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