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.