered with boats fancifully decorated with boughs, and illuminated with lanterns shaped like lilies, fuschias, and other flowers whose form lends itself to illumination. Much time and skill is lavished on these decorations, as the best device gains a handsome prize.

A little later the supper gondolas appear. These are brilliantly lighted with lamps, and so beautifully dressed with green branches and wreaths that they seem like living bowers. The tables are well filled, and the boats crowded with joyous holiday-seekers, whose laughs and jests, intermingled with the sound of mandolins and songs, are most contagious in their merriment. As soon as it is dark enough, fireworks are set off in many parts of the city, but especially on the Giudecca, and the air is full of rockets and Roman candles. The gayety of the scene can scarcely be exaggerated; and its whole appearance is so characteristic of Venice, and so unlike any other place, that it is quite impossible to draw a true picture of it in words. From the inauguration of the _festa_ of the Redentore, it has been the custom to pass the night on the water; and about two o'clock the boats all move {76} towards the Lido, there to salute the rising sun, and many of the people rush into the water to hail the God of Day.

Thus ends the midsummer fête, so well worth seeing and so unique. But is not all a Venetian summer full of charm? To us each day is a lovely _festa_.

A REGATTA.

Venice is especially suited to scenic displays upon the water,--the winding Grand Canal, cutting the city like a mammoth letter S, opening into the Basin of St. Mark, the Ducal Palace on one side, and San Giorgio on the other, the curve of the Riva degli Schiavoni running into the public gardens, all lend themselves to spectacles with perfect fitness.

Of late years, too, the Town Council has generously encouraged the regatta with money and influence. The course of the race is from the stairs of the public gardens to the Station, and back to the Palazzo Foscari. The prizes are money and flags,--red, green, and blue for the first three boats, and a sucking pig and a yellow flag with a pig embroidered on it for the last boat. One would think that after falling behind so much as to surely fail of the first prizes, there would be a contention for the hindmost place.

There is no end to the varieties of the Venetian craft,--gondolas, _sandolos_, _barche_, _barchette_, _topos_, _cavaline_, _vipere_, _bissoni_, and many more. Before the regatta begins, the Grand Canal is covered with boats of every size. All the palaces are hung with tapestries, rugs, curtains, and any stuffs of a gay color, while flags flutter everywhere. Every balcony and window is full of people and heads, while the roofs are black with those who have no more advantageous outlooks.

By far the most interesting boats are the _bissone_ and {77} _peote_, rowed by ten and twelve oars, whose duty it is to keep the race-course clear. These are decorated by the commercial houses of the city, and are symbolical in their designs, the crews being dressed in accordance with the decorations. One may resemble a Chinese junk; another represents the tropics, bearing palms and gorgeous flowers and even tropical birds; another may have a Polar bear on its bows, with its rowers imitating walruses, and sitting on cakes of ice; one is usually decorated with glass from Murano, which sparkles like precious stones in the sunlight. These have each a special color,--blue, gold, pink, silver, green, and, in truth, all the gay colors known; and as, in order to keep the course clear, they must constantly move about, they make a charming effect, and are vastly amusing to those who are waiting and watching for the race.

The gondolas of the nobility are frequently gay, with the livery of the four gondoliers they carry. Many of them are dressed in antique style, with puffed hose, long silk stockings, gay doublets, and plumed hats; and other private boats, especially the large bissone, carry gayly dressed parties, while their crews are in liveries of velvet or silk with lace and costly trimmings.

Suddenly the boom of a cannon hushes all voices. The race has begun. It is rowed in small, light gondolas, and every eye is fixed on the spot where these boats will first be seen. When they are near enough to tell who leads, there are cheers and shouts of encouragement. The race sweeps by and disappears. The excitement becomes intense, and bets are freely made, comments of all sorts are heard, and until the boats again come in sight, on their return, one might well question if Babel were as noisy as Venice at a regatta. As the victor nears the winning post, the silence is breathless. He snatches his flag; his name is shouted by thousands; the regatta is {78} finished; and already the people are talking of the amusements which are still to be enjoyed.

THE SERENADE.

Coming after the regatta, the serenade is a fresh delight. The anxieties are ended, and everybody can now enjoy the lovely evening, the cool breeze, the glimpses of exquisite palace interiors, of gondolas filled with ladies in _festa_ costumes, and of decorations and illuminations everywhere.

Eight o'clock is the hour for beginning; and a large barge decorated with many green and red lamps arranged in pyramids and other more fanciful designs carries the orchestra and the singers. It starts from above the Rialto, and is soon surrounded by numberless gondolas. Each gondolier strives for the best position, and that is thought to be at the bow of the music barge. The whole mass of boats float with the tide; and as they come to the narrower part of the canal, neither barge nor any gondola can move forward or back.

Under the arch of the bridge the scene is like a good-natured pandemonium. The police bid the rowers do this and do that, but they only make a pretence of trying to obey. The police shout, "Avanti, avanti!" the boatmen repeat the cry, but nothing moves. At last the chief official, by means of a trumpet, gives an order to "pump," and at once a fire-engine on the barge throws a stream of water which loosens the block a little, and the barge advances a few feet. A very curious effect is produced by the different sorts of lights. The cold, colorless electric, the brilliant hues of the Bengal lights, and the soft glimmering from the stars in the clear blue above, bring out the statuesque figures of the gondoliers and the fronts of the palaces,--now like startling ghosts, again like {79} blushing youths, and then as impalpable spirit-forms. They appear and disappear as the lights change and as the boats move. The gondoliers are mostly clothed in white, and seem like dream figures, as do the exquisite façades with their delicate tracery and ornament.

The serenade is apparently endless; for in spite of the pumping, its progress is very slow, and the barge will not reach the Salute until long past midnight. There the lights are put out, and the musicians released. Little attention is given to the music, which seems only to be a nucleus for this most novel and fantastic scene, from which one may easily escape by a side canal, and end the evening with one more spectacle.

THE ILLUMINATION.

This is the appropriate end of a really grand festival; and the scene in the Piazza is as beautiful, if not as exciting, as the race or the serenade. So brilliant is the light that not a detail of the architecture is lost. Every column, with all its ornament, each cornice, pillar, and curve is outlined by little jets of golden flame, and even of a deeper tint; and all these lights are flickering just enough to dazzle the eye with an effect like a rippling sea of fire. In weird contrast is the façade of San Marco, lighted by electricity. It is pale and unearthly, and its domes seem to be suspended in air. No wonder that the doves fly hither and thither in fright and amazement, and cluster in the darker Piazzetta, where they and we may thankfully rest our eyes and look out to San Giorgio, now all aflame with many-colored lamps.

Again to the Piazza, to note what we may not yet have seen. The two Procuratie and the Piazza walls are like sheets of fire, for the lamps of the square have globes of crimson glass. Surely nowhere else has one seen such {80} color, so splendid and fascinating, so blinding and confusing, that late though it be we bid our good gondolier make a giro in the quiet canals, which seem to welcome us as old friends do, and restore the equilibrium which the regatta, the serenade, and the illumination have somewhat disturbed; and in this quiet there come back to us the lines we learned so long ago, writ by another pilgrim in this same Venice,--

I can repeople with the past,--and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chastened down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.
LORD BYRON.

THE MADONNA DELLA SALUTE.

The plague of 1630 was the seventieth, and the last great plague of Venice. Eighty-two thousand victims had died in the city and the neighboring islands, and sixteen months of horror and suffering had passed since its outbreak. Not a sound of joy was heard in all the extent of Venice when special public prayers were made, and the Senate vowed to the Holy Virgin--"Mary, the Mother of Health"--that a church should be built in her honor if she would but stay the plague. And lo! suddenly, in November, 1631, the scourge was stayed.

Fifty-five years before, the votive church of the Redentore had been built in gratitude to a similar answer to their prayers; and now the people were determined to erect a still more splendid church, upon a piece of land on the point of the Dogana, which the Knights Templars had given to the Republic. But it would take a long time to build a church, and the people were in haste to put all their sadness behind them, and to have one festal {81} day without delay. Accordingly, the 28th of November was appointed, and a wooden structure erected hastily, in which to celebrate the jubilee.

The procession left the high altar of San Marco; and when it reached the centre of the Piazza, the health officers announced that the plague was stayed by the Virgin. This announcement was welcomed by salvos of artillery, peals of bells, and blare of trumpets. The procession then moved on, and crossing the Grand Canal by a pontoon bridge, it reached the wooden church.

A writer of that period tells us that the day was most propitious. Not a cloud obscured the deep blue sky, and the air was as mild as that of spring. Nothing was omitted that could add to the splendor of the procession. The gorgeous robes of the priests, the candlesticks of gold and silver, the flags of all the noble guilds and companies, the elder nobles with long white tapers in their hands, and the younger in all the bravery of doublets and hose, furnished a spectacle not easily excelled; and in every year of the two hundred and sixty-two that have since passed, this jubilee has been repeated with all possible splendor.

On the April following the first stone was laid in the new church, which rests on 1,200,000 piles. And there, at the entrance of the canal it stands, with its buttresses and statues and cupolas,--in a word, with all its architectural audacity,--declaring the grateful veneration of the Venetians for "Mary, the Mother of Health;" and on this _festa_ every Venetian, be he devout or not, feels it a duty to visit her church.

From the early morning the noise of the gathering crowds is heard. All around the church are stalls with hot coffee, fish, and other food for sale, and above all _gallani_,--a delicacy which belongs especially to this jubilee, of which the Venetians are very fond. It consists of little cups of pastry filled with a preparation of lard, white of {82} eggs, and flour whipped to a froth. It must be an acquired taste to be enjoyed by any but a true Venetian. Other little booths are filled with "portraits" and statuettes of the Madonna and the saints; and there is a lively fair all about the church before the hour for the great function.

This begins at half-past ten. The procession is formed, and moves to the church in the same manner as that of the Redentore. Within the church the people light the candles they have brought, one taking the fire from another; and these lighted candles, in all sizes, from the largest that are on sale down to mere tapers, are handed to the priests within the altar-rails, and are placed near the statue of the Madonna, triumphing over a symbolic figure of the plague. Thousands of candles are thus massed, until the space around the altar is a sheet of flame. Those who add to the candles a small sum of money receive a picture of the Madonna, which they kiss devoutly, and then conceal in some hiding-place about their dress.

Then the solemn services begin, one Mass succeeding another, until the vespers and benediction close the day at five o'clock. Meantime the women sit and gaze at the men constantly moving under the great cupola, wherever they can thread the crowd. They are all clean, well shaven, and dressed in their best. The gondoliers, with blue sashes, present "a symphony in shirts;" for in this use of flannel they are able to show their love for color, and most of them are artists enough to know the tint that is most becoming.

The season of the year forbids the open-air festivities which accompany other fêtes; but the wine-shops and restaurants make a rich harvest through the evening and far into the night, and jests and songs are heard in all the streets. In truth, the hour when one may really sleep becomes a doubtful question; for it happens many {83} times that just when one is comfortably dreaming, perhaps for the twentieth time, he hears in musical tones, sometimes singly and again in trios or quartettes, "Viva Italia! Viva il Re!"

FÊTES OF THE PEOPLE.

But perhaps the most interesting of all the Venetian _feste_, and certainly the most characteristic, are those distinctly of the people, and confined to the _contrada_, or quarter, in which the event occurs. A quarter is often thrown into the greatest excitement by a challenge to a rowing-match. The qualities of the champions are hotly discussed, bets are made, and the spirit of rivalry recalls that of the ancient Nicolotti and Castellani. Indeed, these very terms are still used on such occasions, though one is puzzled to know in what way one of these poor boatmen can represent the aristocratic Nicolotti of Heraclea. However, since these wear a black cap and sash, and the Castellani wear red, the names and their colors still serve a good purpose.

The street-fights between these parties, the _Forze d'Ercole_, and other trials of their strength and skill are all things of the past; and it is only on the occasion of a regatta of the people that the question is asked, "Who will win, Castello or San Niccolo?"

The day before these races the two boats are carefully cleaned, everything being scraped off the bottoms. They are then weighed at the Custom House, and tied to the posts of a ferry, where they remain, under the guard of a friend of each of the contestants, during the night. The race is rowed early in the morning; and only those who may most decidedly be called _il popolo_ show any knowledge or interest concerning it. They gather in all sorts of crafts close by the gardens and by San Giorgio. At half-past {84} seven the report of a gun is heard, and in a few minutes the race sweeps past. The red caps are leading; and those in the boats who favor that color are proportionately gay, while the black caps are silent and downcast.

All the boats that have been waiting follow the race for a certain distance; but its speed is too great for them, and near the end of the Giudecca they await the return. The course is usually about twelve miles; and after an hour and a quarter, or perhaps a little less, two white specks are seen far away across the water. These specks grow larger and clearer, and the greatest impatience possesses the watchers until they can discover which color leads. The boats stream out in two lines to meet the racers, who are taking different courses, and are so far apart that no one can yet decide as to the end. But when the first boat reaches the façade of San Giorgio, it is still the red cap that holds the lead. "Bravo, bravo!" is heard from all sides in joyous shouts; but the boats vanish like those in a dissolving view. They have given all the time they can afford, and each must now go to his duty, except a few of the more active spirits, who haste to greet the victor, and arrange a supper in his honor.

This feast usually takes place within the week, and is a gay affair, for after the supper there is dancing, and all are in the best of spirits. The hall in which the tables are laid is always decorated with the portraits of victorious boatmen, and flags and banners won in other races. The ancient custom of having a portrait made of the winner still survives, and it is a matter of great pride to collect these each time a new victory is gained for the red caps or the black.

The supper requires a long time; for three quarters of an hour is allowed to pass in smoking, talking, and singing between the courses. Wine is there in plenty; for if {85} only men are at the supper, it is brought in a forty-litre tub, suspended on poles from the shoulders of two men, and welcomed with huzzas. The room grows warm, and jackets are thrown off, as the merriment increases, exposing the brilliant flannel shirts and sashes, until at last the final course of the orthodox boatmen's supper has been eaten, for the menu is as unalterable as the courses of the stars. And now the tables must be cleared and the dancing begin. And such dancing! Their waltz is slow and long, and they love it to madness. They abandon themselves to its rhythmic movement with delight, and often sing as they dance, as if every possible expression must be given to their perfect happiness. One cannot foretell the hour when it will end. Not so long as the musicians will play,--for when was a dancing gondolier known to be weary? And when the _Marcia reale_ or Garibaldi's Hymn is played, with what impetuosity do the dancers respond!

THE SAGRA, OR PARISH FÊTE.

Each parish in Venice has its patron saint, and on that saint's day the whole parish is devoted to its celebration. Early in the morning a procession visits every shrine within the borders of the parish to burn incense before it.

First in the procession are those who carry the crosses, banners, and candelabra, all the portable belongings of the Church, made as fresh as possible for the _sagra_, and a Madonna, usually seated in a somewhat shaky chair. These bearers wear a sort of priestly vestment over their work-day clothes; and these are carefully arranged in groups of different colors,--first blue, then red, and lastly white. It is most interesting to see the faces of these bronzed, weather-beaten men, more accustomed to rowing than to walking. They stagger beneath their burdens {86} from side to side of the narrow calle; but they smile as they meet the gaze of neighbors and friends, who watch from the windows and doorways the progress of their carissima Madonna.

Behind the bearers comes the sacristan,--a person of importance, clothed in scarlet, walking backward, and ringing a bell. He is the marshal of the procession; and every boy is sober and properly behaved when within sight of this important official. Following him the music comes,--usually a clarinet, fife, trombone, and drum,--playing the most cheerful themes, and followed by three little acolytes, who swing their censers with such a will as to send up perfect clouds of incense. The parish priest comes next, and is usually an old and venerable man. He is dressed in rich robes and laces, and attended by men bearing a canopy over his head. He carries the Host reverently in his hands, and is followed by all the lesser clergy and officials of the parish. Then the pious men and women, the first in black clothes and bareheaded, and the last in long black veils, make a large part of the procession; and here a most curious economical custom is observed. Each of these parishioners carries a lighted taper, and to avoid its dripping, holds it sideways across the breast; and beside each one of these walks some one with a paper bag in which to catch the drippings of the wax. And so the procession winds in and out of every possible place in all the parish. It is often forced to halt by some obstacle in the narrow way; and those below are nodding and smiling to those above, for every window and balcony is filled. The procession stops at the last bridge in the parish, which has been covered with gayly colored mats. The music ceases; the priest alone, under his canopy, climbs to the highest point on the arch of the bridge, and raises the Host in air. Every voice is hushed, every head uncovered, and every knee bent. The only {87} sound is of the water gliding on and on to the sea. All is enclosed by high walls; but if one throws the head quite back, a strip of lovely placid blue symbolizes the peace which these humble worshippers are hoping to gain at last.

Suddenly the music plays its gayest waltz, the procession returns to the church with the consciousness of duty done, and the rest of the day is devoted to festivity, and in the evening the principal open space of the _contrada_ is illuminated with a few extra lamps and some Bengal lights. Before almost every window hangs a picture of the saint whose day it is, and these are lighted by little oil-lamps.

Here, too, as in the greater festivals, are stalls for selling fruit and pasties, or hot boiled chestnuts and _fritelle_; and much wit is expended in buying and selling these wares. Somewhere in the quarter there is dancing, too, usually in the middle of the square; and when the spectator is fortunate in his position, the whole scene is a delightful repetition of the fairs and _feste_ of the people so often seen upon the theatre or operatic stage, but far more beautiful and fascinating if the night be a moonlit one of early summer.

These parish festivals are managed entirely by the people, and are more or less impressive according to the collections that the capo, or manager, is able to make. On this depend the amount of the illumination and the brilliancy of the fireworks at the end; and no triumphant general ever had more pride in his victory than has this capo, when at the close of the _festa_ he is applauded, and bids the band play the _finale_, which is, of course, the ever-present "Viva Italia! viva il Re."

It is only with plenty of time, and that at the right season, that one can really come to know the Venice of to-day, and nothing so plainly shows the spirit of a people {88} as to see them at their play; and when, as in the case of these _contrada feste_, these working classes are quite by themselves, it is a tribute to their government and to their own natures to find them light-hearted and merry, easily amused, and contented in the quiet round of their every-day life.

GOOD FRIDAY.

This fast to the rest of the Christian world in Venice assumes the air of a feast. The people are all in holiday attire, and the children in crowds are romping and rolling, shaking their rattles to scare away Judas, turning somersaults and frolicking generally. And this day, more than any festival, affords delight to children, who have a custom of fitting up a Holy Sepulchre (_Santo Sepolero_), and appealing for coppers to all passers-by. They take the idea, naturally enough, from the Holy Sepulchres they see in all the churches; but the surprising thing is the readiness with which they improvise the _Santo Sepolero_ out of nothing, and then the ease with which they obtain the little coins. A small box, a bit of green, some candle-ends, and all is done; and if the child be sweet-voiced and winning, her Good Friday success is assured.

But at evening, in the most populous quarters, and those least invaded by strangers, the most unusual Good Friday custom is seen. The people of the quarter conduct a unique service of song, quite independent of the Church and at their own cost. They agree to sing the Passion of Our Lord, for which they use a chant with twenty-four verses. The necessary means are furnished by subscriptions of money, oil, wine, or anything that may be used in the celebration.

At one end of the _calle_ a shrine is erected representing a temple, each part of which--pillars, pediment, and so {89} on--is outlined by small lamps; while in the centre of the shrine there is a gas-jet with its paler light. A crowd gathers before the little temple waiting for the music to begin, while every window within hearing distance is open and filled with listeners, who meantime gossip with the people in the street. Somewhere in the _calle_ there is sure to be a Madonna and Infant Jesus, who have on this day been carefully cleaned and trimmed with wreaths of flowers, long sprays of graceful vines, and bits of ribbon.

When the leader of the singers begins the chant, all other sounds are hushed. Even the children know that they must now be quiet. The key-note being thus given, other voices join in; and each verse requires about three minutes for its rendering, and between the verses there is a pause of five or six minutes, when the chatter of the men and women and the pranks of the children are resumed, until again cut short by the voice of the leader. This is repeated until the twenty-four verses of sombre chant are sung in a manner much resembling ordinary psalm-singing elsewhere.

The music over, the evening ends, as do all Venetian celebrations, with a supper at the nearest wine-shop. This singular observance of a day so sadly solemn elsewhere makes a curious impression at first on strangers who witness it, and is perhaps the most characteristic of all the public customs that one can observe in Venice.

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