There,
then, engaged in their humble, beaver-like labors, we leave for the
present the Venetian refugees from the rage of Attila.
But even while protesting, it is impossible not to let into our minds
some thought of what those desolate fishing villages will one day
become. The dim religious light, half revealing the slowly gathered
glories of St. Mark's; the Ducal Palace, that history in stone; the
Rialto, with the babble of many languages; the Piazza, with its flock of
fearless pigeons; the Brazen Horses, the Winged Lion, the Bucentaur, all
that the artists of Venice did to make her beautiful, her ambassadors to
make her wise, her secret tribunals to make her terrible; memories of
these things must come thronging upon the mind at the mere mention of
her spell-like name. Now, with these pictures glowing vividly before
you, wrench the mind away with sudden effort to the dreary plains of
Pannonia. Think of the moody Tartar, sitting in his log-hut, surrounded
by his barbarous guests; of Zercon, gabbling his uncouth mixture of
Hunnish and Latin; of the bath-man of Onegesh, and the wool-work of
Kreka, and the reed candles in the village of Bleda's widow; and say if
cause and effect were ever more strangely meted in history than the rude
and brutal might of Attila with the stately and gorgeous and subtle
republic of Venice.
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