The Bravo

It is to be regretted the world does not discriminate more justly in its
use of political terms. Governments are usually called either monarchies
or republics. The former class embraces equally those institutions in
which the sovereign is worshipped as a god, and those in which he
performs the humble office of a manikin. In the latter we find
aristocracies and democracies blended in the same generic appellation.
The consequence of a generalization so wide is an utter confusion on the
subject of the polity of states.

The author has endeavored to give his countrymen, in this book, a
picture of the social system of one of the
soi-disant
republics of the
other hemisphere. There has been no attempt to portray historical
characters, only too fictitious in their graver dress, but simply to set
forth the familiar operations of Venetian policy. For the justification
of his likeness, after allowing for the defects of execution, he refers
to the well-known work of M. Daru.

A history of the progress of political liberty, written purely in the
interests of humanity, is still a desideratum in literature. In nations
which have made a false commencement, it would be found that the
citizen, or rather the subject, has extorted immunity after immunity, as
his growing intelligence and importance have both instructed and
required him to defend those particular rights which were necessary to
his well-being. A certain accumulation of these immunities constitutes,
with a solitary and recent exception in Switzerland, the essence of
European liberty, even at this hour. It is scarcely necessary to tell
the reader, that this freedom, be it more or less, depends on a
principle entirely different from our own. Here the immunities do not
proceed from, but they are granted to, the government, being, in other
words, concessions of natural rights made by the people to the state,
for the benefits of social protection. So long as this vital difference
exists between ourselves and other nations, it will be vain to think of
finding analogies in their institutions. It is true that, in an age like
this, public opinion is itself a charter, and that the most despotic
government which exists within the pale of Christendom, must, in some
degree, respect its influence. The mildest and justest governments in
Europe are, at this moment, theoretically despotisms. The characters of
both prince and people enter largely into the consideration of so
extraordinary results; and it should never be forgotten that, though the
character of the latter be sufficiently secure, that of the former is
liable to change. But, admitting every benefit which possibly can flow
from a just administration, with wise and humane princes, a government
which is not properly based on the people, possesses an unavoidable and
oppressive evil of the first magnitude, in the necessity of supporting
itself by physical force and onerous impositions, against the natural
action of the majority.

Were we to characterize a republic, we should say it was a state in
which power, both theoretically and practically, is derived from the
nation, with a constant responsibility of the agents of the public to
the people—a responsibility that is neither to be evaded nor denied.
That such a system is better on a large than on a small scale, though
contrary to brilliant theories which have been written to uphold
different institutions, must be evident on the smallest reflection,
since the danger of all popular governments is from popular mistakes;
and a people of diversified interests and extended territorial
possessions, are much less likely to be the subjects of sinister
passions than the inhabitants of a single town or county. If to this
definition we should add, as an infallible test of the genus, that a
true republic is a government of which all others are jealous and
vituperative, on the instinct of self-preservation, we believe there
would be no mistaking the class. How far Venice would have been
obnoxious to this proof, the reader is left to judge for himself.

"I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand;
I saw from out the wave her structures rise,
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand;
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Looked to the winged lions' marble piles,
Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles."
BYRON.

The sun had disappeared behind the summits of the Tyrolean Alps, and the
moon was already risen above the low barrier of the Lido. Hundreds of
pedestrians were pouring out of the narrow streets of Venice into the
square of St. Mark, like water gushing through some strait aqueduct,
into a broad and bubbling basin. Gallant cavalieri and grave cittadini;
soldiers of Dalmatia, and seamen of the galleys; dames of the city, and
females of lighter manners; jewellers of the Rialto, and traders from
the Levant; Jew, Turk, and Christian; traveller, adventurer, podestà,
valet, avvocato, and gondolier, held their way alike to the common
centre of amusement. The hurried air and careless eye; the measured step
and jealous glance; the jest and laugh; the song of the cantatrice, and
the melody of the flute; the grimace of the buffoon, and the tragic
frown of the improvisatore; the pyramid of the grotesque, the compelled
and melancholy smile of the harpist, cries of water-sellers, cowls of
monks, plumage of warriors, hum of voices, and the universal movement
and bustle, added to the more permanent objects of the place, rendered
the scene the most remarkable of Christendom.

On the very confines of that line which separates western from eastern
Europe, and in constant communication with the latter, Venice possessed
a greater admixture of character and costume, than any other of the
numerous ports of that region. A portion of this peculiarity is still to
be observed, under the fallen fortunes of the place; but at the period
of our tale, the city of the isles, though no longer mistress of the
Mediterranean, nor even of the Adriatic, was still rich and powerful.
Her influence was felt in the councils of the civilized world, and her
commerce, though waning, was yet sufficient to uphold the vast
possessions of those families, whose ancestors had become rich in the
day of her prosperity. Men lived among her islands in that state of
incipient lethargy, which marks the progress of a downward course,
whether the decline be of a moral or of a physical decay.

At the hour we have named, the vast parallelogram of the piazza was
filling fast, the cafés and casinos within the porticoes, which surround
three of its sides, being already thronged with company. While all
beneath the arches was gay and brilliant with the flare of torch and
lamp, the noble range of edifices called the Procuratories, the massive
pile of the Ducal Palace, the most ancient Christian church, the granite
columns of the piazzetta, the triumphal masts of the great square, and
the giddy tower of the campanile, were slumbering in the more mellow
glow of the moon.

Facing the wide area of the great square stood the quaint and venerable
cathedral of San Marco. A temple of trophies, and one equally
proclaiming the prowess and the piety of its founders, this remarkable
structure presided over the other fixtures of the place, like a monument
of the republic's antiquity and greatness. Its Saracenic architecture,
the rows of precious but useless little columns that load its front, the
low Asiatic domes which rest upon its walls in the repose of a thousand
years, the rude and gaudy mosaics, and above all the captured horses of
Corinth which start from out the sombre mass in the glory of Grecian
art, received from the solemn and appropriate light, a character of
melancholy and mystery, that well comported with the thick recollections
which crowd the mind as the eye gazes at this rare relic of the past.

As fit companions to this edifice, the other peculiar ornaments of the
place stood at hand. The base of the campanile lay in shadow, but a
hundred feet of its grey summit received the full rays of the moon along
its eastern face. The masts destined to bear the conquered ensigns of
Candia, Constantinople, and the Morea, cut the air by its side, in dark
and fairy lines; while at the extremity of the smaller square, and near
the margin of the sea, the forms of the winged lion and the patron saint
of the city, each on his column of African granite, were distinctly
traced against the back-ground of the azure sky.

It was near the base of the former of these massive blocks of stone,
that one stood who seemed to gaze at the animated and striking scene,
with the listlessness and indifference of satiety. A multitude, some in
masques and others careless of being known, had poured along the quay
into the piazzetta, on their way to the principal square, while this
individual had scarce turned a glance aside, or changed a limb in
weariness. His attitude was that of patient, practised, and obedient
waiting on another's pleasure. With folded arms, a body poised on one
leg, and a vacant though good-humored eye, he appeared to attend some
beck of authority ere he quitted the spot. A silken jacket, in whose
tissue flowers of the gayest colors were interwoven, the falling collar
of scarlet, the bright velvet cap with armorial bearings embroidered on
its front, proclaimed him to be a gondolier in private service.

Wearied at length with the antics of a distant group of tumblers, whose
pile of human bodies had for a time arrested his look, this individual
turned away, and faced the light air from the water. Recognition and
pleasure shot into his countenance, and in a moment his arms were
interlocked with those of a swarthy mariner, who wore the loose attire
and Phrygian cap of men of his calling. The gondolier was the first to
speak, the words flowing from him in the soft accents of his native
islands.

"Is it thou, Stefano? They said thou hadst fallen into the gripe of the
devils of Barbary, and that thou wast planting flowers for an infidel
with thy hands, and watering them with thy tears!"

The answer was in the harsher dialect of Calabria, and it was given with
the rough familiarity of a seaman.

"La Bella Sorrentina is no housekeeper of a curato! She is not a damsel
to take a siesta with a Tunisian rover prowling about in her
neighborhood. Hadst ever been beyond the Lido, thou wouldst have known
the difference between chasing the felucca and catching her."