The next morning after we arrived at Florence we sallied out sightseeing. We all went out together, but separated after a while, promising to meet at luncheon time at our tarven, but we all went together as fur as the Cathedral. It is a noble buildin’, covered with red, white and black marble, elegantly ornamented with panels and sculpture. And the hull meetin’-house is so beautiful, that it wuz remarked that “it ort to be kep’ in a glass case.”

Inside, the ceiling is one hundred and thirty-five feet high––good land! I told Josiah I wuz glad I did not have to whitewash or paper it overhead, for it ’most killed us Methodist Episcopal sisters to paper our meetin’-house ceilin’ which wuz only twenty feet high, and put a hundred and fifteen feet on top of that and where would we be, we never could done it in the world. The interior is full of statutes and pictures by Michael Angelo and other great sculptors and famous painters.

The Campanile or bell tower near it is most three hundred feet high, and a beautiful view is to be seen from the top way off onto the fur-off mountains, the city and the valley of the Arno, or that is I hearn so; I didn’t climb up myself to see, bein’ more’n willin’ to take Dorothy’s word and Robert Strong’s to that effect.

The bronze doors in the Baptistry are a sight to see. Michael Angelo said they wuz worthy to be the gates of paradise, but I could tell Mr. Angelo, and would if he had said it to me, that he little knew how beautiful them gates are and we ortn’t to compare anything earthly to ’em. Jest think, Mr. Angelo, I’d say, of an immense gate being made 351 of one pearl, the idee! we can’t hardly git into our heads any idees here below, and never will till the winds of heaven blow aginst our tired senses and brighten ’em up.

But I wuzn’t neighbor to Mr. Angelo; he died several years before I wuz born, four or five hundred years before, so of course I couldn’t advise him for his good. He lost a sight and never knowed it, poor creeter!

The Ufizzi and Pitti galleries contain enough pictures and statutes to make ’em more’n comfortable, I should think; beautiful pictures and beautiful statutes I must say. One of the most interestin’ things to me in the hull collection wuz the original drawings of the old masters with their names signed to ’em in their own handwritin’. It wuz like liftin’ up the mysterious curtain a little ways and peerin’ into the past. Michael Angelo’s sketches in chalk and charcoal; Titian’s drawings, little buds, as you may say from which they bloomed into immortal beauty; Rubens, Albert Durer and a throng of others. And then there wuz the autograph portraits of the great painters, Guido, Rembrandt, De Vinci, Vandyke, Raphael, and also the greatest works of all these painters. It wuz a grand and inspirin’ sight never to be forgot. Robert Strong and Dorothy wanted to see the statute of Dante; they set store by his writings. It is a splendid statute of white marble riz up in the Piazza Sante Croce; I hearn ’em talkin’ about its bein’ on a piazza and spozed it wuz built on some stoop and mistrusted he deserved a better pillow.

But it wuzn’t on the piazza of a house, it wuz out-doors, and the pedestal wuz over twenty feet high, all covered with carvin’s of seens took from his “Divinia Commedia,” and some lions, and the arms of Italy, and things. It wuz a good-lookin’ statute, better lookin’ as fur as beauty goes than Dante himself; he wuz kinder humbly I always thought, but then, I spoze, he didn’t always wear that wreath on his head; mebby he looked better in a beaver hat or a fur cap. ’Tennyrate, Thomas J. always sot store by him. It wuz a noble statute, 352 more’n fifty feet high, I presoom, with two figures standin’ on each side and one on top. The one on the left seemed to have her hand outstretched telling to all the world just how Dante wuz used whilst he wuz alive, and the one on the right had just throwed herself down and wuz cryin’ about it, and Dante, settin’ on top, wuz leanin’ his hand on his head and meditatin’. What his meditations wuz, I don’t know, nor Josiah don’t. Mebby he wuz thinkin’ of Beatrice.

Thomas J. had read Dante’s books a sight to his pa and me. “The Divine Comedy,” “The Inferno,” “Bernadiso,” “New Life,” etc., etc. Thomas Jefferson thought “The Divine Comedy” a powerful work, showing the story of how a man wuz tempted, and how sorrow lifts up the soul to new hites.

I never approved of his praisin’ up Beatrice quite so much under the circumstances, and I dare presoom to say that he and Gemma (his pardner) had words about it. But then I couldn’t hender it, it havin’ all took place five or six hundred years before I wuz born.

Robert Strong said that his writings wuz full of eloquence, wit and pathos. His native land sets great store by his memory, though they acted in the usual genteel and fashionable way, and banished and persecuted him during his life. One thing he said I always liked. He wuz told he might return to his country under certain pains and penalties, but he refused and said:

“Far from a preacher of justice to pay those who have done him wrong as a favor. Can I not everywhere behold the mirrors of the sun and stars? Speculate on sweetest truths under any sky.”

Robert Strong said his poetry wuz far finer in the original.

And I said, “Yes, he wuz very original, for Thomas Jefferson always said so.”

He is buried in Ravenna, and the Florentines have begged for his ashes to rest in Florence. If when they burnt 353 up some of his books to show their contempt of him they had done as they wanted to, dug up his body and burnt it, there wouldn’t have been any ashes to quarrel about, for of course scornin’ him so they would have cast his ashes to the winds. But now they worship him when his ear is dead to their praise, the great heart silent that their love would have made beat with ecstasy. Well, such is life. They treated Tasso just about the same who writ “Jerusalem Delivered,” they imprisoned him for a lunatic, and now how much store they set by him.

And I had these same thoughts, only more extreme ones, as we stood in the cell of that noble preacher of righteousness and denouncer of sin, Savonarola. He wuz so adored by the populace, and so great a crowd pressed to see him to kiss his robe and applaud him, that he had to have a guard. And then this same adoring crowd turned against him, imprisoned him for heresy, tortured him, burnt him to the stake. And when he stood on the fagots, which wuz to be his funeral bed of flame, and the bishop said to him:

“I excommunicate you from the church militant,” he answered: “Thou canst not separate me from the Church Triumphant.”

A great life and a great death. I thought of this a sight as I looked on his tomb. I sot store by Mr. Savonarola.

In the Church of Sante Croce we see the tomb of Machiavelli, a very wise, deep man and a wise patriot, but a man lied about the worst kind by them that hate liberty; the tomb of the poet, Alfieri, with Italy weepin’ over it; the tombs of Michael Angelo and Galileo; the mother of the Bonapartes, and many, many others. Galileo’s monument wuz a sizeable one, but none too big for the man who discovered the telescope and the motion of the earth. But just as the way of the world is because he found new stars and insisted that the earth did move, his enemies multiplied, he wuz persecuted and imprisoned. I sot great store by him, and so did Robert Strong, and I sez to him, “Robert, you 354 too are discovering new and radiant stars in your City of Justice and proving that the world does move.” And I gin a queer look onto Miss Meechim and sez:

“I hope you won’t be persecuted for it.”

Miss Meechim looked some like her sirname with the last letter changed to n. But to resoom: The galleries of Florence contains priceless pictures and statuary, so many of ’em that to enjoy them as you should, and want to, would take years. Why, in the hall of Niobe I wanted to stay for days to cry and weep and enjoy myself. I took my linen handkerchief out of my pocket to have it ready, for I laid out to weep some, and did, the mother’s agony wuz so real, holdin’ one child while the rest wuz grouped about her in dyin’ agony. One of the sons looked so natural, and his expression of despair and sufferin’ wuz so intense that Arvilly said:

“I believe he drinked, his face shows a guilty conscience, and his ma looks jest as the mother of drunkards always looks.”

I told her that the death of Niobe’s children wuz caused by envy and jealousy, which duz just such things to-day as fur as they dast all the way from New York to Jonesville, and so on through the surroundin’ world. Sez I, “Apollo and Diana killed ’em all just because Niobe had such beautiful children and so many of ’em and wuz naterally proud and had boasted about ’em some, and Apollo and Diana didn’t want their ma looked down on and run upon because she had only two children, and probable their ma bein’ envious and jealous sot ’em up.”

But Arvilly wouldn’t give up; she said a ma would always try to cover up things and insisted on it to the last that she should always believe they drinked and got into a fight with Latony’s boy and girl.

“No,” sez I agin, “it wuz Envy and Jealousy that took aim and did this dretful deed.”

Josiah sez: “Why didn’t Ni-obe keep her mouth shet then?”

Well, it wuz vain to enjoy deep emotions in the face of such practicality. I put up my handkerchief and moved off into another room.

Besides pictures, these galleries contain rare gems of art in bronze, crystal, precious stones, coins, arms, helmets, etc., etc. Enough as I say to keep one’s mind rousted up and busy for years and years.

Dorothy said she couldn’t leave Florence without seeing the house where Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived and writ her immortal poems and I felt jest so; I felt that I must see the place sanctified by her pure spirit and genius. So Robert Strong got a carriage and took Dorothy and me there one fine afternoon. A plate let into the front of the house tells where she lived in body. But in sperit she inhabited the hull world, and duz now. Her home is in the hearts of all who love pure and exalted poetry.

Here she lived her happy life as the wife of Robert Browning and mother of her boy. Here she passed on up to the higher school, for which she had prepared her sweet soul below, graduated in the earth school and promoted up to the higher one above.

I had a sight of emotions here and Robert and Dorothy quoted from her all the way back to our tarven, and so I did. I thought more of such poems as “Mother and Poet,” and “The Sleep,” etc. But they quoted a sight from “Geraldine’s Courtship” and “Portuguese Songs,” for so every heart selects its own nutriment. Their young hearts translated it into glowing language I mistrusted, though I didn’t say nothin’.

From Florence we went to Rome. I had read a sight about Rome and how she sot on her seven hills and from her throne of glory ruled the world. But them hills are lowered down a good deal by the hand of Time, just as Rome’s glory is; she don’t rule the world now, fur from it.

There is in reality ten hills, but the ruins of old Rome––the Rome of Julius CÆsar––has filled in the hollers a good deal and the new city has grown old agin, as cities must, and I, and Josiah, and everybody and everything.

Robert Strong had writ ahead and got us some comfortable rooms in a tarven on the Corso. When Robert Strong first spoke on’t Josiah looked agitated. He thought it wuz a buryin’ ground. But it didn’t have anything to do with a corse.

The Corso is one of the finest streets in Rome, and handsome shops are on each side on’t, and carriages and folks in fine array and them not so fine are seen there. Most all of the big crowd wuz dressed as they do in Jonesville and Paris and London, though occasionally we met Italians in picturesque costooms.

There are three hundred and eighty Catholic meetin’-houses in Rome, quite a few on ’em dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and lots of costly gifts are laid on her altar. But the one I wanted to see and so did the rest of our party wuz the one that stood on the spot where once the circus of Nero stood, weak, mizable creeter. The most agreeable actin’ to him and his cruel pardner wuz the death struggles of martyrs and bloodshed and agony.

What a inspiring idee it is to think that right on that very spot, that bloody pagan pleasure house of hissen is changed into the biggest meetin’-house in the world. Of course we had seen St. Peter’s from a distance ever since we’d got nigh the city, and we sot out the very next mornin’ after we got there, to see it at clost view.

Now I had thought, comparin’ it to the Jonesville meetin’-house, which I guess is about fifty by sixty feet, and will, on a pinch, set four hundred and fifty, and comparin’ that with the cathedral in New York I had thought that that Catholic Cathedral in New York was about as big a meetin’-house as a minister could handle easy; but the area of that is 357 forty-three thousand, whilst St. Peter’s at Rome is two hundred and twelve thousand.

The difference these figgers make in the two meetin’-houses is bigger than my writin’ can show you, no matter how big a pen I use or how black my ink is.

As I stood in St. Peter’s Church in Rome I had a great number of emotions and large, very large in size. Right here where Mr. Nero (the mean, misable creeter) got hilarious over the dyin’ struggles of the Christian martyrs, right here where St. Peter met his death with the glory of heaven lightin’ up his dyin’ eyes (I am just as sure on’t as if I see it myself) stands this immense meetin’-house.

Three hundred years of labor and sixty millions of dollars have been expended on it and the end is not yet. But I would not done it for a cent less if I had took the job, I couldn’t afford it nor Josiah couldn’t.

Why, when we stood in front on’t I didn’t feel no bigger than the head of a pin, not a hat pin or a shawl pin, but the smallest kind they make, and Josiah dwindled down so in size as compared to the edifice that I ’most thought I should lose him right there with my eyes glued onto his liniment.

You go through a large double door which shuts up behind you as noiselessly and securely as if you wuz walled in to stay. My first feelin’ after I entered wuz the immensity of the place. Some of the statutes you see that didn’t look so big as Josiah, when you come clost up to ’em you found wuz sixteen feet high. And the little cherubs holdin’ the shell of holy water at the entrance you see are six feet high. You look fur down the meetin’-house as you look down the road into a big piece of woods, only here the distant trees turn into statutes and shrines and altars and things. Fur off like distant stars shinin’ down into the forest you see the lamps, one hundred and twelve of ’em, burnin’ day and night around the tomb of St. Peter.

As you stand under the dome and look up it is like looking at the very ruff of the sky. It is supported by four great 358 pillars and the interior of the immense globe is one hundred and thirty-nine feet in circumference measured on the inside.

All the houses in Jonesville could be piled up on top of each other in this immense space and Zoar and Shackville piled onto them and not half fill it.

As we stood under the great dome the canopy over St. Peter’s tomb seemed to us no bigger than the band stand in Jonesville. But when we got up to it we see that it wuz ’most a hundred feet high, for fur up the mosaic medallions of the four evangelists lookin’ none too big for the place come to examine ’em, the pen of St. Luke is six feet long and his nose is big enough for a spare bedroom. The writing that runs along under the dome each letter is six feet high, higher than Thomas Jefferson on tip toes, or Josiah on stilts. The idee!

I don’t spoze that Peter, that earnest, hot-tempered fisherman ever spozed he would have such a buildin’ erected to his honor, and I wondered as I looked through the immense distances of this meetin’-house how many turned their thoughts from the glory about ’em onto Peter’s inspired words when he wuz here in the flesh. This huge pile seemed as if Time could have no power over it, but his own words rung in my ear:

“The day of the Lord shall come as a thief in the night and all these things shall be dissolved. Nevertheless we according to his promise look for a new heaven and a new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness.”

And as I thought of his death right here on this very spot agin his words sounded in my heart:

“Beloved, think it not strange concerning this fiery trial which is to try you––But rejoice––Partakers of Christ’s suffering––”

And even as I listened to the chantin’ of the priests I methought I heard Peter speaking of the Voice which come down from Heaven which they heard who wuz with Him on the mount. I thought of the sure word of prophecy. “The 359 light shining in a dark place”––“Until the day dawns and the day star arise in our hearts.”

Yes, the real Peter wuz enshrined in my heart as I trod the grand aisles of that meetin’-house of hisen, and I didn’t think nothin’ at all in comparison of that statute of Peter settin’ on a white stun throne holdin’ his foot out for the masses to kiss.

He sets up there with a queer lookin’ thing on his head. Josiah said it wuz a sass pan, and I sez: “No, Josiah, it is a halo.” And he sez:

“Samantha, if I’m ever sculped and sot up in the Jonesville meetin’-house, I don’t want any halo on my head.”

And I told him I guessed there wuzn’t any danger of his ever wearin’ a halo on this earth.

And Josiah said before the subject wuz broached that never, never should he kiss that toe. And he sez it to me in reproachful axents as if I’d been teasin’ him to. But I hadn’t thought on’t and told him so. But right whilst we stood there we see folks of all classes from peasants to nobles and of all ages from childhood to old age walk up and kneel and kiss that onconscious big toe and go into some chapel countin’ the beads of their rosaries.

Good land! Peter don’t care anything about that mummery unless he has changed for the worse since he left this mortal spear, which hain’t very likely bein’ the man he wuz. And as I thought of the evil things done in the name of the power that rared up that figger, I methought I hearn him say:

“The time has come when judgment must begin at the house of the Lord.”

I had lots of emotions as I walked to and fro and didn’t want to talk to anybody or hear the talkin’ round me.

I hearn Tommy talkin’ sunthin’ to Carabi and I catched these words, “I wonner, oh, I wonner what good it duz ’em to kiss that toe.” And Arvilly and Josiah jined in in sharp criticism. And agin Josiah sez: “I know I am a leadin’ man 360 in Jonesville and have been called more’n once a pillar in the meetin’-house, but never, never do I want to be made a statter with a sass pan on my head, and the bretheren and sistern kissin’ my toes.”

And agin I sez, “It hain’t a sass pan.” But they kep’ on to that extent that I had to say, “Josiah and Arvilly, the one that figger represents, said: ‘Above all things have charity, for charity covers a multitude of sin.’”

Miss Meechim and Dorothy and Robert Strong clumb clear up into the dome twice as high as Bunker Hill monument or ruther walked up for they hain’t stairs, but a smooth wooden way leads up, up to that hite. Miss Meechim told me when they come down that though there wuz a high railin’ it seemed so frightful to look down that immense height she didn’t hardly dare to look off and enjoy herself, though the view wuz sublime.

But I can’t describe St. Peter’s no more than a ant can describe the Zodiac, I mean an a-n-t, not mother’s sister. Why, the great side chapels are big enough for meetin’-houses and fur grander than we shall ever see in Jonesville or the environin’ townships. And the tomb and monuments and altars, etc., are more gorgeous than I could ever tell on if I should try a year.

There wuz one statute by Canova of Clement XIII that is lovely, the marble figure of the pope and on each side kneelin’ figures of Religion and Death. Down below as if guardin’ the tomb stands two noble lions.

And Pope Innocent, I d’no whether his name agreed with his nater or not, but he sets there holdin’ the lance that pierced the side of our Lord, so they say. But I don’t believe that it wuz the same one nor Robert Strong don’t; I should have had different feelin’s when I looked at it if it had been the one.

Besides this relic they claim to have at St. Peter’s a piece of the cross and the napkin that wuz laid to our Lord’s face when he wuz faintin’ under the burden of the cross, and 361 that still holds the imprint of his face, so they say. They are shown on sacred days. They say that there is confessionals at St. Peter’s where folks of every language in the world can confess and be absolved by a priest that understands ’em. Well, I shouldn’t wonder, it is big enough, it seems like a world in itself. But I couldn’t help thinkin’ of our great High Priest whose confessional is broad and high as the needs and sorrows of a world and the “silent liftin’ of an eye can bring us there to be,” and who understands not only every language under the sun, but every secret and hidden thought and aspiration of the soul, good or evil, and whose forgiveness and compassion never fails the penitent soul. I couldn’t help thinkin’ on’t, and I felt that St. Peter if he could speak would say, “Josiah Allen’s wife, I don’t blame you for your methinkin’, I think just so myself.”

One day we all went to see the Arch of Titus; it wuz big and massive lookin’ with a lot of writin’ over the top that I couldn’t read nor Josiah couldn’t, but interestin’ like all the remains of imperial Rome that ruled over almost the hull of the known world. It was erected about the year 70 to commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem.

There wuz another arch fur more interestin’ to me, and that wuz the arch of Constantine. It is perfectly beautiful, and would be, even if it wuz built by a misable pagan. But it wuz built by Mr. Constantine when he declared himself in favor of Christianity. I sot store by him.

It is a grand and beautiful structure, richly ornamented, and has three passages. I didn’t like all the base reliefs on it; indeed, I considered some on ’em as real base, such as Mr. Tragan’s offerin’s to the gods, etc. But then I realized that I wuzn’t obleeged to look at ’em. And some on ’em wuz very good showin’ off Mr. Tragan educatin’ poor children, etc. And some of Constantine’s doin’s there I liked first-rate.

And I d’no as I see anything in Rome that interested me more than the tomb of Celia Crassus––Celia Matella 362 that wuz. It is a round, massive structure that stands on the Appian Way and is about two thousand years old. It wuz once all covered with costly marble, but the hand of Time and other thieves, in mortal shape, have stole it a long time ago. But enough is left to show what it wuz. Nobody knows jest who Celia wuz and what she did do, or didn’t do, to git such a monument. But I shall always believe she wuz a real likely woman and smart. ’Tennyrate, I said her pardner must have thought high on her and mourned her loss like a dog or he never would have rared such a magnificent tomb to her memory.

But Arvilly looked at it different. She said she believed her husband drinked and got led off into all sorts of sins and made Celia no end of trouble and riz this monument up to smooth things over.

But I sez, “Mebby things wuz different then;” but didn’t really spoze so, human nater havin’ capered about the same from the start. “’Tennyrate,” sez I, “I shall always believe that Miss Crassus wuz good as gold, and this great massive monument that it seems as if the hand of Time can’t ever throw down I take as a great compliment to my sect as well as Celia Crassus.”

But Arvilly wuz as firm as a rock to the last in her belief that Mr. Crassus drinked and that Miss Crassus wuz broken-hearted by her grief and anxiety and tryin’ to cover up her pardner’s doin’s as the wives of drunkards will, and tryin’ to keep her children from follerin’ their pa’s dretful example, and then after he’d jest killed her with these doin’s he rared up this great monument as a conscience soother.

Josiah thought Celia wuz equinomical and a wonderful good cook, and her grateful pardner riz this up in honor of his blissful life with her.

Miss Meechim thought that at all events she must have been genteel.

Robert and Dorothy looked at its massive walls, and I 363 hearn him say sunthin’ to her kinder low about “how love wuz stronger than time or death.”

But Tommy just wonnered at it, wonnered who Celia Matella wuz, how she looked, how old she wuz, if she had any little boys and girls. He jest wonnered and nothin’ else, and in the end I did, too.

You have no idee till you see how big the Colosseum is. It is as long as from our house to she that wuz Submit Tewksberry’s, and so on round by Solomon Gowdey’s back agin. You may not believe it, but it is true, and I d’no but it is bigger. It used to accommodate one hundred thousand people in its palmy days, or so I spoze they called it, when some time durin’ one season five thousand beasts would be killed there fightin’ with human bein’s, hull armies of captives bein’ torn to pieces there for the delight of them old pagans. Fathers bein’ made to kill their wives and children right there for their delight.

Oh, how I wished, as I told Arvilly, I could git holt of Mr. Titus and Mr. Nero and some of the rest of them leadin’ men.

The conqueror, Mr. Titus, brought back twelve thousand of the conquered Jews and made ’em work and toil to build up that lofty arch in memory of their own defeat and captivity and his glory. You’d think that wuz enough trouble for ’em, but I’ve hearn, and it come pretty straight to me, that he misused ’em more or less while they wuz workin’ away at it.

’Tennyrate, they say a Jew won’t go under that arch to this day and they’ve been seen to spit at it, and I spoze they throw things at it more or less on the sly.

Sez I, “I’d gin ’em a piece of my mind if I knowed they would make me fight with a elephant the next minute.”

Arvilly thought that if she could sold them the “Twin Crimes” it might have helped ’em to do better, but I d’no as it would. But that great amphitheatre where the blood and 364 agony of the martyrs cried to heaven, was afterwards dedicated to these Christian martyrs. There are eighty arches of entrance. Only a part of the immense circular wall is now standing, but you can see what it wuz. There are four stories of arches, one hundred and fifty-seven feet high in all, the arena it encloses is two hundred and eighty-seven feet long.

Dorothy and Robert Strong and Miss Meechim went and see it by moonlight, and they say that it wuz a more beautiful sight than words can describe. But I bein’ a little afraid of the rumatiz, thought that I had better go by broad daylight, and Josiah did, too. I mistrusted that Robert and Dorothy beheld it by a sweeter and softer light than even the Italian moonlight, but I kep’ in and didn’t speak my mistrustin’. I dast as soon die as gin vent to any such idee before Albina Meechim.

We went one day to see the Pantheon, built by Mr. Agrippa, 27 B.C. It is a dretful big buildin’; I guess about the biggest ancient buildin’ in the world. It has had its ups and downs, shown out in brilliant beauty, been stole from and blackened by the hand of Time, but it is still beautiful.

It wuz dedicated to Jupiter at first, and afterwards to the Virgin and the Christian martyrs, afterwards it was dedicated to all the saints.

In speakin’ on this subject, Josiah said: “What a lot of saints they do have in these furren countries,” and says he to me, soto vosy, “I’d kinder like, Samantha, to get that name; Saint Josiah would sound well and uneek in Jonesville.”

But I scorfed at the idee, though knowin’ that he wuz jest as worthy to be called saint as a good many who wuz called by that name.

But Josiah is dretful ambitious. When we wuz lookin’ at the different pictures of the popes in their high hats, sez he:

“How becomin’ such a hat would be to me. I believe 365 I shall be took in one when I get home; I could take Father Allen’s and Father Smith’s old stove-pipe hats and set my best one on top, and then cut out a wooden cross on top; how uneek it would be.”

But I spoze he will forgit it before he gits home––I hope so ’tennyrate.