In this manner the Lord Doge goes as far as his great barge, and enters it with the nobility of Venice, and his Judge is beside him, and behind him is placed in the ship he who carries the Doge’s sword. When our Lord Doge has entered the great ship in company with the nobility of Venice, and of many honourable men, he sits down between the senior canon and his Judge, and they sit down upon the barge; and the Bishop and the two abbots enter their barges; then the men of the barges weigh anchor, and they go to the other end of the city, and you must know that the city is very long, a league and a half, or more. But if you were there, sirs, you might well see the water covered with boats, full of men and women who follow, of whom you must know that you could never tell the number. And in the windows of the palaces and on the banks there is a throng of ladies and maidens, as many as there are in all the city, and so richly dressed that you could see none finer. With such joy and festivity they go to the other end of the city, and then return to their own districts, and the Lord Doge with all his company returns to his palace, and finds the tables set, and he eats with all those who have been with him. It is worth noting that in the fourteenth century the Doge’s vessel was no longer called the principal barge, but the Bucentaur, the name being probably, as some say, derived from ‘Buzeus aureus,’ and so called in some documents. It was a rich vessel, adorned with carvings, stuffs, carpets, and paintings. Up to 1311 it was not rowed, but was towed by another boat, which was draped and rowed by men of Murano; but after that year it had its own rowers. [Sidenote: _G. R. Michiel, Origini._] It is easy to understand that such a festival as Martin da Canal describes might be the ruin of more than one great house, and it cost even the State enormous sums, which is one reason why it was not always celebrated with equal magnificence. In 1350, when the plague had greatly reduced the budget, it was decided to substitute painted wooden statues for the twelve young girls, but the public strongly opposed this innovation. The recollection of these wooden dolls has never been wholly effaced; it is still common in Venice to call a woman who is thin, cold, stupid, and pretentious, ‘a wooden Mary.’ The feast was given up at the end of the fourteenth century, at the time of the final struggle with Genoa. The treasury was empty, and excessive anxiety kept the public spirits in a state of nervous tension; moreover, the age of the ideal Venetian woman was past, and she no longer inspired profound and chivalrous devotion as in the old days when she had been more modest, more retiring, and more gentle.