I saw several Protestant brethren in Rome; and, besides preaching in the Presbyterian Church twice, was invited to address a large meeting of Italians, through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Piggott, who was my kind interpreter. I took occasion to lament that Italian Protestants, whilst not by any means numerous, were broken up into so many parties; said that it would be far better if they would work together; and if that were impossible, it was at least desirable and easy, not to interfere with each other’s proceedings, by opposition or uncivil criticism. Judging from a response on the part of an Italian, I was glad to find my remarks were not deemed offensive; but I am afraid they did no real good.
Whilst in Rome at this time I tried to turn my visit to some account by restudying its Christian antiquities. Christian art in its early state is a subject illustrated by the Catacombs. The rude paintings and sculptures familiar to every Roman visitor, familiar by means of books to thousands who have never seen the originals, are historical and symbolic. Noah and the Ark, Abraham offering up Isaac, Moses receiving the law, Jonah and the whale, Daniel and the lions, the three Hebrews in the furnace—these have a Christian meaning, and point typically to truths respecting Christ’s redemption. Subterranean Rome, it has been well said by a French author, is “a living book, palpable, everlasting,” and there are written on its pages, in hieroglyphic ways, truths which are held by all true Christians, whether Protestant or Catholic. The Agape or love-feast, a ship emblematic of the Church, the cross, the fish, the dove, and other well-known signs of Christ and His salvation, occur over and over again. Also there are historical pictures of the Nativity, and of Peter denying his Master. Portraits also are found of Christ, of Peter, of Paul. The Virgin Mary is seen by the side of her husband, whilst the Holy Child, like an Italian bambino, lies in His cradle, an ox licking His feet; close by, the Magi are watching stars in the east. No picture or image of the Virgin, in solitary magnificence, at all resembling the Madonnas of a later period, so far as I can make out, has been discovered in the Catacombs. The contrast between the early attempts and the later achievements of Roman Christian art in doctrinal significance, as well as in imaginative conception and technical skill, is obvious and striking. To pass from the former to the latter requires an immense stride; to go from examining early representations of gospel facts and principles, to look round churches and galleries rich in the works of modern Catholic artists, is to exchange worlds. The difference in religious meaning is as great as the difference in artistic merit.
During this visit to Rome some remarkable religious meetings were conducted by Dr. A. N. Somerville, of Glasgow, who in other parts of Italy the same spring, held revivalistic Protestant services. Those at Rome occurred on a spot, to reach which many citizens had to cross a bridge with a toll bar on it. Notwithstanding, on the evening when we attended, I should think about eight hundred people were present. The preacher could not speak Italian, and what he said was translated into that language, by a native Protestant. Everything was skilfully managed, and the effect appeared on the whole, solemn and impressive. Congregations after the same methods had been previously gathered in Florence, where the addresses, according to report, had produced considerable impression. Sankey’s hymns, translated into Italian, were sung at Rome, with Sankey’s tunes; how far solid evangelical results followed I could not ascertain.
We made, at this time, two excursions which I must notice. One was very short: only as far as Ostia, where there are still some Roman remains. The present town is not worth notice, but the ancient city, Hare says in his “Days near Rome,” is like Pompeii. I cannot quite agree with him. The deep ruts of Roman chariot wheels; fragments here and there of Roman pottery, human bones, coloured marbles, and a few architectural relics, are of interest; but what attracted me to the spot was the memory of Augustine, who, in his “Confessions,” paints such a touching picture of his mother Monica’s illness and death. Thoughts of that interview, as related by the converted son, were the only charm of our visit, and the hour or two we were compelled to spend in the place, for the refreshment of our coachman and his horse, were most dreary. The long, long gossip going on between a priest and the mistress of the little farm, betokened the intense idleness and vulgarity of both,—typical, I fear, of the whole neighbourhood.
Another expedition we made was of a very different kind. We engaged a carriage to the charming haunts of Tivoli, where picturesque objects in the town and its vicinity, and the stupendous waterfall with manifold associations, clustering round the immediate neighbourhood, created memorable delight. Next day we drove to Subiaco, along an interesting road rich in memories of old Roman rural life. My daughter wrote in her journal:—
“It was a glorious morning, the sun was shining brightly, and in the cool spring air, our three pretty little black horses dashed along the road at a good pace, so that we soon found ourselves winding in and out amongst the Sabine Hills. We climbed up a steep ascent, only to go dashing down on the other side. The retreating hills, rising here and there to a great height, were clothed with trees, some of a sombre colour, some fresh with the bright hue of early spring, with here and there a cluster of silver olives, making a delightful variety of colour; whilst, at our feet, the roadside was beautiful with anemones, cyclamen, honeysuckle, and saxifrage; and, lower still, ran the refreshing river Arno.”
Not far from Subiaco there is a deep gorge with sloping sides of rock and foliage, reaching down to the river Arno, bordered by chestnut trees, amidst which, here and there, rises a tall cypress. The brow of the hill on the side nearest Subiaco, is crowned by a far-famed monastery in which, very different from what it is now, the great St. Benedict, founder of a monastery which bears his name, spent his early days and prepared for his great life work, which began at Monte Cassino, on the road from Rome to Naples.
We left Subiaco for Olevano, and were benighted on our way, as the horses toiled up hill after hill. We reached Olevano late at night, and caused quite a commotion in the narrow street, by our inquiries after the hotel, where we were to pass the night, and which, ignorantly, we had passed by, at the hill-top which overlooks the town. There, to our delight, we met with a most enjoyable reception, as the house is a favourite resort for artists; and though we blundered into a room, already occupied by guests, we were permitted to remain, and listen to charming stories of the place and its surroundings. After tarrying a few hours next morning, we had to hasten our departure, that we might catch a train on the railway from Naples to Rome.
After leaving Rome on our way to England, we halted some days at Venice, and revived old recollections. I went over points of interest in a visit years before, and new pictorial and architectural pleasures were enjoyed. We proceeded to Bologna, and crossed the beautiful Lago di Garda, spent a day or two at Trent, where special services were being held for young people, and hosts of “shining ones” in white, crowded the churches.
In 1881 I visited Italy again, especially for the purpose of carrying on researches commenced just before. The journey was rapid. Reaching Turin, accompanied by my dear daughter, I began my work by searching out localities which I could easily identify. In other places I picked up illustrations I desired; for, when the mind is bent on a particular inquiry, it is wonderful how it draws cognate matters to itself. We made an excursion to Pavia, and, on the way, stopped at the beautiful monastery of Certosa. Pavia, situated on the river Ticino, with a covered bridge, is interesting, from its antiquities and history. The churches are specimens of Lombardic architecture, and in the Duomo one was startled to find the tomb of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, whose remains were transferred from Africa to this city. They were there at the time of our visit, his monument being full of magnificence and beauty, in general form and particular details. Since I was at Pavia, the body has been restored to its original resting-place. Pavia connects itself with the philosopher, Boetius, by a popular tradition that he was imprisoned in a tower belonging to the city. Piacenza and Bologna during this journey afforded gleanings which helped me to realise important events occurring there at the time of the Reformation; but it was in Florence that I did most work, and spent more than a week from day to day tracking Savonarola’s footsteps through the streets, from San Marco to the Palazzo Vecchio, and back again, not forgetting his visit to Lorenzo di Medici at his villa in Careggi, with views of rich woodlands and grassy fields. But my chief employment was in the public library, searching out and deciphering original documents, connected with his trial. According to one account Savonarola underwent an examination, first by words, then by threats, then by torture; and on the second day of his imprisonment was put on the rack. The account of the trial which I gathered from original sources, was in harmony with that of Villari in his life of the martyr. There are two letters appended, one addressed to the Pope respecting la vita buono of the sufferer, and another by a large number of Florentine citizens. I was especially interested in Savonarola’s Bible, which he used to carry under his arm. It is entitled “Biblia integra,” the type beautifully clear, the date 1491. It contains some of his prophecies in MS. Signor Guicciardini has contributed a large collection of Savonarola’s works to this Magliabecchian Library, as it is called, and the catalogue of them runs over sixty pages.