Three hours after leaving Pisa, I am walking through the streets of Florence, looking at her monuments, statues, palaces and cathedrals. Among the monuments, if so it might be named, is a splendid water fountain which marks the site of the stake at which Savonarola was burned, in 1498, six years after the discovery of America. Like Elijah of old, Savonarola went from earth to Heaven in a chariot of fire. The flames that wafted his spirit to the glory world are still burning brightly upon the pages of history. The martyr’s ashes were thrown into the Arno, and were carried thence to the ocean. So the stream of Time will bear his influence on to the ocean of eternity.
Of the many statues in the city, I will mention only Dante’s. This excellent statue of white marble is nine feet high, on a pedestal twenty-three feet high. It was unveiled with great solemnity, in 1865, in commemoration of the 600th anniversary of the immortal poet. Dante’s greatest work was the “Divine Comedy.” I also visited the house in which he was born in 1265. The house in which Michael Angelo was born in 1475 is now used as a picture gallery. He died in Rome in 1564. His ashes were brought back to his native city, and now repose in a vault in the church of Santa Croce.
The art galleries I found worthy of their fame, so beautiful in architectural design, so vast in extent, so rich in the productions of the best artists of every school. “Each street of Florence contains a world of art. The walls of the city are the calyx containing the fairest flowers of the human mind; and this is but the richest gem in the diadem with which the Italian people have adorned the earth.” Florence has been the home of many of the greatest artists that have lived since the twelfth century. The main centres of art in Florence are the Pitti and the Uffizi galleries; these, being on the opposite sides of the Arno, are connected by a suspension gallery which spans the river. Thus one passes from one gallery to the other by means of this swinging corridor, which is itself flanked on both sides with faultless statues and lined with pictures that no money could buy.
I wandered, one day after another, through the stately halls of many-colored marble in Florence. Many of these pictures I should like to show you, but I know full well that words can not copy them. To copy Raphael’s “Madonna” would require the hand of genius, and paints as beautiful, and as delicately mixed, as are the colors of the rainbow.
“Variety is the spice of life,” and truly it is refreshing to come to this land of Art and Music after spending a few months in Asia and Africa. Since leaving home, more of my time has been spent among the mountains and around the lakes than in the cities; or, in other words,
“I have been accustomed to entwine
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields
Than art in galleries.”
“On to Venice” is the war cry. To reach there, we tunnel mountains, dash through a blinding snow-storm, and encounter a heavy rainfall. Presently we are surrounded by water. The train stops. Johnson is excited; he thinks the bridge is washed away. Looking out of the window, and pointing to the water, I ask a by-stander, “Is that the ocean?” The reply is, “No; it is Venice.” “A flood!” exclaims Johnson; “if it continues to rain in this way two hours longer, the whole city will be washed away, and we, where will we be?” By this time, as there is a gondola near, we, like Jonah, pay the fare thereof, and go down into it. We are soon on the way to the hotel.
The storm is raging, the waves are dashing high. The gondola, which is black, and really reminds one of a hearse, seems to be bearing us away to a watery grave. The boat must be lightened, or we will all go down. What to do, I know not. Hope wanes. “My latest sun is sinking fast.” In the extremity of that hour, I say: “This I will do. I will throw overboard all hatred, envy and strife, all contention, malice and jealousy, all egotism, selfishness and pride.” When I have emptied my heart of all these, a surprising change occurs. It is as if some divine one has whispered, “Peace, be still.”
Reader, this experience points a moral, if it does not adorn a tale. We are all voyagers on the Sea of Life. Tempests frequently come, and our frail bark is often threatened; but if we will only throw overboard our ignoble feelings and baser selves, a holy calm will settle on the face of the deep, and in our hearts we will have that “peace which passeth all understanding.”
Venice, you remember, is situated two miles from the mainland, in a shallow part of the Adriatic. Its 15,000 houses and palaces are built on 117 islands. Streets are unknown. There are 150 canals and 380 bridges in the city. The population is 130,000, one-fourth of whom are paupers.