Singularly calm amid all this bustle was
the countenance of the statue called the Gobbo, as I looked at it in the
centre of the market-place. The Gobbo (who is not a hunchback, either) was
patiently supporting his burden, and looking with a quiet, thoughtful
frown upon the ground, as if pondering some dream of change that had come
to him since the statutes of the haughty Republic were read aloud to the
people from the stone tribune on his shoulders.
Indeed, it was a morning for thoughtful meditation; and as I sat at the
feet of the four granite kings shortly after, waiting for the gate of the
ducal palace to be opened, that I might see the girls drawing the water, I
studied the group of the Judgment of Solomon, on the corner of the palace,
and arrived at an entirely new interpretation of that Bible story, which I
have now wholly forgotten.
The gate remained closed too long for my patience, and I turned away from
a scene momently losing its interest. The brilliant little shops opened
like hollyhocks as I went home; the swelling tide of life filled the
streets, and brought Venice back to my day-time remembrance, robbing her
of that keen, delightful charm with which she greeted my early morning
sense.
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