From the Thames to the Tiber

“Moon, whose orbThrough optic glass the Tuscan artist views,At evening from the top of Fiesole,Or in Voldarno, to descry new lands,Rivers or mountains, in his spotty globe.”

Farther out the Casine, or the Hyde Park of Florence, could be seen.  Perhaps no better description can be given than by Mrs. Browning:

“You remember, down at Florence, our Casine,Where the people on the fast days walk and drive,And through the trees, long drawn in many a green way,O’er roofing hum and murmur like a hive,The river and the mountain look alive.You remember the Piazzo there, the stand placeOf carriages abrim with Florence beauties,Who lean and meet to music as the band plays,Or smile and chat with some one who afoot isOr on horseback, in observance of male duties.’Tis so pretty in the afternoon of summer,So many gracious faces brought together;Call it rout, or call it concert, they have come hereIn the floating of the fan and of the feather,To reciprocate with beauty the fine weather.”

Along the valley of Vallambrosa, as you look across, pine forests, lawns and mountains combined, make a scene the fairest fair Italy can show.  Milton, in his “Paradise Lost,” alludes to this valley, speaking of the fallen angels who

“Lay entranced,Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooksIn Vallambrosa’s, where oh! Etrurian shadesHigh over arched embower.”

This was one of the favourite walks of Dante, where he loved to wander and muse on his lovely Beatrice.  The views from this elevation on all sides were very beautiful, and we left it with a feeling we could never again gaze on scenes so delightful.

Returning from these lovely scenes, in and from the Boboli Gardens, over the same bridge we turned to the left and passed the Mozzi Square, where is the Mozzi Palace.  A very large building that has connected with it, we were told, a very fine picture gallery, but we had not time to visit it.  We then came to the Necropolis of St. Miniato, a church considered to be one of the oldest on the continent.  The Florentine Republic considered its splendid military position, and ordered Michael Angelo to fortify it.  He therefore threw a strong rampart around it, with strong bastions which were provided with cannon.  It is said that many Christian martyrs died for the faith and were buried in this church.  The tower was greatly damaged by Charles V., but Michael Angelo saved it from utter ruin.  Rev. D. M. Pratt says of Michael Angelo:

“A master mind before the marble stood,Fresh quarried was it, rough and all unhewn,To other eyes it seemed a shapeless stone;To his, a stately form and beautiful.Chisel in hand he wrought and what he sawCame forth a statue, living and divine.An artist stood and gazed on fallen man:He to the soul, what to the marble roughWas Angels, he saw and sinful manA seraphs form.  He wrought, and forth there cameManhood divine—the lifeless took on life,Oh! for the artist’s eye!  In every manGod’s image dwells, and he who sees the ChristSees God in man restored, and with him seeks to bringHis thoughts to life in saving men.”

A poet has written:

“In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lieAshes which make it holier, dust which isEven in itself an immortality.Though there were nothing save the past, and thisThe particles of those sublimitiesWhich have relapsed to chaos, here reposeAngelo’s Alfieris bones, and hisThe starry Galileo with his woes;Here Machiavelli’s earth returned to whence it rose.”

The tomb of Galileo calls for a passing remark, as he dared to contravert the old world notions of a central earth fixed in space, immovable with planets curling round it.  The church had stood by the old theory for ages.  If now they adopt Galileo’s theory, where is their infallibility.  And so ignorant monks shut him up in prison and burnt his books in the public market place, and led out this great philosopher in mockery before a gaping crowd, with a wax taper in his hand and a halter round his neck, and demanded he should recant his opinions.  Amidst the jeers of his friends and the awful threats of his enemies, he was induced to go through a certain form of recantation, in which he was required to declare “With a sincere heart and faith unfeigned, I abjure, curse and detest the said errors—I swear for the future never to say anything verbally, or in writing, which may cause to any further suspicion against me.”  Rising from his knees he whispered: “But it does move for all that.”

CHAPTER IX

Appalling catastrophe in Italy: Messina: Savonarola, the enthusiastic preacher: His defiance of the Pope: His excommunication: His cell, etc.: His martyrdom: Raphael, his genius as a painter: Some of his works: The old Protestant Cemetery: Our leaving Florence: Journey to Bologna and on to Venice.

While I am here writing of the beauties of Italy, its fertile plains, its sunny skies, its lovely lakes, its great works of art and its still greater artists, a newsboy is calling out in the streets: “Appalling catastrophe in Italy.”  An earthquake killing not thousands merely, but tens of thousands.  What! is that fair land devastated, and death swept by such a calamity?  Is it true that loveliness and danger lie so near together?  What! is there no spot on earth where we may be absolutely free from danger?  Here in lovely Messina and Reggio, I passed them on board the S.S. “Benares” about two years ago.  The sun shone brilliantly on the scene, a lovelier it would be difficult to describe.  On my left Messina, with its marble buildings glistening in the sun.  Temples and towers, churches and barracks, all giving signs of strength and beauty to the fair city; on our right Reggio, which appeared to be a city of great beauty and prosperity.  Mount Etna in the distance, slumbering for a time.  Stromboli as we passed was alive hurling up stones, fire and smoke.  Now the cities named are practically wiped out.  The Daily News, of December 31st, 1908, says: “Yesterday, the total of the dead was calculated as from fifty thousand to seventy-five thousand.  To-day it is two hundred thousand.  This morning’s news helps us to form a clearer idea of the awful scene as it occurred.  It was early morn just before daylight, and all the beautiful towns along the coast of these historic straits were still asleep.  Death came suddenly and unawares.  By five successive shocks, the cities were toppled down, and where they had stood great columns of dust were rising.  Men, women and children, soldiers in barracks, the sick in hospital and prisoners in gaol were killed together as they slept.  They died like ants in a blown up nest.”  A survivor from Messina says: “The town is nothing but a dust heap, even the railway station is swallowed up, the railwaymen are nearly all killed.”  Another says: “It is too horrible to describe.”  The Pope has shown the greatest anxiety; has even asked permission at the Quirinal to transmit massages to the suffering and the bereaved.  He also summoned to the Vatican the Director of the Bank of Rome and had with him some private conversation, and arranged for the sum of £40,000 to be sent at once.  Our own King Edward sent to the King of Italy messages of condolence and sympathy.  The navies and soldiers of England, France, Germany and others are giving assistance in extricating sufferers from the debris, and feeding the hungry, and erecting temporary shelters and generally doing all that can be done to mitigate the distress and grief and pain.  Money is being sent liberally by all the Christian nations at least.  So all feel as nations and as individuals that “One touch of sorrow makes the world akin.”  It is at such a time that the brotherhood of nations asserts itself.  All racial barriers are swept away in the face of such a terrible catastrophe.  The latest news is that no less than 220,000 have perished, as many inland towns have suffered most severely.  The cathedral and churches, with all their valuable works of art, have been totally destroyed.  Scenes simply indescribable are enacted and too sad to relate.  So we see the uncertainty of things that are on earth.

Notwithstanding the natural beauty of the surroundings, before we left the fair city of Florence, we must needs do a little shopping, and make some further investigations into the interests and associations of the place.  The convent of San Marco is a place worth a visit, and is open on receipt of a small fee or gratuity.  Here is the cell of Savonarola, in which he was confined before the martyrdom of flame.  Here is a fine portrait of the man who dared to face even death in his defence of the truth.  Here are some of his manuscripts, traced with his own pen.  Here are his tunic, girdle and crucifix, and even a charred piece of wood from the scene of his martyrdom.  Such sights fill the soul with thoughts of what men have endured to rescue the truth from Papal tyranny.  Of Savonarola it may be said, he was a great reformer, a religious enthusiast, and a martyr.  Born at Ferrara, in 1452, he early joined the religious order of Dominicans at Bologna.  At first his career as a preacher was not marked by any unusual event, nor did he meet with great success, but on his appointment to the Duomo, crowds came to listen to his preaching, and indeed so eloquent did he become and so effective that, at times, his discourses were interrupted by the masses of the people sobbing and crying in their pews.  He became so popular that the people pressed round him in the streets to kiss his garments.  He went forth like a flaming herald of the cross in defiance of pope, cardinal or priest.  It is stated that under his influence the morals of the city became purified.  The children were specially cared for, as many as 8,000 at one time were banded together in a sort of republic, and were called “the children of Christ.”  The Pope did his very best to suppress this holy work, but it was useless to try to stop so God inspired a man as Savonarola.  When this was ineffectual, they said make him a Cardinal; give him a red hat, so make of him a friend.  He answered from the pulpit of St. Mark’s: “I will have no other red hat than that of martyrdom, coloured with my own blood.”  Then he was summoned to appear in Rome.  This, however, he refused to do.  Then came the ban of excommunication, but this brought with it no terrors.  His answer to it is: “he who commands a thing contrary to the law of Christ, is himself excommunicated.”  “I may have failed in many things, for I am a sinner, but I have not shunned to declare the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  They threaten to burn me or fling me into the Arno, that gives me no concern.”  Ultimately he was arrested and charged with impiety and sedition, of these, however, there was no proof shown, until a certain man named Ser Cocone presented a forged document, and our hero was condemned to be burned.  And on May 23rd, 1498, this noble saint of God passed away.  Three platforms were erected in front of the palace; Savonarola was taken up to the central one, clad in his priestly robes.  Then piece by piece the Bishop removed his vestments in the presence of the multitude, and pronounced the degradation.  “I separate thee from the church militant and from the church triumphant.”  “Nay,” said the bold and daring saint, “from the church militant, if you please, but not from the church triumphant, that is more than you can do.”  He then mounted the pile and gave utterance to the following sentence; “Oh! Florence, what hast thou done this day.”  Soon there was nothing left but the ashes of Savonarola.  His spirit leapt into the chariot of fire, and he was with the martyr throng before the Throne.  By order of the Commune, his ashes were thrown into the river Arno, so that no relic could be found of the patriot and martyr.

We could hardly leave Florence without giving some reference to Raphael, one of our world’s greatest painters.  Though not born in Florence, he spent a good deal of his life in the city.  His education in the art was completed in Florence.  He was born in the year 1483.  Michael Angelo was to him an attraction and an inspiration.  It is said that so fine was his genius, that in his time of tuition he could surpass his tutors.  His most famous pictures are “Christ in the attitude of prayer on the Mount of Olives,” and “St. Michael and St. George,” which are now in the Louvre, at Paris.  The Pope gave him a grand reception on his entering Rome; and, while there, he executed some very fine pieces for his Holiness, which so pleased him that he ordered Raphael to give him other proofs of his artistic skill.  He then painted on the Vatican walls figures of “Poetry,” “Theology,” “Justice,” and “Philosophy”; also “The fall of Adam,” “Astronomy,” “Apollo,” and “Philosophy.”  On another wall he painted “Fortitude,” “Prudence,” “Temperance”; and on another place “The Emperor Justinian delivering the Roman law,” “Peter’s deliverance from prison,” “Moses viewing the burning bush,” “Jacob’s dream,” etc.  It is said he turned the Vatican into a picture gallery.  His pictures are in many countries and in many cities.  He died at the early age of thirty-seven, on the same date he was born, and his body was conveyed to the Pantheon, in Rome, where it now rests.  It is said of him, he was most affable, kind, and generous to a fault.  He had an open manly countenance which inspired all who met him.  Florence, fair city, must be credited with the training and making of this bright gem of the painter’s art.  Indeed, this city has given to the world some of the finest men of mind and soul the world has ever known.  We felt proud to walk its streets and to know we were on ground that should be reverenced for the purity and greatness of the lives of the men we have referred to.  We could not readily say good-bye, but time presses, and after a visit to the old Protestant Cemetery outside the Porta Pinta, which to Britishers is hallowed ground, as there are here the graves of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the poetess to whom we have already referred our readers; also “Theodore Parker,” and “Arthur Hugh Clough.”  This “city of the dead” was closed in 1870, and a new cemetery has been opened for Protestants about a mile outside the city.  To try to describe the beauties of all the suburbs of Florence would require an abler pen than mine.  So we must close our account at the “Minerva,” take our last night’s repose and leave for Venice.

We rose early in order to have a full day of interest and experiences.  We left this lovely place in the forenoon, and as our train was about to leave, a lady traveller who spoke good English boarded the train and entered our compartment.  We soon became friendly and familiar.  She spoke our language, she was of a kindred spirit, though not from England, she was of English stock and we soon discovered she came from Dunedin, New Zealand (Miss M. Himmel).  She had visited Balmoral Castle in Scotland, and the Trossachs, Inverness, Glasgow and Edinburgh.  Also Dublin in Ireland, The Giants’ Causeway, Bantry Bay and the lovely Lakes of Killarney.  She spent three months in our great city of London, and visited every important church, museum, picture gallery, etc.  Also Norway with its weird and awe-inspiring scenery.  Rome with its telling old world stories in stone, marble and bronze.  Naples, Milan, Venice, Florence, Frankfort-on-the-Rhine, Bingen, Berlin, and to Cologne.  Then to Paris, the gay city of France, to see its Notre Dame, its fine Boulevards, etc.  Two weeks’ sight seeing in Paris.  Then to London and next Liverpool.  Then for Dunedin, New Zealand and home.  We found her well read and of wide experience, a lady both in manners, education, and by birth.  We could exchange ideas and enjoy each others company as the train sped on towards Venice.  The railway intersects a rich tract of land at the base of the Apennines.  On our right the picturesque castle of Monte Mario, near which, we learned, at one time, the Florentine Republicans with their troops were defeated and taken prisoners by the troops of Cosino, in the year 1537.  We soon found out our train was climbing, by the speed she made, up the great Etruscan Apennines we mount, now through a tunnel, then across a fine aqueduct.  Again and again this occurred, while the sides of the vast mountain ranges, we noticed, were covered with trees—pines, poplars, chestnuts, olive, fig, mulberry, and others.  The plains of Tuscany, which were now below us, are reputed to be the richest in Europe.  Wheat is largely cultivated.  Rice is also sown in considerable quantities, and is used by the peasant for food.  The use of buffaloes as beasts for farm use are common.  No less than 3,000 are in constant use on the farms and vineyards of Tuscany.  We saw waggons drawn by six buffaloes frequently.  The grapes of the neighbourhood, through which we were passing are said to be of an exceptional quality.  As we passed villages on the slopes of the hills, we saw the natives in their simplicity of dress and manner, at work and at home.  At every gate where there was a crossing of the railway there was a woman, mostly aged, with a horn to warn travellers of the approaching train.  Reaching a wayside station our train stopped, and I noticed on the platform an Italian girl with a rude simple table or stall on which were large bunches of grapes, I presumed for sale, so I alighted from the train and seized two bunches about one pound each.  As I could not speak to her in her language, I took some change from my pocket and offered her the cost, so she took what she wished.  She took twenty centimes, that is the value of twopence, so cheap are grapes in Italy.  At this station an Italian lady, and evidently two daughters, came into our compartment with a little fancy dog, which one of the daughters carefully nursed.  They brought with them one or two large baskets.  In a little while one of them took from a basket a very fine roast chicken, from which she began to feed the dog with the nicest pieces off the breast.  When the animal was satisfied they spread napkins on their knees, and evidently enjoyed the rest of the fowl.  Some rolls and butter and grapes for dessert, and also some bottles of wine were produced from the baskets.  Later, as we needed refreshments, we had to be satisfied with a few sandwiches, but the ladies seeing we had no napkins, at once offered theirs, and, indeed, spread them over our knees, with the greatest delicacy and politeness.  Then they offered us, and pressed us, though in a language we did not understand, to have grapes and wine with them.  Their kindness and manner of giving expression to it touched us very much.  They left us as we arrived at Bologna station, but our friend Miss Himmel, however, remained with us.  We did not stay long enough to look over the town, but from its appearance it is a large and prosperous city, having a population of about 100,000.  The cathedral is one of very great antiquity and importance.  There are 130 Roman Catholic Churches and twenty monasteries in this city.  There is a very fine Piazza or Square, called Victor Immanuel Square, in which is a fine bronze statue of Pope Gregory XIX.  St. Petronio is the largest church in the town, in the Gothic style.  Over the principal entrance is a bronze statue of Pope Julius II., with the keys and a sword in his hand, by Michael Angelo.  We left Bologna after a short time of waiting, and were soon speeding through lovely and fertile tracts of country.  The Adriatic on our right, not near enough to see, but the air seemed impregnated with its ozone.  Our approach to Venice became apparent as we crossed the lagoons with a roar and a rattle, the numerous arches (miles of them) told us we were near the city.

CHAPTER X

Arrival at Venice: The ubiquitous Gondola: The Grand Canal: The curious water ways: Our Hotel: A snap shot of a Gondola and its freight: St. Mark’s Cathedral: Its curious history: Its wonderful Tower, and its interior adornments.

I think it was the most thrilling moment of our tour, as our train left Mestra, and almost immediately we began crossing the long bridge (two-and-a-half miles long) which crosses the lagoon, we seem to be travelling right into the sea, the gentle ripple of the watery waves by moonlight as they extend on either side of the line, has a pleasing effect.  The peculiar smell of the seaweed is strong in the air, and right ahead is Venice, of which some poet has sung:

“There is a glorious city in the sea,The sea is in the broad, the narrow streetsEbbing and flowing, and the salt seaweedClings to the marble of her palaces.No track of men, no footsteps to and froLead to her gates! the path lies o’er the sea,Invisible: And from the land we wentAs to a floating city—steering in,And gliding up her streets as in a dream,So smoothly, silently—by many a domeMosque-like, and many a stately porticoThe statues ranged along an azure sky,By many a pile, in more than Eastern pride,Of old the residence of merchant kings;The fronts of some, tho’ time hath shattered them,Still glowing with the richest hues of art,As though the wealth within them had run o’er.”

Our arrival at Venice was about eight o’clock in the evening, surely no time so fitting to be introduced to the fair Queen of the Adriatic.  From the busy, bustling railway station we were concluded by a Fakena, who brought up our luggage to a gondola lying in the shimmering sea just outside.  No cabs or ’bus as at other stations, the gondola seemed to be everywhere.  As we stepped into our new found equipage we were entranced, imagination fails to picture a sight so bewitching.  Lights in a thousand directions, gondolas passing and repassing as we sweep through the principal waterway, then turn sharp round a corner as our gondolier cries: “Stali priene gai e” as he passes others with most wonderful precision.  We were thus conveyed to the door of the Grand Hotel Victoria, where for a short time we were to make our home.  We found the house all we could desire, warm, clean sweet, and fitted up almost luxuriantly.  To bed and a rest, and oh! how sweet after toil and travel.  We were awake and out early to see the sights of this unique city.  We opened our eyes on a lovely picture, soft, dreamy, beautiful.  The water, dotted over in all directions, with this strange craft.  It seems this is the only means of locomotion.  No cabs, omnibuses, carts, or even a barrow.  There is no animal in Venice larger than a dog.  Here the universal bike cometh not.  The fashionable or unfashionable motor neither puffs nor smells.  The train must not approach nearer than the head of the Grand Canal.  A horse would be as great a novelty in Venice, I should think, as a ship in full sail would be in Wheeler Gate, Nottingham.  Right from the water’s edge at our hotel door, we could see gondolas gliding swiftly hither and thither.  In Byron’s “Beppo” we find the following lines:

“Did’st ever see a Gondola; for fear you should notI’ll describe it exactly,’Tis a long covered boat common here,Carved at the prow, built lightly but compactly,Rowed by two rowers, each called gondolier;It glides along the water looking blackly,Just like a coffin clapt in a canal,Where none can make out what you say or do.”

Appearing suddenly, through unsuspected gateways and alleys, yonder, we see vast bridges and stately palaces of marble throw their shadows athwart the glittering waves.  There seems life and motion everywhere, and yet there is no noise.  There seems a hush as if suggestive of secret enterprise, of mysterious shadows, of the departed greatness of this still great city.  Old Petrarch might well exclaim: “I know not that the world hath the equal of this place.”

Standing at our hotel door, the gondolier waiting for my wife and our friend Miss Himmel, I ventured (after they had seated themselves) to take a snap with my camera to secure some little permanent reminder of the curiosity of this manner of travel.  The gondola is a most handy and quick means of getting about.  We were out in the Grand Canal, and the sight was, to say the least, most interesting.  Here is a party of young ladies and gentlemen, with their gondola decorated with ribbons in various colours, and with them, evidently, an opera or chorus party, with their guitar, and some other peculiar instruments of music, but sweet as the evening zephyrs, as the sounds floated over the silvery sea.  The gondolas are all black, why?  I am unable to say; but I don’t think I saw one either brown or red, or green or white, simply painted black.  The stern of the boat is usually decorated with a kind of matting or carpet, at its prow the gondolier stands, he has only a single oar.  A long bladed oar, so he stands erect.  How he can scull ahead at such a speed is a mystery, and at once pull back when there is danger.  He seems to make all his calculations with the greatest precision, he never makes a mistake.  Mark Twain says: “The gondolier is a picturesque rascal for all he wears no satin harness, no plumed bonnet, no silken tights.  His attitude is stately, he is lithe and supple; all his movements are full of grace.”