University of Virginia Library

FLORENCE.

LOCALITIES.

The prevalence of broad-sweeping vales, thickly
studded with olive trees, and relieved by a background
of snow-covered mountains, uniquely embosoming
a picturesque city, through the midst of
which a river courses, spanned by several finely
arched bridges—these are local circumstances which
clearly assure us that we are in the delightful capital
of the garden of Italy, as Tuscany is appropriately
called. A merely conventional view of Florence
inspired me with a strong predilection for it
as a residence. It possesses that medium character

as regards extent, population, and activity, which is
essential to the comfort of those who would find in
their place of abode a moderate degree of liveliness
combined with something of quietude and beauty.
Its compactness and broadly-paved streets, and the
general magnitude and antique cast of its buildings,
are features which almost immediately prepossess
the visitor.

One cannot wander long in Florence without
coming out upon the Piazza Grand Duca. This
square seems to possess something of the local interest
of the Edinburgh grass-market, as described by
Sir Walter Scott; not that peculiar events transpire
there, but the place is a kind of central resort, the
post office and custom house being there situated,
and that curious specimen of Tuscan architecture
called the Palazzo Vecchio. There, too, stand the
colossal and time-hallowed figures, sculptured by
Buonarotti; seen at night how mystic their snowy
distinctness! The illuminated figures upon the old
tower designate, at that season, the hour, and a solitary
sentinel standing in the shade of the buildings,
with the equestrian statue of Cosmo in the centre,
complete the romanticity of the scene. In the daytime
a far more bustling appearance is presented—
groups awaiting the sorting of the mails, venders
crying at their scattered booths, and, most unique of
all, a quack mounted upon his càleche, eulogizing his
nostrums most eloquently.

The view from the Boboli gardens attached to
the ducal palace, is thus graphically described by a
celebrated English poet:

`You see below Florence, a smokeless city, with
its domes and spires occupying the vale, and beyond,
to the right, the Apennines, whose base extends
even to the walls, and whose summits are intersected
by ashen-coloured clouds. The green valleys of
these mountains, which gently unfold themselves
upon the plains, and the intervening hills, covered
with vineyards and olive plantations, are occupied
by the villas, which are, as it were, another city—a
Babylon of palaces and gardens. In the midst of
the picture rolls the Arno, through woods bounded
by aerial snowy summits of the Apennines. On the
right, a magnificent buttress of lofty craggy hills,
overgrown with wilderness, juts out into many
shapes over a lonely valley, and approaches the
walls of the city.

`Cascini and other villages occupy the pinnacles
and abutments of these hills, over which is seen, at
intervals, the ethereal mountain line, hoary with
snow and intersected by clouds. The valley below
is covered with cypress groves, whose obeliskine
forms of intense green pierce the gray shadow of
the wintry hills that overhang them. The cypresses,
too, of the garden, form a magnificent foreground
of accumulated verdure: pyramids of dark
green shining cones, rising out of a mass, between

which are cut, like caverns, recesses conducting into
walks.'

At no great distance we find the Museum of Natural
History, the anatomical preparations of which
are probably unsurpassed for their complete and
scientific exhibition of the several parts and processes
of the human system. Here the body seems
literally laid open, its nerves, glands and muscles
represented in their natural positions, relations, hues
and functions; and all with a regularity of arrangement,
and displaying a perfection in the execution
truly admirable. Means of studying nature, in so
important a department, more comprehensive, and
withal commodious, can scarcely be imagined. Admiration
of the skill of the artist and an agitating
sense of the wonderful delicacy and mysterious
science involved in our physical being alternately
occupy the beholder.

The Mausoleum and Chapel Tomb of the Medici
are remarkable objects of attention. The latter is
hallowed by the immortal work of M. Angelo,
which it contains; and the former is yet in the progress
of construction, and although very rich in
marbles and precious stones, possesses too sombre a
hue, with its present incumbrances, to show these to
much advantage.

ART AND ARTISTS.

Within the palace is a magnificent range of apartments
appropriated to the fine arts, through which
we are privileged, by the liberal courtesy so striking
to the stranger in Tuscany, unreservedly to wander.
They are adorned above with the most splendid
frescos illustrative of the Iliad, beneath by brilliantly
polished floors, while around, in gorgeous
profusion, are various and admired paintings. The
chief distinction of this collection seems to consist
in the remarkable paucity of ordinary works amid
such a multitude. There are few which indicate
vast genius or inspire overpowering sentiments, but
many which, from their intrinsic beauty or excellence
of execution, form delightful sources of contemplative
pleasure.

But the grand object which lends a most attractive
charm to this city, is its far-famed gallery of art,
containing, besides innumerable paintings, many
original works of ancient sculpture. Day after day
may the resident here frequent this elegant and
instructive resort, until it becomes to him a familiar
retreat, where much of his daily happiness is experienced,
and many of his best thoughts suggested.

Here, were this my home, would many of my best
friends be; for who can fail to have his favourite
paintings, as well as his much-loved walks or most
admired authors? And who that values the objects
and agencies around him in proportion to their improving
influences can withstand the sentiment of
sympathy inspired by the long study and nurtured
love of art's happiest products? How many delightful
hours may one pass in that little sanctum
of art—the Tribune, gazing upon its presiding goddess,
and basking in the radiated expression of its
pictured glories! Often, while seated in the circular
chair opposite the celebrated statue of the Knife-grinder,
I could not but reflect upon the position as
superior to any which mere wealth or station could
boast. For if the end chiefly attainable from both
these is enjoyment, assuredly the rich little apartment
I temporarily occupied, evolves from its beautiful
treasures sufficient pleasurable inspiration to
delight every worthy capacity of happiness, such as
is derivable from outward objects. Specification
and especial comment in regard to the paintings in
the Gallery and Palace of Florence becomes less
and less practicable as the sojourner repeats and
lengthens his visits. The works of Raphael, Titian,
Morillo, and Salvator, distinctive as they are, become
to the studious observer more and more
instinct with an inspiration over which he loves to
ponder, but which seldom `wreaks itself upon expression.'

Standing amid the renowned sculptured group of

Niobe and her children, I could indeed discover
maternal sadness in the fixed countenance of the
former: yet at the first view, it seemed wanting in
that excited, agonized grief, which the occasion
would naturally induce. Perhaps, however, the expression
more justly is that of placid and utterly
despairing sorrow. The matronly form, the manner
in which the mother's arm protects her clinging
babe, the fine natural positions of the children—
none can behold without admiration; nor, I think,
without wishing that the whole group was better
disposed for exhibiting the scene so vaguely indicated
by the severed and regularly placed figures.

At the extremity of the gallery are two statues
by Donatello—John the Baptist in the Wilderness,
and David. In viewing the former, one must admit
its excellence as an artificial representation of an
attenuated human form; but few can restrain a feeling
of impatience in regarding it as the image it is
designed to exhibit. In the successful attempt to
delineate a victim of famine, all trace of devotion
and benignity is lost. In this, as in other instances,
the subject of regret is that the artist had not been
satisfied with executing a fine imitation of nature,
instead of aiming, at the same time, at representing
a great character. Michael Angelo's Christ would
not so often disappoint, were it known by another
name. It is the nature of man to associate with
names corresponding ideas; and he mars not a little
the completeness of his fame who is prone to connect

with the emanations of his genius or industry,
the added attraction of a title which is, in itself, calculated
to excite great expectations. That title will
anticipate the work itself in reputation; and hence
the notions of the multitude will be proportionably
raised. It is highly interesting to peruse the
various, and for the most part, strongly marked
countenances in the Portrait Gallery. These likenesses
comprise authentic delineations of the master-painters.
Those of Titian, Vandyke, and Perugini
particularly arrested my attention.

In the Corsini Palace, several sketches by Salvator—a
powerful modern work, the Death of Priam—
a very pretty one, the Corsini Children—two Dutch
portraits, finished up with a truly dreadful fidelity
to nature—Carlo Dolci's Poesia, and a drawing by
Raphael, are the most interesting works in the extensive
collection. Of late productions of art at
present to be seen in this city, few interested me
more than those of Bartolini, the most celebrated,
and, in some respects, the best of modern sculptors.
The statue of Charity, with an infant asleep in her
arms, and a boy receiving instruction at her feet,
and a beautiful Priestess of Bacchus, still in the
hands of the artist, most delighted me. I viewed,
also, with lively pleasure, a picture just completed
by a young Florentine—the miracle of a mule
refusing her proffered food and falling upon her
knees at the sight of St. Anthony bearing the host.
Whatever may be thought of the subject, the execution

is wonderful. The countenance of the covered
heretic, for whose good the miracle is supposed to
have been performed, expressing astonishment and
conviction, the calm self-possessed air of the saint,
with the reverence and still devotion beaming from
the attentive features of the surrounding crowd—all
this is most feelingly conceived and depicted. The
artist is but twenty years of age, one of a gifted
family.

In relation to contemporary artists, and to the
most beautiful of the arts, it is however happily permitted
to the American visitor at Florence, to mingle
with the gratifications of the present and the
hopes of the future, the glow of patriotic pride and
pleasure. When from the halls sacred to the trophies
of ancient art, he turns to regard the efforts
now making to renew the days of her glory, there
is one spot to which he will fondly and frequently
revert, where an assiduous and gifted votary brightens
the days of his exile with the loved labours of
the chisel. Whether moulding infant forms to
speak to us of innocence and heaven, tracing the
delicate lines of a marble-embodied portraiture, or
turning to the sublime enterprise of fashioning the
august image of the Father of his Country for the
Capitol of the rotunda, the artist manifests the conceptive
and progressive energy of true genius. It
is the Studio of Greenough.

A SPRING EXCURSION.

As the season of mildness and salubrity unfolds
with the rapidity and luxuriance peculiar to southern
Europe, the pleasures of pedestrianism and excursions
into the vicinity are augmented. To gain the
summit of Fiesole, the place of Cataline's encampment,
and gaze from off the beautiful and cypress-decked
esplanade in front of the old monastery there
situated, upon the city beneath, and the snowy
heights in the distance, or to thread the sunny path
that skirts the river, becomes daily more delightful.
The song of birds in the groves, the rustling of the
bright lizards among the dead leaves, and the hum
of insects in the warm air are too spring-like not to
excite, with their genial vivacity, the contemplative
spirit. On these occasions the converse of friendship
would frequently and almost spontaneously die
away before the subtle influence of awakening and
teeming nature. Ever and anon we involuntarily
paused to admire the beauty around. The river
presenting an increased body of water, rapidly purling
along its wayward course; the opposite bank
displaying its numerous and various trees, now
becoming more deeply umbrageous and verdant,

while, upon each hand, that glorious object, the
hoary mountain ranges, reflecting the scattered sunlight,
and contrasting with the indented slopes, combined
to form a landscape of peculiar cheerfulness
and beauty.

It was on a day like this that I extended my
acquaintance with the environs of the city, much
beyond the limits to which previous excursions had
carried me. After six miles of riding we reached
Pratolino, a villa of the Grand Duke, and perambulated
its park-like grounds, the wooded parts of
which forcibly reminded me of Mount Auburn.
Here we viewed a most colossal statue, composed of
brick, plaster-work and stone, which, from its awful
size and muscular development, presents a mammoth
rather than a truly sublime object. The fountain
designed to flow over it was quite dry. The figure
is human and in a sitting posture. We went
through the ceremony of ascending and entering
the enormous head of this monstrous result of the
labours of Giovanni di Bologna. The old lacquey
de place who accompanied us promised to point out
his country house on the road; and when we were
passing a broad plain having a large cross in the
centre, declared that to be the `home in the country'
to which he confidently expected to retire. It was
the public burying-ground. Thus spoke he of the
last resting place of his body, and in his habit and
easy manner of sustaining the mortal coil, I recognized
one of those peculiar philosophers, of whom
Goldsmith so often and charmingly speaks.

CARNIVAL.

The last week of Carnival, although unmarked by
the extravagant festivities which attract the stranger
multitude at the seat of Catholicism, is yet sufficiently
prolific of amusement. The Lung' Arno,
as the street bordering the river is called, is thronged,
and the occasional appearance of a party of
maskers, and especially that of a gilded and painted
vehicle, filled with a band of choristers dressed in
the Chinese fashion, evidences a gala time. The
Grand Duke's equipage, consisting of several carriages
drawn by four horses richly caparisoned, with
gaudy outriders, adds to the passing show. A Festa
di Ballo is the favourite evening diversion. The
extensive floor of one of the large theatres is covered
with people of various orders, the number of
maskers being generally small in proportion to the
whole assembly. Most of the females wear large
black silk dominos and half masks. A few gay and
comical disguises appear amid the throng; and
most of the time three or four sets of waltzers are
footing it away in various parts of the building.
There is far less of genuine humour than I had

looked for, and a small display of taste in the costumes.
Most of the maskers, in their silent glidings
to and fro, seemed convened rather for intrigue than
mere pastime. Indeed the practice, when not evidently
made use of as a source of mirth, or successful
in producing that effect, is too intrinsically sinister
to please those unaccustomed to it. I can readily
imagine a masquerade in France as a very gay,
amusing, and perhaps pleasing spectacle; but if this
be a specimen of this form of diversion in Italy, I
can only say that it possesses, in my view, little
comparative attraction. The Chiesa di St. Giovanni
is splendidly arrayed in tapestry and brilliantly illuminated.
The inspiring solos and choruses, with
the deep responses of the assembled multitude, and
the grand instrumental harmony, formed a scene
more impressive and interesting than the combined
pleasures of the Carnival.

Among the by-way mirth observable at this mirthful
season, one instance struck me as quite unique. A
man wearing a military chapeau, stood upon an inverted
basket, at a corner, with an outstretched arm and
a fixed eye, immovable as a statue. The joke consisted
in his perfect immobility amid the jeers and
questionings of an eager group. In the midst of a
warm debate, whether the figure was artificial or
human, the support was removed from beneath his
feet, and the hero of the scene joined in the merriment,
the source of which was so essentially the
product of Florentine wit. A few days after I saw

a multitude convened to witness a sadder but equally
characteristic spectacle. In front of the singular old
prison of Florence, three criminals were exposed,
having upon their breasts large placards indicating
their names, age and crimes. They had been condemned
to the galleys for three years, and the bell
had assembled a curious crowd to gaze upon their
wretchedness, and witness their transportation.

CEREMONIES.

On a fine afternoon we visited Prato, a manufacturing
town ten miles distant, for the purpose of witnessing
a religious procession, which occurs there
once in three years, and is deemed one of the most
imposing in Italy. Having passed two or three
hours in roaming about the streets, amid the dense
crowds assembled to behold the ceremonial, about
dusk we took the station previously obtained for us,
being one compartment of the rough and somewhat
elevated galleries which lined the way. The houses
were illuminated, and the strong light falling upon
two tiers of spectators arranged on either side, gave
to the scene a remarkable effect. First in the procession
(designed in observance of the death of our
Saviour) came a large cavalcade, habited as the ancient
Roman soldiers, the leaders wearing rich mantles,
and dark-plumed helmets; then a considerable
body of infantry; then a band of musicians clad in
black. After these appeared an immense number
of laymen bearing torches, and followed by boys,
priests and marshals; and then were borne, successively,
all the emblems of our Saviour's sufferings,

and, inscribed upon banners, his words during the
crucifixion; after all, preceded by a large choir of
priests, and surrounded by torch-bearers, appeared
the image of the dead Jesus, over which was carried
a large black canopy; then came the Madonna,
more music, another cavalcade of soldiery, and files
of citizens closed the procession. As this was the
first ceremonial of the kind I had seen, my interest
was considerably excited. It certainly was well
calculated to induce its destined influence. The
combined effect of such a solemn moving pageant,
and the gazing multitude, revealed to the sight by
the flickering glare of an hundred torches; the profound
stillness which reigned, broken only by an
occasional murmur, the deep tones of the chanters,
or the measured strains of the instruments; the view,
under such circumstances, of the symbols of the sufferings
of Him who, on that day, centuries past, was
borne mournfully and quietly to the sepulchre—all
came most touchingly and with an awful and solemn
distinctness upon the mind.

Among the curious ceremonies of the holy week,
observed in Florence, is that called the Columbina.
At mid-day, the figure of a small dove is made, by
fire-works, to glide rapidly along a large wire from
the main altar of the Cathedral, through the principal
entrance to the other side of the street, where it
comes in contact with a magazine of squibs lodged
in a massive carved block or pillar, thence producing
gradual but continued explosions. This phenomenon,

although its effect is unaided by the darkness
of night, is eagerly viewed by an immense populace
filling the large square and adjacent balconies and
windows. What its religious signification is, I cannot
precisely determine. The first fire is said to be
communicated from a holy flint, i. e. a small fragment
of the tomb of Christ; and the contardini attach
great importance to the manner in which the dove
executes her mission, not indeed a very peaceful
one. Should her passage be uninterrupted, and the
desired effect be produced, a favourable season for
the crops is inferred; if, on the other hand, mismanagement
causes a failure, the contrary event is sadly
presaged. On this occasion the whole affair went off
well. It was regarded with much apparent interest
—an interest, indeed, which nothing but the character
of the people and the force of popular superstitions
can explain.

NORMA.

The opera of Norma is rife with the beautiful
music of Bellini, and the graceful poetry of Felice
Romano. The first representation here was attended
by an immense assemblage, and listened to with
singular attention, from the fact, that during the last
autumn it was performed on the same stage, with a
German lady as prima donna, with what was believed
to be an unequalled degree of success.

The plot of this opera represents the Druids in
Gaul, whose orgies are urged to the downfall of the
Romans, who, under a proconsul, are occupying this
ancient seat of their rites, and is said to have a hidden
meaning, and to be allegorically significant of
the abuses of monastic institutions and the downfall
of the church; for which reason it was prohibited in
Rome under its original name, and before being presented
there received essential modifications. Norma
is high priestess, her father high priest, and
Adalgisa a young ministra in the temple. The
young Roman officer woos and wins Norma, and
afterwards is in love with Adalgisa. At length,
being taken in the very act of spying upon the Druidical

rights, he is condemned to death; when Norma
declares her apostacy, and glories to die upon the
same pile with her faithless but repentant lover.
This outline is most boldly sketched and interestingly
filled up in the opera. The moving scenes are
those in which the infidelity of the proconsul is discovered,
where Norma makes a vain attempt to kill
her offspring; her interview with Adalgisa, the last
with Pollione, and that in which she implores her
father's forgiveness, and commits her children to his
care. The choruses are remarkably fine, and the
dresses, particularly of the females, quite picturesque.
In Norma's first ministration at the altar,
there is a hymn addressed to the moon, the most
touching piece of vocalism I have heard.

For pathos, vigour of acting, and strong moral
expression, the consummation of the plot in this
opera, as developed by vocal and dramatic talents of
a high order, is unsurpassed. When the young and
gallantly arrayed Roman is brought before the Druidical

assembly, to answer to the charge of haunting
their sacred groves, he sees Norma for the first
time since, on the detection of his estrangement, she
overwhelmed him with indignant reproaches. And
now when the avenging steel is raised to destroy
him, she solicits her unsuspecting parent to allow
her a private interview with the culprit, as it were
to search into the motives of his sacrilege. The
brilliant temple is deserted by all but the proconsul
and her he has injured. He quailed not before the
angry multitude, nor at the threatening weapon, but
the eloquent eye of Norma thrills him with awe. I
can scarcely imagine a more commanding dramatic
representation of woman's dignity and power under
the sense of injury, than is displayed in the majestic
mien and sternly beaming countenance of Norma,
as with the oak-leaf garland upon her head, her
long dark hair falling over white habiliments, and
her symmetrical arms quite bare and braceleted with
gold, she pauses before the awe-struck Roman, and
gazing as if to read his soul and torture with the
gaze—breaks the spell of a long and solemn silence
with the deeply chanted words:

In the duet between Norma and Adalgisa, where
they mingle their saddened spirits and mourn together—the
one for love unreturned, the other for
love to be renounced, every note of the gamut is
run up with a precision and melody truly astonish

ing. And the last duet between the former and
Pollione, when, by her voluntary self-sacrifice, the
greatness of her character is revealed to him, and
his affection is renewed only to cheer her dreadful
doom, is melting beyond description.

In a word, I have seen no opera which combines
so much that is interesting and frequently sublime,
and wonder not that in a country so imaginative
and musical as this, and with such unrivalled performers,
it should be so universally popular. In
this, the city of its origin, the Italian opera seems to
exist in singular perfection, and its votaries to
evince a peculiar and discriminating enthusiasm.[1]

CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS.

It is not the intensity, but the peculiar chilliness of
the mountain wind which renders winter formidable
here. The difference of temperature, at that
season, between the open country and in the full
influence of the sun, and that of the narrow streets,
is almost incredible. Hence the period of nature's
renovation is not less welcome than in colder climes.
And when the ceremonies of the holy week were
over, and the season, deemed the finest in Florence,
at length palpably evinced itself, the mass of travellers
returned thither on their way northward.
There is something to me singularly inconsistent in
this mechanical driving way of seeing Italy. Of all
countries it requires especial study, and calm habitual
attention to develope its resources. There is,
indeed, a kind of pleasure, to one in good health
and easily amused, in flying from place to place,
constantly seeking new objects and exhausting none.
But this is surely a mere negative enjoyment. The
individual thus intent upon self-gratification, may
find it elsewhere, and by other means. The peculiar
satisfaction derivable in this land, to one of us
denizens of the new, the active, the bustling world,

is found in its quiet air, its contemplative spirit,
in the imaginative character of the amusements,
in the calm impulse by which, under such circumstances,
the current of existence is urged along.
The pervading musical spirit of the Florentines
seemed to break out anew as the genial season advanced,
and no time were the opera airs chanted by
persons of almost every class as they walk the
streets at night, heard more frequently.

The Florentines, and indeed the Tuscans, generally
are, as far as my observation extended, the happiest
Italians: more liberally governed they certainly are.
But the number of paupers and improvidents, even
here, must strike an American visitor; and blindness
or affections of the eyes are remarkably common.
Yet the peculiar toll of the bell which calls out the
Misericordia is comparatively seldom heard. This
is an ancient institution, the members of which, at a
certain summons, array themselves in sackcloth
dominos, and hasten to execute whatever charitable
office the occasion demands. The brethren are buried
by the society, whose dark forms, bearing a
body, sometimes glide fearfully upon the sight, their
torches flickering in the noon-day light, and their
measured tread echoing among the busy streets
quite solemnly.

Although my early and favourable impressions of
this city were confirmed, yet, in one respect, many
are liable to disappointment. With the imaginative
expectancy natural to the inexperienced, we may

have pictured an inland Italian city as a quiet spot,
whose very air is redolent with the mellowness of
age, and whose every object, from the lowly dwelling
to the magnificent church, is rich in the interest
of antiquity. Here, on the contrary, there is much
which resembles what may be called the natural
language of a modern metropolis. The constant cry
of the venders, the hurrying to and fro of busy feet,
the restlessness of trade, and the gaudy bustle of
pleasure—all are here, and they break in too rudely
upon the quiet beauty of the scene, antiquated as
are some of its features, to permit of more than the
occasional indulgence of that romantic illusion with
which we are fain to tint the sterner outlines of
reality. Yet there are times and aspects which
carry the meditative into the region where they
most delight to expatiate—the region of imaginative
thought. The pleasure of a morning's lounge in
the gallery of the Pitti, or the Tribune, of a retrospective
hour in the holy precincts of St. Croce,
above the `dust which makes them holier,' of a sunset
view from the beautiful bridge of Santa Trinita,
of an evening's walk along the Arno, of listening
and gazing within the chaste walls of the Pergola—
all this would seem tame in description, but in reality
it is entrancing. It is, too, morally exciting,
when the moon is careering high in the heavens, to
walk around the spacious square of the Duomo, and
look up at the Cathedral and beautiful greco-arabic
campanile beside it, illuminated by a light so in
unison with their own dusky, yet rich hues, so
revealing to the mammoth proportions of the one,
and the towering but simple elegance of the other.
When the wide space around reflects no sound but
the faint echo of a solitary pedestrian, standing in
full view of such a grand and time-hallowed result
of human art, and remembering how oft the same
lonely orb has bathed in silver radiance the old
dome and pinnacles—more faithful in the still tenderness
of her nightly greetings than the evanescent
and inconstant sentiment of man, the idea of Italy
and her intellectual nobleness comes home like a
realized dream to the heart.