FLORENCE.
AT five oclock of the morning of the Lords day
I was awakened by the clatter of arms - and the hoofs of a regiment of dragoon
horses ringing on the street under our windows. They were out for drill and
military exercise, as on other days; and returned in about two hours, like so
many "dusty millers," powdered from their spurs to their nodding helmets with
the abominable dust of Italian roads.
Besides this spectacle, what a
different aspect the streets of Florence presented to the stillness and
solitude of our own on the early Sabbath morn The peasantry in their common
working dress were hurrying into town, some with carts drawn by gaily
caparisoned mules, and loaded with all kinds of market vegetables! many on foot
carrying bouquets and baskets of lovely flowers for sale. By this time the
tradesmen were employed throwing open their shops, and the tide of business had
begun to set in as on ordinary days - provision stores and cafes driving
to the full as brisk a trade as usual. I had for some days observed the window
of an entre-sol on the opposite side of the street thrown open very
early; and how, with the fresh air blowing on her pallid cheek, a woman sat
there, day by day," from early morn to noon, and from noon to dewy eve," with
stitch, stitch, stitch - plying her needle as for life. And now I saw that to
her, alas, the week brought round no Sabbath, no pause, no rest from toil -
unless the afternoon and evening be excepted, when she laid aside her seam to
join the crowd who had gone a pleasure-seeking. Her case showed how little they
understand or consult the best interests of the working classes, who would
substitute Sunday excursion trains, Sunday steamers, and Sunday recreations, as
they are called, for their own quiet homes and the house of God. Sabbath rest
would have prepared this poor woman for week.day work; but the afternoon and
evening Sunday pleasures had the very opposite effect. Instead of recruiting,
they exhausted her strength. This was evident from the circumstance that her
shutters and window were not opened, nor her needle and seam resumed, till
eight oclock on Monday morning, instead of six oclock as on other
days. Hers is no solitary case. Masters and manufacturers know right well that
the workmen who spend the Lords day in the church, rather than in the
beer-house, are not their worst, but their steadiest and most punctual hands;
and so the old saying holds true: "Godliness is profitable for all things,
having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come."
While my party were still asleep, I went forth on an exploring expedition - to
find out how the Lords day was observed in other parts of the town.
Crossing one of the bridges which bestride the Arno, I turned into a close
network of streets, near by an exquisitely beautiful marble campanile, or
bell-tower, and Florences glorious Duomo. With tradesmen on all hands
busy opening their shops, I found myself at length in the public markets. These
occupied a scene of open sheds, and extremely narrow streets; and to one
familiar from childhood with very different sights, with the decent and devout
observance of the Lords day, what a sight was there - the thoroughfares
densely thronged with a busy, bustling crowd; the air, not calm and silent, as
with the spirit of worship, but resounding with market-cries: poulterers
plucking scarecrows of chickens; butchers, with cleaver in hand, cutting up
goats and lambs; the moving mass gabbling, joking, laughing, buying, selling,
nor so much as dreaming of any offence offered to God, or breach of his holy
laws. Such are the Lords days our philosophers and "advanced thinkers,"
as they call themselves, would give us. Get on their rail, and that is the
terminus.
. Dr. Revel informs me how difficult it is in such circumstances
to indoctrinate the minds even of Protestants with adequate ideas of the
sacredness of the Lords day. Examples of the adage, "Evil communications
corrupt good manners," they protest against the errors of Popery, and follow
one of the worst of them. The views of the Sabbath which Calvin, and especially
Luther entertained, were a not unnatural recoil from the ritualistic services
of Rome, and the importance that Church attaches to holidays and outward
ordinances. Though thus easily accounted for, they are not the less to be
deplored - having been followed on the Continent by disastrous consequences. I
would speak tenderly of the faults of these great and good men. Their views
were probably more correct than were the terms which they employed to express
them. Besides, both Luther and Calvin had been born and bred in the Church of
Rome; and no candid person will think it wonderful that, when they left the
grave, they should, like Lazarus, have brought some of the grave-clothes along
with them - they had been suckled by the wolf, and no wonder that in this, as
in their imperfect views of toleration, they learned somewhat of her habits,
and displayed somewhat of her nature. Still, the loose views which they
expressed regarding the Sabbath-day has proved deeply and widely injurious to
the interests of true religion on the Continent; nor do I see how its religious
condition is to be changed - much changed to the better - without some
extraordinary revival, and such an outpouring of the Holy Spirit as will lead
both pastors and people to more scriptural, to higher and holier ideas of the
Lords day.
I have been in no town where the streets by night are so
noisy as they are in Florence. Our landlady, Signora Jandelli - an Englishwoman
who continues, after forty years residence there, to aspirate her vowels
like a Cockney - says you would think that the Florentines never sleep. Through
all hours of the night they are pursuing their pleasures: and, though not
drunk, sing and shout at the top of their voice. According to Signora Jandelli,
they all sleep more or less during the day. - The employees of Government,
ceasing work at four oclock, take a nap after dinner; and the labourers,
who have two hours for that meal, spend most of them in sleep. So all come out
in the evening fresh as larks. But of all nights in the week the Sabbath is the
most noisy; the shouting and singing on the streets, as I can certify, not
having ceased for hours after midnight. Looking out at that time, I saw numbers
within and without the door of a café that stood opposite to our
lodgings; and any one unacquainted with the habits of the people would have set
them down for drunk - they sung, they yelled, they shouted so. But they were
not drunk; not even one who, shouting loud enough, so to speak, to waken the
dead, drew me from my bed to the window. There he stood in the middle of the
street yelling like a maniac; calling to some one apparently miles away. I
thought to myself, now I have seen one man drunk in Florence. But no, for I
remarked how, on his cap falling off he bent, as only a sober man could do, to
take it up, and then walked steadily back to a group of companions sipping
their wine outside the café. It is due to the people to say that we have
been up and down their streets at late hours, and in many parts of the town,
yet, amid all their fun, frivolity, and uproarious clamour - their singing,
shouting, their drinking and gambling in the cafes, which they frequent in vast
numbers, and where they spend, I have no doubt, a very great deal of their
money - we have not seen during our seven days stay in Florence a single
case of intoxication. They put our boasted Protestantism and piety to shame. On
returning, indeed, one night from a reception at Dr. Van Esss with Dr.
Revel, between eleven and twelve oclock, I thought I saw a woman drunk;
but the good Doctor - happily for him and for his country, less familiar with
the symptoms of intoxication than I am - pronounced her sick. But grant it to
have been as I supposed, refuse to the accused in this instance the benefit of
a doubt, that solitary case does not touch facts so very creditable to the
people of Florence. My excellent friend, the Rev. Mr. Macnab, who resides in
this city, has not seen more than one person drunk here for the last five
years. He was a sailor - shame to tell, one of our own countrymen; and a tipsy
man was such a rare phenomenon in this capital of Italy that he was followed by
a tail of some forty boys, greatly amused by the tacks he made to go ahead and
get along the streets.
We had a choice of services on the Lords day.
There are two English Episcopalian congregations in Florence. My friend Dr. Van
Ess, an American minister, who was at one time settled in Rome, has been
preaching here for some years. His is what another friend of mine calls a
composite chapel, for he reads the English Church Service in the forenoon, and
conducts worship in the evening according to the Presbyterian form. Some,
perhaps, will call this a "damnable neutrality." There are Episcopalians so
narrow-minded as would condemn such a compromise or conjunction - I myself
having heard a clergyman declare from his pulpit that none but read prayers
could be acceptable to God; thereby suggesting the question, who held the
candle to Jonah when he read his in the whales belly? On the other hand,
there are Scotch Presbyterians equally bigoted, who dont seem to know
that many Presbyterian churches abroad use a liturgy, and that John Knox
himself - felt free in conscience to officiate for years in a church belonging
to the Church of England in London. The most perfect form of public worship
would be, I think, something between the forms of the Churches of England and
Scotland; but of that more hereafter. I shall only observe in the meantime that
Dr. Van Esss plan might be adopted with advantage in many of those
foreign parts where the whole number of Episcopalians and Presbyterians would
form, after all, but a small congregation. There is a plethora of ministers - a
waste of power - in some places; in others the people are left as sheep without
a shepherd. Van Esss system would provide a remedy for such evils, and
may be commended to the favourable consideration of such as care less for
churches than for Christ, for the form than for the power of godliness.
In
the forenoon of Sunday we worshipped with the Presbyterian congregation, which
meets in an excellent building that occupies a conspicuous position on one of
the quays of the Arno. It has the name "Free Church of Scotland" blazoned on
its front. The ground story - rez-de-chaussée, as the French call
it - forms the church; an elegant hall, very tastefully ornamented, with a
ceiling divided by massive beams into compartments which are coloured a bright
azure, and touched up with gold. We had an excellent sermon from the Rev. Mr.
Lewis, whose usual station is Rome. He was officiating in Florence during our
visit in place of Mr. Macdougal, the stated minister of the charge, who,
through the Claudian Press and otherwise, has rendered important, and indeed
invaluable, services to the cause of truth in Italy. The upper stories of this
building are let to tenants; and, in connection with that circumstance,
something presents itself in the hall of this Free Kirk which, were they
ignorant, as probably they are, of Italian, would startle and "vex the
righteous souls" of some of its doctors. The first thing that meets the eye on
entering is three pianos. These, however, are not musical instruments, but
notices on the bell-pulls of the different stories - the word for a story, or
flat, in Italian being piano. The psalmody of the Church, like the other parts
of the worship, is conducted according to the Scotch fashion. There is no
instrumental music; in regard to which it appears to me that it were hard to
say, whether most nonsense is talked by its advocates or its opponents. The
subject is quite unworthy of the zeal wasted on it, and the large space it now
occupies in many public discussions. For myself I agree with the Pope, who,
adhering to the probably most ancient customs of the Church in this, and in his
manner of taking and dispensing the communion, observes, as Dean Stanley has
shown, forms more consonant to those of Presbyterian than to those of either
Popish or Episcopalian churches. He has neither fiddle nor French horn, nor
bagpipes, nor organ-pipes, nor anything but vocal music in his own chapel at
Rome. But to denounce the use of the organ as un-Presbyterian, as opening the
door to the ingress of Popery, betrays on the part of those who do so the
blindest prejudice or the grossest ignorance - the number of Presbyterian
churches in Christendom which use instrumental music in the service of God
being very much greater than that of those who do not.
In the evening we
directed our steps to the Palace of Salviati, where a terrible tragedy was
acted some three hundred years ago. In the days of this man, the Archbishop of
Florence, an enemy of the Medici, named Pazzi, proposed their assassination to
the Pope - an act of which "his Holiness" is said to have approved. To carry
this scheme into execution, the Cardinal Riario was despatched to Florence to
direct the conspiracy, while Salviati was charged with the arrangement of the
details of the projected murder. The Feast of St. Stephen was chosen as the
day-, and the church of the Reparata as the place for the assassination. The
bloody work was committed to the hands of two priests. The attempt was made.
Julian Medici was murdered, but his brother Lorenzo escaped, to wreak terrible
vengeance on the perpetrators of this crime. Cardinal Riario was seized at the
altar, and only preserved from death by the interference of Lorenzo; and while
the followers of Francesco Pazzi were slaughtered, he himself was dragged naked
from his uncles house, and hanged; a punishment immediately followed by
that of Salviati, whom they hung through a window of his own palace, clothed in
his prelatical robes. The palace that witnessed these scenes of violence and
bloodshed - such changes do time and Providence bring round - is now the
Theological College of the Waldensian Church. Those students of the college at
La Tour who are to enter the ministry, after having passed through their
literary and philosophical curriculum in the Valleys, come to Florence to study
theology under the charge of Dr. Revel, Dr. De Sanctis, and M. Geymonet. By
this arrangement they are placed in circumstances favourable to their acquiring
the purest Italian pronunciation; and they are thereby the better equipped to
go forth as missionaries of the Cross, and preach the Gospel with effect
through the length and breadth of Italy. A very wise scheme this; one which
owed its birth chiefly to the sagacity, and its accomplishment to the exertions
of that warm, able friend of the Waldensian Church, the Rev. Dr. Stewart, of
Leghorn.
It was in the chapel of this college we went to worship in the
evening. A good congregation was present, consisting chiefly of men; almost all
of whom were converted from Popery. Many of these Italians had remarkably fine
voices; and bringing the hearts and zeal of new converts and fervent
worshippers, of a first love, to the service of Gods house, the singing
was grand. They sang, I was told, with great taste, and certainly, as I could -
observe, with great vigour; rolling up such volumes of sound to the ceiling of
that old palazzo as reminded me of the singing of a congregation of old
Seceders on a communion Sabbath evening in my early days, and in my native town
of Brechin. If in point of glorious voices and fine music there was little
resemblance between the Tuscans of Florence and the weavers of the Tenements,
they were like in this, that both praised God "with all their might."
The
service was in Italian, and the preacher Dr. De Sanctis. He was originally a
Roman Catholic priest, and is now not only a Protestant minister, but a
professor, as I have already mentioned, in a Protestant college. He is a man of
singular piety and ability. His oratory on the occasion owed nothing to its
accessories. He wore no official dress, not even bands; and, instead of a
flowing gown, appeared in the pulpit in his ordinary attire. Then, instead of
occupying a platform, which Roman Catholic orators have often the sagacity to
do, he was, after our senseless Protestant fashion, stuck into a pulpit. This,
though open behind, was after all no better than a big barrel, showing nothing
of the preacher but his head, chest, and arms. Notwithstanding these
disadvantages, Dr. De Sanctis appeared a great orator. His sermon, as all
sermons are by continental preachers, whether Protestant or Popish, was spoken
without paper. Looking the congregation face to face, and free from the fetters
of a manuscript, they never read their discourses On this occasion De Sanctis
addressed us on the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican, and
notwithstanding my very imperfect knowledge of Italian, I was able, by help of
his appropriate and animated gesticulations, his well-modulated tones, and the
expression he threw into his face, to follow the thread of his discourse to
some extent at least. I was sorry when he brought it to a close; and quite
sympathised with Dr. Elliot, a Professor of Theology in Chicago, who, no less
than myself charmed by the orator, came up to me when the service was over,
saying, "That is preaching!"
Dr. De Sanctis probably owes not a little of
his lively and effective pulpit oratory to his having been trained as a
preacher in the Church of Rome. It is but few of its ecclesiastics who either
can or do preach; but among those who appear in the pulpit they have some
preachers of extraordinary power. These men spare no pains in cultivating the
art of popular and pulpit oratory; and Protestant ministers would do well to
follow their example. I had heard much of their preaching friars, and how they
could move their hearers as the wind does a field of corn; and I was fortunate
enough one evening, in Florence, to have my wish to hear one of them fully
gratified.
On returning in the twilight from a visit to the Duomo, we saw
people entering a church; and, joining the stream, we found ourselves inside on
the outskirts of a great crowd. Some sitting, others standing, they were
gathered in front of one of the side chapels, under the arch of which stood a
platform, raised some five or six feet above the floor. The whole interior was
wrapped in gloom, save where the fading twilight, and the lamps of various
"holy shrines," and a single candle fastened to one of the pillars, showed us
an imposing figure in possession of the platform. The speaker, a preaching
friar, was seen from head to heel. He was tall, erect, vigorous, full of power.
His under dress was a white robe, and over it, sweeping down his back, hung a
long black cloak. There stood a great orator, not stuck into a barrel; not
reading a MS. spectacles on nose; but now pacing in freedom up and down the
platform; now standing on its edge; now bending over the crowd below; now erect
ith outstretched arms and glowing face raised to heaven; now putting a question
with the tones and accents of an interrogaor, and now answering his own
questions with a complete change of voice. He was discoursing on - not a very
suitable topic, some may think, for a celibate, a Roman Catholic priest -
domestic duties, and our relationship to God as our common Father and Friend.
And such - though I followed him but imperfectly - was the charm - of his
oratory that I could have sat there, under an image and on the steps of an
altar, long enough to hear him; as, alive to the importance in preaching of the
three Ps, as they have been called, he proved, painted, and persuaded. No
doubt his gesticulations, which were thoroughly Italian, seemed occasionally
outré but it was real oratory, effective and affecting preaching; and I
thought it were well if some of our narrow-minded ecclesiastics, instead of
indulging in unmeasured denunciations of the Church of Rome and shutting their
eyes to everything good out of their own denomination, would go themselves, and
use their influence to send out students, to see such specimens of pulpit
preaching. I saw no wandering eyes - none asleep, or even holding down their
heads.
If the Church of Rome cultivates preaching, she employs other and
less commendable means of attracting notice, and maintaining her hold of the
people - using dramatic as well as preaching arts; and with affected humility
arid sanctity flaying, as I might say, at religion. Of this we had an example
one day in the strange spectacle of a funeral conducted by masked mourners.
Anything more horrible than their appearance it would be difficult to imagine.
Each is shrouded from the shoulders to the heels in a long black cloak; the
head is covered with a cowl, which drops down over the face, entirely
concealing it, and having two holes cut in front for the eyes to look through.
The wearer of this vizor, whom his own mother in such guise would not know,
presents a frightful figure - looks like a dead man, or rather a demon, walking
the streets in sunlight. These mummers, who recall the words of Shakespeare -
"Thy gown? why, ay; come, tailor, let us see
- What masking stuff is
here?" -
are members of a burying brotherhood; and among them - are
enrolled persons belonging to the highest classes of society. This institution,
like many things else belonging to Popery, sprung probably from commendable
motives. The aim of its founders was charity and kindness, to be expressed in
rendering the last offices to the poor. That this may be done without
ostentation, it is required that the attenders at the funeral shall be masked;
and thus - as never a word is spoken, all being conducted in solemn silence -
no man knows who - whether son or brother, priest, peer, or prince - walks by
his side, at the burying perhaps of a beggar. But, as with all those monastic
institutions that stand, tripod-like, on the three vows of "poverty, chastity,
and obedience," the institution fails of its original purpose. It has sunk into
an empty parade; it is a mere affectation of humility, an apology and excuse
for something better. How much better it were for these nobles, grandees, and
people of wealth, to show kindness to the living poor, than foster their own
selfrighteousness, and lay up, as they fancy, stores of merit, by honouring
with their presence the funerals of the dead!
It was my good fortune when
in Florence to have an opportunity of seeing one whose name filled all the
religious world some twenty years ago. I refer to Signora Madiai, whose story,
as illustrative of the unaltered and unalterable character of Popery, it may be
well in these days to recall to the recollection of my older, and set forth to
the attention of my younger, readers. Before visiting this remarkable woman, I
went to see the Bargello, where she and her husband, with others, were
imprisoned for no other crime but meeting to read the Word of God. The Bargello
was built for the Podestas, or those who were Presidents of the Republic,
before the Medici family seized the sovereign power. A vast and lofty pile, its
walls are richly adorned with the shields and coats of arms of the leading
statesmen and chiefs of the old republic. It was used for many years as a state
prison; but now, save for one or two remaining cells, it has lost every vestige
of having ever been a prison, and its noble halls, cleared of the cells that
once disfigured and divided them, are used as a museum of interesting and
valuable antiques. Among shields, helmets, breast-plates, swords, spears, and
battle-axes, sufficient, I suppose, for the equipment of a thousand men - the
most interesting object to me was a head of Oliver Cromwell. It is made
apparently of wax, and was presented, it is said, by the Protector himself - to
the Duke of that time - with whom Oliver was on good terms. Down to the
closely-shaven chin, it is carefully coloured to the life; and is so life-like
that you feel half afraid that the eyes will roll round, and look you through.
None who know the character of the man can doubt that it is his perfect image.
What firmness in that mouth! What penetration in those eyes! It is just such a
head as one would have expected to see on the shoulders of a man who put a king
in the dock, who struck terror into Ireland, who made his country more
respected by foreign powers than she ever was before, or has been since; who
told the Duke of Savoy, when, tool of Rome, he was murdering the Waldenses,
that unless he took his hand off these saints of God, he, Cromwell, would send
the British fleet to blow his house about his ears.
On repairing to the
lodgings of Signora Madiai - for, though once an inhabitant of Florence, she
was now, like ourselves, but a casual visitor - we made our way through streets
remarkable for their narrowness, for the great height of all, and the princely
character of some of, the houses. They rise to the height of four or five
stories, with roofs that project so far beyond the walls as to leave but a
small stripe of blue sky above. They thus afford a grateful shade, unless when
the sun happens to be blazing right overhead; which leads me to remark, that
they only who have travelled southward to a burning sun and transparent skies,
can aright appreciate the force of the figure that sets our Saviour forth as
"the Shadow of a Great Rock in a weary land." In coats-of arms, in coronets, in
the vast doors, in the strong iron trellis-work - which protects the lower
windows, in the spacious courts that are seen, when the gates stand open,
adorned with beautiful plants, gushing fountains, and marble statues - one sees
many evidences of fine taste, affluence, and ancient grandeur; and also of
those troublous times that saw many a tragic and terrible scene acted in these
proud palazzos. These streets indeed bear evidence of something better;
showing, whatever our country is, that Florence- is not unmindful of her famous
men. Marble tablets, that have been erected at the expense of the municipality,
point out the house of Dante, the house of Machiavelli, the house of Amerigo
Vespucci, the celebrated voyager, who gave his name to the New World. And still
more to her credit, Florence now takes pride in showing the relics of the best
of all her citizens the greatest man of the fifteenth century, Fra Girolamo
Savonarola - a reformer before the Reformation, a witness for Christ and
against antichrist who sealed his testimony with his blood. Of him more
by-and-by.
Leaving him who died a martyr for the truth in Florence three
hundred years ago to a succeeding chapter, which he will be found large enough
to fill, let me introduce my readers to a modern martyr in Signora Madiai, - to
a living proof that, if the Pope is not infallible in his decrees, Popery is
unchangeable in its spirit. On the Signora entering the salon, where we waited
for her, she struck me as one of the grandest women I had ever seen. , With a
finely-formed head, features beautifully chiselled, eyes full of intellect and
feeling, and a bearing and air truly noble, she looked the very stuff the metal
of which martyrs may be made. She spoke English, though imperfectly, having
acquired some knowledge of our tongue, as well as of Protestant truth, in the
family of a General Cumming, where, as a superior domestic I suppose, she spent
some years. She is a native of Rome, but it was in Florence she first met
Madiai, to whom she was afterwards married.
Years before her conversion to
Protestantism, she had received an English Bible from some one; but had never
so much as looked into it. At length a lady, who lodged in the house which she
and Madiai had by this time opened in Florence as a pension, presented her with
an Italian Bible. It may have been one of those which an excellent lady friend
of mine used to carry into Tuscany - where the circulation of the Scriptures
was forbidden - quilted in her petticoat. It may have been one I myself helped
to smuggle into Italy long years ago, in connection with a society which,
working quietly, carried on there a contraband trade in Bibles - a very lawful
kind of smuggling. This copy of the Scriptures, anyhow, she and her husband,
from curiosity, but probably under a higher impulse, began to read. The more
they reads the more their interest grew in what was to them a new revelation
from the skies, where they saw neither mass nor the worship of Mary or
saint.
This happened at a providential crisis. The Revolution of 1848, that
swept over Europe, rolled south on Tuscany, hurling away both the duke and his
throne - for a while at least. In this bright, but too brief time of religious
liberty, unions were formed for the reading of - the Word of God; and one of
these was held in the house of the Madiai. Many came there; and of these not a
few were seriously impressed, indeed savingly awakened; Signora Madiai herself
being among the number. Through the grace of God she became a true, decided,
resolute Christian ; not only, along with her husband, turning her back on
priests and Popery, but openly resorting to the Swiss Protestant Church. But
while the number of believers and inquirers was increasing, the tide turned.
Italys hour was not yet come. The Grand Duke was restored to his throne,
and with him came back the reign of darkness, priests, and persecution. In
these circumstances prudence on the part of the converts was counselled, and
they acted on the advice; making themselves as little as possible obnoxious to
the authorities. But when something like cowardice was recommended, and
recommended by Count Guiccardini, who advised that they should cease going to
the Swiss Protestant Church, Signora Madiai, like a heroine, stepped forward to
oppose the trimming policy. How her face beamed, and her eyes flashed fire, and
her form, bent under sickness, rose into dignity, as she told me her brave
reply to Guiccardini, - " Though I am a woman, I am not afraid!" The result was
what they anticipated. So soon as the duke sat secure in his seat, she and her
husband, with Geymonet, now one of the professors of the Waldensian College,
and a young man, then a clerk, but now a banker in the city, and others
besides, were seized, thrown into jail, and, on being tried, were
condemned.
The deliverance of the Madiai from their prison is not the least
interesting, and by much the most marvellous, part of the story. Its full and
true history has never yet, I think, been published. I heard it first from Dr.
Frazer, and afterwards from the Signoras own lips. It is well fitted to
encourage Gods people to commit their way to Him who works by many or by
few - never to despond, still less to despair; "casting all their care upon
Him, for He careth for them." When the Protestant world had its eyes turned on
the Madiai and their fellow-sufferers, and when, while prayers were offered up
by many families, and churches also, to move heaven, Lord Shaftesbury, Lord
Roden, Sir Eardley Culling, Colonel Tronchin, and such men, were moving earth
on their behalf there was living in London a man who was by birth a German, and
by business a livery-stable keeper; a respectable man in his own calling. He
had a devout and pious woman for his wife. One morning as she rose from bed,
she heard - and here, to say the least of it, is a very marvellous circumstance
- a voice saying, "Plead for the Madiai!" She started, and looked round; but
found herself alone in the bed-room. None had entered, or left it. She was
amazed, as she well might be; struck indeed with awe. What this voice was it is
hard to say. Vocal are rare compared with optical illusions; there being, for
one case of an impression made without sound on the ear, a hundred made without
substance on the eye. I remember a remarkable example of the first, which
occurred in my old country parish, and was related to me by James D - , the
subject of it, and one of the best of my people. Occupying a humble position in
life, he was a man of genius and of a vivid imagination, which he had nursed
amid the solitudes of the moor where his cottage stood. On the morning of a
communion Sunday, as he told me, he rose in a state of mental darkness - so
cast down, indeed, by a sense of his sins, that he hesitated about approaching
the Lords table. In the language of Holy Scripture, he was "tossed, and
not comforted." While in this state, as he was preparing himself to go to
church, there came a voice to him, as the voice of our Lord himself, saying,
"Cannot my blood wash away your sins as easily as that water washes your hands
?" "I do not say," he said to me, "there was an actual voice; but I seemed to
hear one as distinct and loud as you now hear mine; and I took courage, and
went forward to the table."
Without settling, any more than I attempt to
do, how the voice came to her, this good woman in London resolved to obey it.
However, before she could do anything in the matter, the tide of business set
in, and occupied all the day. On retiring to bed at night, conscience upbraided
her for the neglect of what she was now inclined to regard as a special message
from heaven. She could not sleep - explaining to her husband, on his asking her
if she was ill, the reason of her restlssness. He treated the matter lightly;
and seeking to persuade her that it was all - a delusion, and the voice she
heard but a trick of fancy, he asked, "What have you or I to do with the Madiai
?" However, like the importunate woman of the parable, she prevailed at last,
not only getting his attention, but securing his services.
He had been a
coachman to the Prince of Moskwa, a grandson, I suppose, of Marshal Ney, and
such satisfaction had he given that his master, when he left his service,
promised to grant him afterwards any favour he could. Of this his wife reminded
her husband, and got him to apply to the prince on behalf of the Madiai. The
prince was astonished at such an application coming from his old coachman,
asking in his turn, "What have you or I to do with the Madiai ?" However, he
yielded to their entreaties, giving them a letter of introduction to one who
had great influence with Napoleon. I do not remember whether this person was,
or was not, the French ambassador, but he resided at that time in London. The
wife of the livery-stable keeper waited on him, having, by perseverance and a
resolution not to be daunted, fought her way to the great mans presence.
She was met with the old question, What had he or the emperor to do with the
Madiai ? - he would certainly not ask Napoleon to interfere with the Grand Duke
in the matter. But, with the strange voice in her ear and strong faith in her
heart, denied the woman would not be. With Gods blessing importunity once
more carried the day. He applied to the emperor; the emperor applied to the
duke; and the telegraph flashed the news to London, The Madiai are free! Thus,
in Gods wonderful providence, neither the churches, nor the great men of
the earth, but an obscure woman, like the angel of God who delivered Peter,
brought them out of prison and of bonds. At the touch of a womans hand
their chains fell off. "The Lord doth build up Jerusalem; He gathereth together
the outcasts of Israel: He healeth the broken in heart, He bindeth up their
wounds. Great is our Lord, and of great power.; his understanding is
infinite."
I wish my readers had seen the Signora, and heard from her own
lips the story of her own and her husbands sufferings, imprisonment, and
deliverance. It was quite a scene; a grand and affecting scene. Of humble
birth, but one of "natures nobility," and more ennobled still by grace,
she displayed throughout all the interview the demeanour of a heaven-born
Christian, and a high-born English lady; only she gesticulated like an Italian,
and, "to the manner born," intonated like an accomplished orator. I thanked God
that I had seen such a noble specimen of humanity and Christian heroism.
Farewell to this, I trust, last of Italys martyrs. The name of Signora
Madiai will stand not the least conspicuous in that long and honourable roll of
witnesses and confessors, which began to be written in the days of St. Paul
under the empire of paganism, and which papal, more cruel than pagan, Rome has
swelled during centuries of bloody persecution. Heathen emperors slew their
thousands, but popes have slain their tens of thousands. And God be praised
that the old man who now fills that tottering throne is likely, through his
Ecumenical Council, to precipitate the doom of Antichrist, and himself suffer
the fate of the engineer who was "hoist on his own petard." Amen - so let it
be!