From the Thames to the Tiber Part 3

As we proceeded northward, we noticed the country became more undulating and richer in fruits and flowers. The season for the grapes being ripe was just on, and we noticed as we journeyed, on all sides, grape vines; there seemed to be miles of them, and still, as we hurried along, more vineyards. Oxen in wagons in the rows of vines, were being loaded with the luscious fruit. Six white oxen in each wagon mostly. The husband, wife and children, all seemed to be engaged in plucking and loading the fruit. We pa.s.sed scores of miles of vineyards of this sort. We stopped at a station called Cartona. I saw a typical Italian girl with a grape stall on the platform. I alighted and selected two large bunches of beautiful ripe grapes, and as I could not ask the price, not speaking Italian, I held out my hand with a number of coins of various value for her to take the cost of the grapes. She selected twenty centimes, that is about twopence in English money; so very cheap are grapes. The country is a lovely country and rich beyond compare. Our train, we could perceive at times, was climbing, so slow was the speed, but as we got higher the scene became more lovely; the Italian lakes in the distance; the towns with the usual Duomo or Church always noticeable.

[Picture: Team of oxen in Tuscany]

At every road crossing we noticed an Italian woman, usually aged, sat at the gate crossing, with horn in hand ready to give warning of an approaching train. About four o'clock in the afternoon we came in sight of Florence. The first view was entrancing. The city lies in a hollow, the surrounding hillsides are, here and there, dotted over with castles and mansions, each in their own lovely and extensive grounds. They were mostly of white marble. The river Arno runs through the city. Florence is essentially a city of flowers, as its name indicates. All around for miles castles, mansions, villas, gardens and shady nooks fill the soul with a consciousness that Nature here has bestowed her gifts of beauty in no stinted degree. Florence has been called, and I think very aptly, the Athens of Italy. This city possesses the memories of some of the world's greatest men, "the priceless heirlooms of a glorious past." Here the peerless bard, "Dante" sang his deathless song and made his lovely Beatrice immortal. Was it not from these very hills and fields on which we were gazing, that Galileo every night scanned the heavens to compel the distant orbs to reveal their secrets?

Here we see her peerless domes and towers rise in all their stately grandeur beneath a lovely Italian sky. We are now at the station.

Alighting, we soon found the 'bus for "Hotel Minerva" (this we had selected before hand) so were soon once more settled for a little while.

Our hotel was very comfortable, and we found mine host most gracious, and evidently most desirous to satisfy us, and so keep our patronage as long as possible. The rooms were lofty and furnished with taste, dinner served in good style, which included everything we could wish for. A look round the city for a little while, was our first thought, so out we went into the great open square, facing which is the Duomo or Cathedral Maria del Fiore, so called from the lily which figures in the arms of Florence. This vast pile of buildings was begun in the year 1298, and finished in the year 1462. It is stated it was built on the foundations of an earlier church. It is a grand example of the Gothic art. The length of the building is 185 yards, and its width, 114 yards. The dome is 300 feet high, and with the lantern 352 feet. On the 8th of September, 1298, a representative of Pope Boniface VIII. blessed the foundations of this new grand temple in the presence of the "Gonfaloniere Borgo," many bishops, "the chapter," all the Florentine clergy, the captains of the arts, and the magnificent and sublime "Signori of the Republic," as they were called. The words with which the community gave charge of this sumptuous building were, literally translated, "to make it so magnificent and so sublime that it would be impossible that it should be surpa.s.sed." And it seemed to us that for size and strength and adornments, few can compare with it. Many vicissitudes occurred during the building-wars, deaths of architects, etc.-till in the year 1492 it was something like a completed building. In April, 1860, King Victor Emmanuel laid the foundation of a new facade, which was to replace one taken away, as the design was considered unsuitable. Above the south door is a Madonna between two angels. Inside we were struck with its ma.s.siveness, more than with its decorations. On the right there is a fine equestrian statue of John Hawkswood, of date 1384, an English soldier of fortune, who had served the Republic with unswerving fidelity.

Over the portico is a fine picture of the Virgin Mary in mosaic. On the right side are some fine marble figures of great men of ancient dates.

In the east nave are fine statues of St. John and St. Peter; a fine stained-gla.s.s window with most attractive and telling designs. Inside the great dome is a very peculiar, very grotesque frieze, by a great painter named Vasari, depicting the flames of h.e.l.l and awful monsters around them. Also the heaven of delight and bliss.

Near the Cathedral is the wonderful Campagna or tower, which visitors through centuries have visited and admired. A distinguished visitor once said, "The Florentines should enclose this tower in a gla.s.s case, and only let it be on exhibition during the great festivals." It is solid and strong, though it rises to the height of 292 feet. It has four stories, the lower ones are richly fixed with variegated marble, and covered almost with statues of ill.u.s.trious men. A view of this tower from a distance is very fine. We had seen nothing like it before in all our travels on the continent.

CHAPTER VIII.

Florence: Michael Angelo's House: Baptistry of St. John: The Uffizi Gallery: The Tribune: A drive to the suburbs: Dante's House: Dante's Poems: The Gardens: Mrs. Browning's description of Vallambrosa: Michael Angelo's work: Galileo, his trial, etc.

As we had little time for visiting other places of interest, the day being now far advanced, we determined to give our minds and bodies a rest. So we entered a cafe for refreshment, we found them exceedingly clean and most obliging; we took what refreshment we needed, then went for a stroll on the streets to see the shops, and we found the city has some fine streets and shops of almost every kind. The city has a population of about 200,000. We were reminded frequently of some of the worthies of the city in sculpture or in painting. Michael Angelo, though not born in Florence, spent a great deal of his life here, and here some of his finest works were completed, and in Florence he died and was buried. At the corner of the Via Buonarotti stands the house in which he lived. It is now (like the house of the immortal Shakespeare) a museum given to the city.

"Farewell," said Michael Angelo, on setting out for where he was to undertake the finishing of the great St. Peter's, in Rome. "Farewell, I go to try to make thy sister, but I cannot hope to make thy equal."

About the old Baptistry of St. John, to which, we are told, all the children of the city are taken to be christened, there are two bronze gates at which a famous workman was employed forty years. Michael Angelo declared "these gates were worthy to be the gates of Paradise."

1st design. The creation of man.

2nd ,, Expulsion of our first parents from the Garden of Eden.

3rd ,, Noah after the deluge.

4th ,, Abraham on Mount Moriah.

5th ,, Esau selling his birthright.

6th ,, Joseph and his brethren, and the law given on Sinai.

7th ,, The walls of Jericho.

8th ,, The battle with the Ammonites.

9th ,, Queen of Sheba in Solomon's palace.

I believe there is a cast of these gates exhibited at the South Kensington Museum.

The Uffizi Gallery or museum or both, where I should think may be found the most wonderful collection of art to be found in the world. Even in Rome we had seen nothing to equal it. It contains over 13,000 paintings.

Cameos and original designs without number. There are long corridors where statues of celebrated Tuscans fill the niches. There is sculptured marble, or painted canvas, of all imaginable beings in heaven or on earth. Emperors and kings, saintly Madonnas, angels, G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, muses and nymphs; all may be found in this marvellous collection. And on the ceiling are frescoes setting forth the annals of Florence. In one of the halls stands a painting of Niobe with her sons and daughters clinging around her, victims of the cruel vengeance of Diana and Apollo. In another room are some angels surrounding a Madonna, making a lovely picture. There is a gallery in which are paintings of the painters of all nations, painted by themselves. Vandyck, with his clear blue eye, long hair and fair countenance; Raphael, looking sad and gentle and very sallow; Michael Angelo, simple yet sublime, he is in his dressing gown.

We were simply surrounded and bewildered by the fascinating sights on every hand. There are cabinets also, containing rare gems, cameos and bronzes of all sizes and shapes. The Tribune also demands notice, as it contains vast ma.s.ses of valuable treasures. One room is paved with the most costly marble. There are five masterpieces of antiquity. In the centre stands the Venus de Medicis, serene, pure, delicate, and perfectly lovely; another, the Dancing Fawn; another, "Apollino," "The Wrestlers,"

and the "Grinder." There is also here, one of the finest and best of Raphael's paintings, "The Glorious Madonna." Two others by t.i.tian. We soon became exhausted and weary, so we left the entrancing scenes for another day. To our hotel was but the work of ten minutes; safely housed. Table-de-hote dinner, to write up our diaries, to commend our lives and our loved ones to the care of our Heavenly Father, we slept.

During the night there was a severe thunder storm, the lightning played round our hotel, lighting up the great square in front, but so far as we know, no damage was done. We rose in health, refreshed and ready for a good breakfast; this, the Italians know how to provide. Their coffee is the best I have ever tasted. Fish, eggs, cold meats and fruits in abundance. We made a fine breakfast, and after writing some letters and post cards we ventured out, this time for a drive to the suburbs. I soon found carriage and driver and made terms.

[Picture: Mrs. Wardle near The Duomo, Florence]

Before starting, however, I took a snapshot of my wife in the carriage, with the archway or part of the facade of the Duomo for background. We pa.s.sed through the princ.i.p.al parts of the city, and our driver pointed out the house, still standing, where Dante, the greatest of all the great poets of Italy, was born. It is very near to the church of Santa Croce, a very old building, but in its vicinity lies the dust of some of Italy's n.o.blest sons. Near here in the year 1865, on the 5th day of May, a vast concourse of people a.s.sembled to see the unveiling of a statue of Dante.

It is 19 feet in height, and it is mounted on a pedestal 23 feet in height. This was the six hundredth anniversary of the poet's birthday.

Dante was not buried here, but at Ravenna, where he died in exile away from the city he loved so much. In the "Sheep-fold of St. John" as he called it. His life was full of strange vicissitudes, apparently more of cloud and storm than of sunshine. His father was in the legal profession, and this, Dante adopted, and studied very successfully at several schools in Italy and Germany. At an early age he fell madly in love with one, Beatrice, but she married another man, and left him with a great sore in his heart. He was called to bear arms against Ariezo and Pisa, where he served with great a.s.siduity. He afterwards married, but not happily, at the age of 28. He had a family, however, and his first-born being a girl, he called her Beatrice, after his first love. A civil war had been brewing for some time. Again Dante took the field, this time, unfortunately, on the weaker side, and a revolutionary government being formed, he, with other ringleaders who wished to resist the extreme pretensions of the Pope, were sentenced to be burned alive.

He, however, managed to escape into Germany, where he wandered about from place to place, finding no settled residence, and desiring to return to his native city, but this was denied him. He died, as we have seen, in Ravenna. His daughter Beatrice was a nun in one of the convents, but to do some tardy justice to the n.o.ble bard, a sum of money was raised for her own special use. I can hardly leave this interesting subject without a pa.s.sing reference to his poems, as are now princ.i.p.ally read. The volume I refer to includes the "Inferno," "The Purgatorio," and "The Paradiso." It is here surmised that Virgil and St. Bernard conduct Dante through these divisions of the universal world, to help him to write something that would show up the source of Italy's ruin. The poem is a fine allegory, showing, as it does in the first part, a Panther, representing Florence or envy; a Lion, France or ambition; a She-Wolf, the Court of Rome or avarice; a Greyhound, Our Saviour or His vicegerent the Pope; Virgil, human wisdom; and Beatrice, heavenly wisdom. His representation of h.e.l.l as a dark valley, at the mouth of which is Limbo, and which are nine circles indicating nine different degrees of sin to be punished. The wise and good even are represented as lying in tears and sorrow, because they were not baptized. Purgatory is a step hill in the hemisphere opposite h.e.l.l. Seven rounds have to be climbed before the seven stains of sin are washed away. At the top is the Garden of Eden.

It is most interesting to follow Dante, as he ascends with his beloved Beatrice to Paradise, through the various heavens of the moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, the Sun, Jupiter, etc. The eighth heaven contains the triumph of Christ; and the Virgin Mary and Adam he makes to dwell there also. In the ninth heaven is a manifestation of the Divine Essence, viewed by three hierarchies of Angels. While these poems are allegorical, they are full of interest and show that Dante was greatly moved and influenced by "the things that are unseen which are eternal."

In his youthful days he paced the fields and groves of lovely Italy, writing sonnets to his beloved Beatrice. In his later years he had to eat the bread of bitterness, being an outcast from his friends and from the city he loved. The world, however, has been enriched by his poverty.

A sight of the place where he was born has suggested to us this commentary. We left the place not without reflection upon the immutability of things that are earthly. From here our driver took us towards the lovely gardens across the river Arno, the gardens of Boboli; these are open to the public Thursday and Sunday. Approaching the bridge which spans this lovely river, we were struck with its ma.s.siveness as well as its beauty. It is called the Jewellers' Bridge, as jewellers'

shops line the bridge on each side fully, except a very small break in the middle through which you get a very nice view of the river as it rolls along. A bridge further on is adorned with statues, and is considered the most beautiful of the seven that cross the Arno. When over the bridge the road is very steep; our driver left his box to give the horse the benefit. Now we seem getting into the suburbs, the road is lined with trees of all sorts; the acacia, the box, the walnut, the maple, the olive and many others, I do not think I could tell the names of them all. Up and up we went, in a semicircular fashion, until we gained the summit. When we had gone through the gate into the garden, the view was simply entrancing. Florence, with its towers and spires and domes, lay like a fine panorama at our feet, and the river gliding gently through the city. The villages in the distances nestling amidst luxuriant foliage of trees and plants. The gardens around us full of beauty, adorned with statuary, and a profusion of moss and creeper and colour of flowers, we may never see again. Just across the river, we could see the tower of Galileo, where the great astronomer nightly watched the stars, or

"Moon, whose orb Through optic gla.s.s 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."

[Picture: Dante And Beatrice, Florence]

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 place Of carriages abrim with Florence beauties, Who lean and meet to music as the band plays, Or smile and chat with some one who afoot is Or 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 here In 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 brooks In Vallambrosa's, where oh! Etrurian shades High 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 pa.s.sed 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 saw Came forth a statue, living and divine.

An artist stood and gazed on fallen man: He to the soul, what to the marble rough Was Angels, he saw and sinful man A seraphs form. He wrought, and forth there came Manhood divine-the lifeless took on life, Oh! for the artist's eye! In every man G.o.d's image dwells, and he who sees the Christ Sees G.o.d in man restored, and with him seeks to bring His thoughts to life in saving men."

A poet has written:

"In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality.

Though there were nothing save the past, and this The particles of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos, here repose Angelo's Alfieris bones, and his The starry Galileo with his woes; Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose."

The tomb of Galileo calls for a pa.s.sing remark, as he dared to contravert the old world notions of a central earth fixed in s.p.a.ce, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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.