The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1878-01-05
Christmas in Venice.

AND now the blessed Christmas Eve
has come. A hush settles upon the city
with the twilight. The toiling fathers
and mothers STROLL with the children in
their arms, along the passages between
the gay booths, and laugh and shout
and chatter with the bronzed peasants,
whose faces stand out in relief behind
the tlaring brass lamps. The bridges
lie white and calm in the dusk, with
heavy shadows gathered in the water
under their arches. Along the canals
the reflections of the house fronts lie
black against the dusk of the mirrored
sky. Here and there the street light
falls on an angel gazing down with out
stretched hands and widespread wings
A holy peace is on the beautiful stone
faces, and the mouths are parted with
mute hosannas.
Along the lagoon groups are strolling
toward the piazza, for there is service
in St. Marks. There are sailor lads
dressed afresh for the fiesta night; peas
ant soldiers who are thinking of the
little homes among the southern olive
hills; young girls with faces shining
with holy thoughts. In the upper sky
fingers the pale twilight green that the
old Venetians dwelt upon so lovingly.
The tower of San Giorgo rises, stately
shaft, against the darkening sky, with
the golden angel standing in relief
against the clear space the early moon
has left in its wake. At the angels
feet glOws the great bright, steadfast
evening star. The lagoon is red with
the reflected after-glow. Great black
shadows lie athwart it from the hulks
of the anchored vessels. The network
of masts and cordage that stands black
against the ruddy sky is reproduced in
the pale water
The domes of the city rise black
against the late twilight sky, and along
the waters edge CLEAN rows of golden
lights. Old converts that long echoed
with the Christmas merriment of monks
frown upon the joyful people, white and
ghostly in their age.
In the wine shops the gondoliers are
singing noisy Christmas ballads. In
the larger cafe officers in spurs and
floating cloaks are grouped about the
little tables. playing chess and drinking
brows over the newspapers, forgetful
of Christmas Eve. Young men are
whispering together and laughing over
their stories, unmindful of the old blind
man who is singing some quaint Christ
mas carol at the door to the sound of
his worn guitar. Sometimes young
girls fresh, pretty things-stand with
their mothers in the reeking cigar
smoke, and wall Christmas carols to
plaintive violin accompaniment that
makes them stop and listen until tears
come into their eyes at the thought of
Christina hopes dead long ago.
At the Molo the gOndole crouch dark
against the riUa,, with stakes rising
among them, crowned now and then
with little Gothic tabernacle that has
a lamp Pickering before coarse print
of the Virgin. The gondoliers lounge,
wrapped in their heavy cloaks, about
the landing. On the pedestals of the
columns, with the white-eyed lion glar-
ing upon them, and st. Theodore gaz-
ing scornfully upon their plebeian
shapes, cover groups of women and
children and old men. Some instinct
of alteration has driven them out under
the open sky to wait for the mystical
coming.
Through the dusk CLEAN the white, re-
Ginning figures on the arches of the
Zecca. The statues stand dark against
the sky under the great black shaft of
the Campanile. The moonlight glitters
on the arched window of the ducal pal
ace and under the dusk of the balcony
curves, forcing the white shafts to strong
relief.
Across the piazza, forming a back
ground for the figures of the passers-by,
streams the light from the brilliant win
dows under the Procuratic and the long
bright street beyond the clock tower.
The giants that strike the bell stand out
among the chimneys, and below them,
against the black front above the arch,
glow the golden numbers of the hour