Venetians are at war, or when there is any prospect of a change of dynasty, they gather round the Lion of St. Mark, over the entrance to the cathedral, and consult in a low voice about the destinies of the city. Doubt these facts if you like, but not in Venice. What spiders were to Robert Bruce, what crocodiles are to certain wild tribes in Africa, the columbines or little pigeons are to the Venetians.
Some writers assert that the birds came to Venice at the time of the crusades, one of their number having settled on the helmet of a troubadour or "fighting bard," whose songs had lured it out of Palestine. Other accounts say that they were originally heard of, in connexion with a festival or religious procession which took place soon after the foundation of the cathedral in 1071. But the real story is this.
On a certain Palm Sunday, in the Middle Ages, the priests of St. Mark determined to give the people a treat. They collected a number of pigeons, tied small weights to their wings, and set them flying over the Piazza, with a view to their falling into the hands of "needy and deserving persons." Stones, sticks, and knives, were thrown at the birds, and many birds were killed; but some escaped and concealed themselves in the crevices of the cathedral. One took refuge under the gown of the Virgin Mary (a statue so called), and another got entangled in the hands of a clock and bled to death. The sacredness of the place screened the survivors from further harm, and all thoughts of pursuing them were abandoned. They became the pets of the city, and after a few years were taken under the protection of the Doge. By that time they had multiplied to such an extent as to have become almost as numerous as the sparrows are in London; and so great were the love and veneration which they excited in the breasts of the populace, that no man's life was considered safe who insulted a pigeon. Special laws were made for them, called Pigeon Laws, and Venice ran the risk at one time of being permanently called Columbia, or the City of Doves. Finally, a pension was settled upon them, and a daily dinner-bell was rung for their accommodation.
A curious part of this affair is, that the birds never forget their dinner hour—never allow their excursions on the Lagunes to interfere with it. Sometimes the bell rings too soon, sometimes too late; but the birds are always there at the right time; and if the bell-ringing be omitted—as it sometimes has been by way of experiment—they scream and flap their wings in a peculiar manner. This may seem incredible, but the story has been verified over and over again, both for the amusement of visitors and the satisfaction of the authorities.
It is a pretty sight of a summer's day to watch these birds flying about the Piazza to the sound of the bells, and finally alighting under the window of the terrace where their dinner is thrown out to them in a golden shower of grain. Once upon a time it was a young lady who performed this office; now it is a young man. The change is for the worse.
The pigeons of Venice are black and white (or grey) with pink eyes and red feet. A beautiful green collaret surrounds the throat; the body is quite white under the wings. Some of them have white tails, whiter than the snow which falls on the summit of the Appenines; and opal or topaz eyes, which change their tints a thousand times a day. It is of birds like these that mention is made in Eastern stories, birds that did duty as postmen, and carried letters to and fro between ladies and gentlemen. Some say the pigeons of St. Mark are of so rare a breed that none like them are to be obtained for love or money out of the sea-city; but the vouchers are Venetians.
Their principal foes are the cats, the enemies of the feathered race in all parts of the world. Various depredations have been made on the cathedral by these amateurs of game, causing it to be feared, at one time, that a one-sided war of extermination would take place. But these fears have not been realised. The birds are on their guard against their enemies, and housewives who are troubled with mice use traps for their destruction in lieu of cats. Thus, the cats are often reduced to the last stage of misery and degradation. More like tigers than domestic animals, they will fly at their foes on the slightest provocation. But cats are so shamefully treated all over Italy, that there is some excuse for their ferocity. In obscure places they are looked upon as emissaries of the Devil, and are burnt for witches.
Pigeon pie is not a favourite dish with the Venetians. It is considered "shabby genteel" food. Children accustomed to play with the birds in the Piazza will not touch it, and beggars have been known to prefer a crust of dry bread to pigeon's flesh. It may naturally be asked how pigeons come to be eaten at all in a place where they are the object of so much romantic attachment, and why poulterers expose them in their shop windows. Ask this question of an hotel-keeper, and he will tell you that the pigeons sold for food are not the pigeons of St. Mark, but have been imported into Venice from the mainland at great trouble and expense. He will tell you, if he be a Venetian, that he would rather die than cook a city pigeon.
The long and the short of the matter is, that the pigeons of St. Mark are a remnant of the ancient glories of the city: a living record of the days when Venice was the mistress of the seas, the centre of civilisation, the market-place and tribune of one-half of the civilised world. To a Venetian these birds are messengers of peace—tokens of pride and power which will one day reassert themselves.
Some of the pigeons took part in the revolution of 1849 (flying between the Austrians and the Italians) and were shot by mistake; others were cooked for food, or eaten raw. But it is the boast of the Venetians that Venice was true to the pigeons even in her hour of famine; that their dinner-bell was rung regularly; and that their dinner was supplied to them without stint, when hundreds of families were in want
