We crossed the famous “Bridge of Sighs,” immortalised by Lord Byron, who says:
“I stood in Venice, on the bridge of sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.”
It was built in the year 1610. We could not fail to remember Tom Hood’s pathetic poem, written, it is believed, after seeing a poor girl, one of the unfortunates, whose corpse has just been discovered in the cold black waters under this bridge of sighs—Drowned! drowned!
“One more unfortunate weary of breath, Rashly importunate, gone to her death; Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair. Touch her not scornfully, think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; not of the stains of her, All that remains of her now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny, Rash and undutiful, past all dishonour, Death has left on her only the beautiful. Still for all slips of hers, one of Eve’s family, Wipe those poor lips of hers, oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses, escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses, while wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still and a nearer one yet than the others? Alas for the rarity of christian charity Under the sun, Oh! it was pitiful! Near to a city full, home she had none. Where the lamps quiver, so far on the river, With many a light from window and casement From garret to basement, she stood with amazement Homeless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and quiver, but not the dark arch Or the black flowing river, mad with life’s history Glad to death’s mystery, swift to be hurled Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world. In she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly The rough river ran. Over the brink of it. Picture it, think of it. Then if you can, take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; fashioned so slenderly, So young and so fair. E’er her limbs frigidly Stiffen so rigidly, decently, kindly Smooth and compose them, and her eyes close them Staring so blindly, dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity. As when the daring Last look of despairing, fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, spurned by contumely, Cold inhumanity, burning insanity, Into her rest—Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, over her breast. Owning her weakness, her evil behaviour, And leaving with meakness her sins to her Saviour.”