Floods in France--London--Back to the South--Marseilles--Italian Emigrant
passengers--A death on board--French _impolitesse_--Italian coast scenery
at dawn--Unlimited palaver--Arrival in Leghorn--The _Lepanto_--Departure
--"Fair Florence"--The Arno--Streets--Palaces--San Miniato--The grand
Duomo--The Baptistery--Ghiberti's Bronze Gates.
We had a very rough passage to Marseilles, and arrived five hours after
time. I only stopped here one night, and hurried on through Paris to
London. The lowlands of France were still under water, and the weather
in England much the same as when I left it six weeks ago. After a
sojourn of some weeks--
"In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow
At once is deaf and loud,"
during which time the weather continued anything but agreeable, with
bitterly cold winds and frequent rain, I started for the south once
more, having arranged to meet my wife at Leghorn. I had hoped that Malta
would have been mild and pleasant at this time of the year, but, as in
most other places, the disastrous floods and phenomenal weather
generally of 1882 had extended to March, 1883, even here, and she was
not particularly sorry to leave the island, hoping to find an
improvement in the climate on a second trip into Italy.
Crossing the Channel in fairly smooth water and with a clean sky, I
began to hope a favourable change had really set in at last. Paris was
very bright and pleasant. A political demonstration was expected here on
the Sunday following the day of my arrival; but this was the greater
reason for my hurrying away on the morning of that day, March 18th. It
opened bright and frosty. The usual tedious journey of fifteen hours to
Marseilles was quite pleasant, and without event. I was glad to hear
that the day had passed over peaceably at Paris.
At Marseilles it was warm and sunny; and on Monday I embarked on board
the Transatlantic steamer for Genoa. Knowing the little sympathy and
friendly feeling there is on board French vessels for the English, I was
glad to find two or three of my countrymen among the saloon passengers.
The time of sailing arrived, but there was no sign of our leaving, and
at last I found we were waiting for some three or four hundred Italian
returning emigrants, whose vessel had come from the Brazils, and which
was not yet released from quarantine. This prospect of waiting for some
three or four hundred poor, dirty, sickly emigrants was not very lively,
and this was rather disappointing, as it would probably interfere with
my arrival at Leghorn at the time arranged. However, some four or five
hours later their vessel came into the harbour, and they were brought
alongside in several large barges--men, women, and children, with all
their worldly goods, most of them returning poorer than when they had
left their native land. They had a medley of souvenirs with them,
parrots and other birds, and all kinds of gay garments--those
land-sharks the Jews not even sparing these poor, pitiful emigrants, but
doing their best to make them part with their little store of
hard-earned savings, by offering them these gaudy articles of apparel,
to cover or replace their own poor warm clothing. The long sea-voyage
from the Brazils must have been very trying to these forlorn creatures,
whose hopeless condition it was impossible to avoid sympathizing with
and pitying. They appeared most eager to reach the shores of their own
dear Italy once more--a fond hope and dream in foreign lands, now almost
realized.
There was one poor old man, upwards of seventy years of age, who sat
very still during all the exciting confusion of getting on board the
steamer. He looked very ill, and I felt quite grateful to the fine,
robust young man (whom I afterwards discovered was a perfect stranger to
him) who most kindly took charge of him, and assisted him to climb the
ship's ladder, which seemed to give him intense pain--indeed, he
appeared scarcely able to move for agony. That night, while we were
steaming away over the moonlit sea towards his native land, the poor old
man entered on his long rest in a happier home above.
The rest of the emigrants seemed happy enough, though herding together
like sheep--men, women, and children lying about the deck asleep. I
thought it would have been as well to have separated them, and made the
men strip, and given them the hose of cold water in the early morning,
for they had evidently not removed their soiled and tattered garments
for weeks; but probably the water would have proved too cold. I was the
more fully convinced of the necessity of this cleansing process when,
tired of the crowded confinement of the deck-space allotted to them,
these poor emigrants gradually encroached on the precincts of the
saloon, and a certain painful irritation of the skin unpleasantly
reminded me of the fact. It was a pleasant sight, however, to see them
enjoying their hot coffee and biscuits after their night's rest, and a
more substantial breakfast later on in the forenoon. They were certainly
well fed while on board.
We had a tolerably fair passage, which was fortunate, as I believe it
would have been next door to impossible to have had proper control over
our motley crew of passengers if any danger had arisen; moreover, the
boats would have been utterly insufficient. Yet, although so fine, most
of the passengers were obliged to leave the dinner-table, and return to
their cabins. I was then a witness to the ill feeling of the French
towards us, as adduced by their selfish neglect of my two English
fellow-travellers; the doctor paid not the slightest attention to them,
though it was clearly his duty to do so. I was glad, therefore, to be
able to do what I could for them, and ordered one or two tempting things
from the dinner-table to be set aside for them, which I afterwards took
to them myself, incurring thereby the decided disfavour of the French
officers, who churlishly resented what they considered my interference.
Possibly it might have been against the rules of the vessel; still, I
felt it to be only a simple and natural act of humanity towards my sick
countrymen, since no one else appeared willing to trouble themselves in
their behalf.
It was a lovely moonlight night as we coasted along the shore, and I
walked the deck till long past midnight.
The next morning I was up at six, and awoke my companions, that they
might share with me the beauty of the coast scenery, which we were
passing in the early daylight:
"'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes
Are floating o'er Italian skies;
Tints of transparent lustre shine
Along the snow-clad Apennine."
It was all we could desire--a glorious sun, clear atmosphere, and
genial, bracing air. How fair is Nature at this hour! "One drinks in the
air by long draughts; the eyes seem to be intoxicated with the sun, the
very soul to bathe in the glory of colour!"
Meanwhile, we have passed Fréjus, Nice, Villafranca, Antibes,--the old
castle at Mentone projecting out into the sea; and now lovely Monte
Carlo and Monaco are in view, nestling amidst terraces of orange and
olive trees,--graceful palms lifting their heads here and there to the
blue sky. Then a sterner and more imposing series of views, the
coast-line more rugged and broken, as we gradually near the mountain
ranges of the Alps and the Apennines, and approach the harbour of that
magnificent city unrivalled indeed in the commanding grandeur of its
situation--"Genova la Superba." I now quite realized that this glorious
coast scenery must be seen from the sea, to understand and appreciate
its special beauties.
As I had anticipated, the fussy and over-punctilious Italian sanitary
officers demurred at admitting us to Pratique, and were about to put us
in quarantine on account of the death of the poor emigrant, though it
was clearly evidenced that he died from some organic disease. The poor
emigrants were longing to get on shore and seek their homes once more,
and I was most anxious to catch the train to Leghorn, to receive my wife
on her arrival from Malta. Still, officer after officer came on board,
and it was useless to chafe with impatience; they persisted in going
through the whole of their tiresome, circumlocutory inquiries, and
having their talk out: this aggravating palaver evidently being extended
to magnify their office.
At last they came to the conclusion that we were entitled to a clean
bill of health, and released us. I hurried on shore, and arrived at the
station just ten minutes after my train had started. This was most
provoking, but fortunately I found a little steamer of the Rubatino
line, going to Leghorn that night, and at once engaged a passage in her.
I found another Englishman on board, and as the little vessel rolled
about in the trough of the sea, and there was therefore evidently little
sleep to be got in our small cabins, we did our best to walk the deck
till midnight; and then, with a "_Good night_," crawled into the
confined cabins allotted to us, exercising, of course, the full
privileges of Englishmen in a growl at the scanty accommodation.
Arriving at Leghorn the next morning at six, I found myself in rather an
anxious predicament, for, having _planned_ to arrive at Leghorn before
my wife, I had not named any special hotel for our meeting; but owing to
my having missed the train at Genoa, she had arrived before me, and
where she had gone I knew not. However, trusting to her good sense and
courage, I began my search with a light heart; and, after two
unsuccessful attempts, was rejoiced to find her all safe. Like myself,
she had experienced rather rough weather on her passage from Malta; but
had appreciated the little breaks in the voyage afforded by the vessel
stopping at Catania, Messina, and Naples.
On exploring the town a little after breakfast, we caught a glimpse of
the great ironclad _Lepanto_, which the Italians had just launched, and
a great unwieldy monster she looked.
Leghorn is a dead and alive sort of place, and we had no inclination to
remain there; so took the 10.45 train to Florence, at which city we
arrived safely in the evening, and proceeded at once to the Hotel de
Russie.
I had always had a great longing to see Florence, the home of Italian
genius:
"Florence! beneath the sun,
Of cities fairest one."
Rain had fallen pretty freely here as elsewhere, and for the first few
days we had to take advantage of every gleam of sunshine to obtain an
outing.
Florence is divided into two parts by the Arno; the northern side is the
oldest part, and contains the best hotels and restaurants. From one
window we saw the yellow river rushing tumultuously over the artificial
weirs that are built to prevent its unhealthy stagnation. Across this
_unpoetical_ river are several stone bridges; the central one, which is
something like old London Bridge, is almost covered with houses, chiefly
small jewellers'. Artists consider that this adds to the picturesqueness
of the river, but I would have preferred a clear view up to the
mountains at its head. It is a very interesting city, with its narrow
streets, quaint buildings, piazzas, and monuments of ancient glory.
There are two or three rather fine streets leading from the railway
station, and culminating in the Cathedral Piazza. These contain several
noble palatial residences of the ancient nobility, massively built of
great rough-hewn stones, attached to which are large iron rings with
holders for torches, and at the corners antique iron frames to hold
lanterns, showing how the city was lighted in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. It was curious to notice the great overhanging
roofs, probably intended to give shade to the passers-by. As at Genoa,
these buildings usually have the coronet and arms of their noble owners
over the porch. The principal streets are sufficiently wide to allow of
two carriages passing, and yet leave room for pedestrians; but, properly
speaking, there are few regular foot-pavements. The shops are all one
can wish, the _cafés_ and restaurants being particularly conspicuous.
Crossing the river to the south side by one of the suspension bridges,
we had some very pretty peeps at the valley; then, mounting up to the
well-planned and finely terraced Boboli Gardens, and up to the
interesting church and cemetery of San Miniato, we obtained magnificent
views of the whole city, and the beautiful valley and plains in which it
reposes. The interior of San Miniato is now used as a kind of Campo
Santo, and has frescoed walls and an exquisitely wrought screen and
pulpit; there are also several paintings attributed to Spinello Aretino.
The Cathedral is of course the centre of life, as in all Italian cities,
and this reminds me of a beautiful thought in reference to this grand
and splendid duomo of Florence: "It was designed by the Republic to be
the largest and most sumptuous building that could be invented, in order
that it might correspond with a very great heart--because originated in
the mind of most of the citizens united together in one will." This was
indeed a noble and Christian sentiment!
It is in the Italian-Gothic style--a great casket of black and white
marble, beautified by many exquisite traceries and statues. The noble
dome is finely proportioned, but looks almost small amidst the great
pile of buildings around it, and by the graceful square Campanile rising
proudly beside it. The porches have arches most curiously but daintily
traced and twisted, the outline of the building putting one in mind of
some exquisite Indian work of ivory, inlaid with silver. Altogether it
is a strikingly handsome Duomo, and when the façade is completed, I
doubt if there is another in Italy of the kind to compare with it,
always excepting the beautiful and unique St. Mark's at Venice. It is,
however, somewhat too closely surrounded by shops and other buildings.
The interior is vast, grand, and impressive, but very cold and gloomy.
The choir is octagonal, enclosed by an Ionic colonnade, and corresponds
in shape with the dome above, which is double, one dome within another;
the inner one is painted with frescoes by Vasari and Zacchero. From the
pavement to the top of the cross it is 380 feet. The beautiful Campanile
tower is encased with strips of differently coloured marbles, adorned
with bas-reliefs and statues. It is 269 feet in height, being ascended
by some 415 steps. The view from the top is very extensive. The adjacent
Baptistery is on the site of the Temple of Mars. It is an octagonal
building of the thirteenth century, and is chiefly remarkable for the
beauty of Ghiberti's great bronze gates, representing scripture scenes.
"Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children;
But who would know to-day that he had lived
If he had never made those gates of bronze
In the old Baptistery--those gates of bronze
Worthy to be the gates of Paradise?
His wealth is scattered to the winds, his children
Are long since dead; but those celestial gates
Survive, and keep his name and memory green."
There are also some very fine mosaics in the interior, but unfortunately
the darkness prevents their being properly seen. The only way to see
anything of them is to go into the darkest corner, shutting your eyes,
and then, opening them, look up at the dome suddenly. All the children
in the city are baptized here, the water being blessed by the bishop
twice a year. There is much of ancient interest around this old
Baptistery; indeed, in all places where the Romans have been, one cannot
but feel the presence of a mighty nation. So also with the Greeks; they
leave traces of a refined intellect behind them which centuries cannot
entirely efface.