University of Virginia Library

FLORENCE REVISITED.

We had been riding all night along the Arno, whose
turgid waters were shrunk to half their usual dimensions,
by the intense heat of midsummer. Dawn was gradually
unveiling the heavens, and spreading a soft, silvery light
over the landscape, as we drew near the termination of
our journey. The vines, by the road-side, stirred cheerfully
in the morning breeze, and as one after another of
their broad leaves was uplifted, the mossy boughs of the
mulberry trees upon which they are festooned, were momentarily
revealed, brightened by the grateful dew. The
full grain beneath them, bowed by its own weight, glistened
with the same moisture, condensed in chrystals upon
its bended tops; and to vary the rich carpet so lavishly
spread over the earth, a patch of lupens or artichokes, occasionally
appeared, from amid which, rose the low, grey
olive, or thin poplar of Tuscany. Sometimes a few dwarfed

pines indicated the site of ancient woods, long since
extirpated by the genius of Agriculture, or some remnant
of an ancient wall marked the old feudal boundaries of
the landholders. A still more interesting memorial of
those times exists farther back, in the shape of a picturesque
tower, celebrated on account of its having been taken
by a curious stratagem. Lights were appended to the
horns of a flock of goats, which, in the night, appeared
like an army, and frightened away the hesieged. Early
as was the hour, a large group of poor women, spinning
flax, were awaiting at the gate of a villa, the customary
alms of its proprietor; and often a bend in the river
brought us in view of several men dragging a heavily
laden barge through its narrow channel. As the day
broke, we came in sight of Florence. The mighty dome
of its cathedral—that noble monument of the genius of
Brunelleschi, and the graceful tower by its side, rose from
the mass of dense buildings, like a warrior of the middle
ages, and a fair devotee of some more peaceful epoch,
standing in the centre, to guard and hallow the city. Far
around the walls, spread the hills with a fertile beauty and
protecting grace, and through the midst wound the Arno,
gleaming in the morning sun. It is a curious feeling—
that with which we revisit an Italian city, familiar and
endeared to our memory. There are none of those striking
local changes, which startle the absentee on his return
to the New World. The outward scene is the same;
but what revolutions may not his own feelings have undergone,
since he last beheld it! How may experience
have subdued enthusiasm, and suffering chastened hope!
Will the solemn beauty of the church wherein he was wont
to lose himself in holy musing, beguile him, as of old, to
meditative joy? Will the picture before which he so often
stood, wrapt in admiration, awaken his heart as before?
Will the calm beauty of the favorite statue once more
soothe his impatient soul? Will the rich and moving
strain for which he has so long thirsted, ever thrill as
when it first fell upon his ear? And `the old, familiar
faces'—have a few years passed them by untouched? In
such a reverie I went forth to revive the associations of
Florence. The dreamy atmosphere of a warm and cloudy
day accorded with the pensive delight with which I retraced
scenes unexpectedly revisited. Many botanical
specimens were added to the unrivalled wax collection at
the museum, and several new tables, bright with chalcedony,
amethyst and pearl, were visible at the Pietra dura
manufactory. The old priest, whose serene temper seemed
a charm against the encroachments of age, had lost
something of his rotundity of visage, and his hair was
blanched to a more snowy whiteness. A shade of care
was evident upon the brow of the man of pleasure, and his
reckless air and contracted establishment most strikingly
indicated the reduced state of his resources. The flower-girl
moved with less sprightliness, and the dazzling beauty
of the belle was subdued to the calm grace of womanhood.
The artist whom I left toiling in obscurity had received
the reward of his self devotion; fame and fortune had
crowned his labors. The beggar at the corner looked as
unchanged as a picture, but his moan of supplication had
sunk a key lower. The waiter at the caffe maintained
his accustomed swagger, and promotion had cooled the
earnest promptitude which distinguished his noviciate.
Three new chain bridges span Arno; being painted
white, and supported by massive pillars of granite, surmounted
by marble sphinxes, their appearance is very
pleasing. The one below the Ponte Vecchio, serves as
a fine foreground object in the landscape formed by the
adjacent hills; and the other embellishes the vista through
which we gaze down the river to the far-off mountains
and woods of the Cascine. Utilitarianism is rapidly penetrating
even into Tuscany. Demidorff's elegant villa
is transformed into a silk manufactory; and a railroad is
projected between Florence and Leghorn. With the
same stolid dignity rose the massive walls of the Pitti
and Strozzi palaces, wearing as undaunted an aspect as
when the standards of the ancient factions floated from
the iron rings still riveted to their walls. The lofty firs
and oaks of the public walk waved in undiminished luxuriance;
and the pheasants flitted as lightly over the lawn.
The curious tower of the Palazzo Vecchio was relieved
with the same vivid outline in the twilight; and the crowd
pressed as confusedly through the narrow limits of the
Via Calziole. The throng promenade as gaily as ever
along the river-side, on the evening of a festival,—the
stately peasant-girl, with her finely-wrought hat—the
strutting footman—the dark-robbed priest—the cheerful
stranger, and the loitering artist. The street-musicians
gather little audiences as formerly; and the evening bells
invade the air with their wonted chime.

The most interesting of Greenough's recent productions,

is an ideal female head—Heloise, illustrative of
Pope's well-known lines:—
Another American sculptor has recently taken up his
residence in Florence, whose labors seem destined to
reflect great honor upon his country. Hiram Powers is
one of those artists whose vocation is ordained by native
endowments. Amid the vicissitudes of his early life, the
faculty, so strong within him, found but occasional and
limited development: yet was it never wholly dormant.
Powers derives his principles of art directly from the only
legitimate source—Nature. His recent busts are instinct
with life and reality. They combine the utmost
fidelity in detail with the best general effect. They
abound in expression and truth. His success in this department,
has given occasion to so many engagements
for busts, that time has scarcely been afforded him for
any enterprize of a purely ideal character. He is now
about to embody a fine conception from Gesner's Death
of Abel. He intends making a statue of Eve at the moment
when after her expulsion from Paradise, the sight of
a dead bird first revealed to her the nature of death. “It
is I! It is I! Unhappy that I am, who have brought misery
and grief on every creature! For my sin, these pretty,
harmless animals are punished.” Her tears redoubled.
“What an event! How stiff and cold it is! It has
neither voice nor motion; its joints no longer bend;
its limbs refuse their office. Speak Adam, is this
death?'

Florence may appear, at a casual view, comparatively
deficient in local associations; yet few cities are more
impressed by the facts of their history. It was during
the middle ages that it rose to power, and that violent
era has left its memorials behind. The architecture is
more remarkable for strength than elegance, and its
beauty is that of simplicity and dignity. Of this, the
Pitti and Strozzi palaces are striking examples. In
whatever direction one wanders, memorials of departed
ages meet the view, less numerous and imposing than at
Rome, but still sufficiently so to awaken the sweet though
melancholy charm of antiquity. Every day, in walking
to the Cascine, the stranger passes the house where
Amerigo Vespuccio was born; and as he glances at the
hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, he remembers that it
was founded by the father of Dante's Beatrice. The
sight of Galileo's tower, near the Roman gate, recalls
that scene of deep, moral and dramatic interest, when
the philosopher, having, on his knees, renounced his
theory of the earth's motion, before the tribunal of Rome,
suddenly sprung to his feet and exclaimed, “E pur si
muove!”—`and yet it moves.' The villa of Boccacio, in
the environs, awakens the awful associations of the plague
as well as the beauty of the Decameron; and a stroll
around the walls, by bringing in view the old fortifications,
will revive some of the scenes of the celebrated siege of
eleven months, in 1530. The heroism exhibited by the
Florentines at this period of privation and suffering, renders

it one of the brightest pages of their annals. Many a
maiden cast herself from the balcony to escape the brutal
soldiery; and one woman who had been forcibly carried
away by an officer, stole from the camp at night, collected
all his spoils, and mounting hishorse, rode back to Florence,
with a new dowry for her husband. Let the stranger
who would excite the local associations of the Tuscan
capital, stroll into the Piazza Grand Duca on a spring
morning. Yonder is a crowd of applicants at the grated
windows of the post office; here a line of venders, vociferating
the price of their paltry wares; and there a score
of porters at work about the custom-house. In the
centre is an eloquent quack, mounted upon an open
barouche, and surrounded by vials, plasters and surgical
instruments, waving a long string of certificates, and loudly
expounding the virtues of his specifics to a group of
gaping peasants. At the portal of yonder palace, an
English equipage is standing, while its master is negotiating
with Fenzi, the banker, within. People are passing
and re-passing through the spacious area, or chatting in
small groups. In the midst is the bronze, equestrian
statue of Cosmo, and near it, the fountain exhibiting a
colossal figure of Neptune. This remarkable public
square is not less striking as a witness of the past than
from its present interest. The irregular design of the
Palazzo Veccho, is attributed to the public animosities
of the period of its erection; and the open space which
now constitutes the Piazza, was formed by the destruction
of the houses of the Uberti family, and others of the
same faction, that the palace of the Priors might not
stand on what was deemed accursed ground. Another
scene associated with one of the most tragic events in
the history of Florence, is the Duomo—that huge pile so
richly encrusted with black and white marble, which
was commenced towards the close of the twelfth-century.
As one, in any degree susceptible to the influence of
superstition, wanders, at twilight, through the vast and
dusky precincts of this cathedral, vague and startling
fancies will often throng upon his mind. As he slowly
paces the marble floor towards the main altar, perhaps
some mendicant glides from a dark recess, with a low
moan of entreaty, or an aged female form, bowed at one
of the shrines, is dimly descried in the gloom. The
only light streams through the lofty and richly-painted
windows. The few busts of the illustrious of by-gone
days, are scarcely discernible; the letters on the sepulchral
tablets are blurred in the twilight, and the dust-covered
banners, trophies of valor displayed in the Holy
Land, hang in shadowy folds. At that pensive hour, in
the solitude of so extensive a building, surrounded by
the symbols of Death and Religion, how vividly rises to
the imagination the sanguinary deed perpetrated before
that altar! The conspiracy of the Pazzi forms the subject
of one of Alfieri's tragedies; and a very spirited
illustration of one of the scenes was recently exhibited in
Florence, the production of a promising young artist. It
represents the wife of Francesco kneeling at his feet and
endeavoring to prevent his leaving the house at the appointed
signal. At the head of the plot was Sixtus IV.,
whose principal agent, Salviati, concerted with the
Pazzi to execute their purpose at a dinner given by
Lorenzo de Medici, at Fiesole; but in consequence of
his brother's absence, the scene of action was transferred
to the church. On the 26th of April, 1478, the day
appointed, it appears the service commenced without the
presence of Guliano de Medici. Francesco Pazzi and
Bandini went in search of him. They not only accompanied
him in the most friendly manner to the cathedral,
but in order to ascertain if he wore concealed weapons,
threw their arms caressingly about him as they walked,
and took their places by his side, before the altar. When
the bell rung—the signal agreed upon, and the priest
raised the consecrated wafer, as the people bent their
heads before it, Bandini plunged a dagger into the
breast of Giuliano. Francesco Pazzi then rushed upon
him and stabbed him in many places, with such fury
that he wounded himself in the struggle. Lorenzo defended
himself successfully against the priest who was
to have taken his life, and received but a slight wound.
His friends rallied around him, and they retreated to the
sacristy, where one of the young men, thinking the
weapon which had injured Lorenzo might have been
poisoned, sucked the wound. The conspirators having
so completely failed, were soon identified, and the
leaders executed, while Lorenzo's escape was hailed with
acclamations by the people. On a calm, summer night,
as one walks up the deserted and spacious area of the
Via Larga, he may watch the moonbeams as they play
upon the beautiful cornice of the Palazzo Ricardi, and recall,
as a contrast to the peaceful scene, another bloody deed
in the chronicles of the house of Medici. It was to this
princely dwelling that the nephew of Allessandro, first
Duke of Florence, commonly called Lorenzino, ambitious
of power, lured his profligate uncle, and having invited
him to repose, and placed his sword with the belt
twisted firmly round the hilt, upon the bolster, stole out
and brought a bravo to dispatch him. The assassination,
however, proved difficult, and the treacherous relative was
obliged, personally, to join in the butchery. He dipped
his finger in the blood of his kinsman, and wrote upon
the wall of the room, the line from Virgil—
Although the presumptive heir of Alessandro, he fled, and
after ten years of exile, fell, himself, beneath an assassin's
dagger at Venice.

Among the numerous hills of the Appenine range
surrounding Florence, Fiesole is conspicuous from its
picturesque appearance. It is surmounted by a row of
cypresses, and upon its summit stands an ancient convent.
From the green and shady esplanade before this
building, is obtainable one of the best views of the city
and its environs; and the traveller who possesses any
taste for scenery will not regret his three miles walk from
the Porta Pinta, or the somewhat precipitous ascent which
brings him to so commanding an observatory. Upon
this mountain stood a celebrated Etruscan fortress. It
was one of Cataline's strong-holds; and the traces of its
walls are still discernible. From this spot the founders
of Florence descended to the borders of the Arno, and

there established their dwellings. Originally, the whole
city occupied the right bank of the river, and boasted
but one bridge outside the walls, which is still called
Ponte Vecchio. It is believed that the abundance of
lilies and other flowers (fiori) which flourished there,
gave its name to the metropolis of Tuscany, although Cellini
declares it to have been derived from Florentius, a
celebrated general. It is remarkable that the first use the
people made of arms, was to turn them against the spot of
their origin.

The republic was well established about the close of the
twelfth century. The population were early devoted to
manufactures, particularly of cloth. The first magistrates
were denominated consuls; afterwards, the office
of mayor was instituted, and it was decreed that the incumbent
should be a foreigner, that no ties of relationship
might interfere with the impartial discharge of his
duties. Another condition was attached to the situation
which would scarcely be deemed expedient in our own
times—that the mayor should never give nor accept dinners.
Subsequently, the title was changed to that of gonfaliere,
or standard-bearer, whose functions, at different
times, were variously modified. Besides the consuls,
there were priors of the arts and trades, senators—ten
buonuomini, etc. The Florentines first learned the art of
war in numerous conflicts with feudal lords, who made
incursions from neighboring castles located amid the fastnesses
of the mountains, and strongly fortified. A civil
feud, however, which gave birth to an infinite series of
long and bloody animosities, soon succeeded these paltry

and irregular enterprises. This fatal discord was excited
by female beauty, which seems to have been one of the
most prolific occasions of ancient dissensions, as influential,
in those troubled times, in nerving the warrior, as
it has been, in every age, in calling forth the richest
strains of the bard. The youthful head of the wealthy
and powerful family of Buondelmonte had promised to
marry a daughter of the house of Amidei, equally renowned
and powerful. The charms of another lady, one of
the Donati, also one of the first rank, beguiled the accomplished
cavalier from his first love; and, unmindful of former
vows, he married the object of his new attachment.
The family of the deserted bride considered their dignity
compromised by this act, and on Easter Sunday, while
Boundelmonte, dressed in white, and mounted upon a
white horse, was riding from the other side of the Arno,
towards the house of the Amidei, passing over the old
bridge, they made an attack near the statue of Mars, and
killed him. This murder threw the whole city into confusion,
and the people, almost immediately, were divided
into two parties. The citizens barricaded the roads, and
fought in the streets and squares, and from the houses and
turrets. Soon after this event, ensued the political warfare
between the Guelphs, and Ghibelines, the former attaching
themselves to the Buondelmonte, and the latter, to the
Uberti—the most powerful family of the party, which became
its head, instead of the Amedei. The people constantly
vacillating between interest and enmity, alternately
fought and made truces, till a quarrel with Pisa, for a time,
diverted their arms. This rival colony undertook to stop
the goods from Florence, as they came down the river.
They were not, however, so good fighters on land as at
sea, and were finally defeated by the Florentines, at Castel
del Bosco. This war of inroads, however, lasted six
years, and was, at length, adjusted by a cardinal. The
old, intestine controversy was soon renewed with increased
ardor, and when the Ghibelines remained masters of the
city, for want of any better way of wreaking vengeance
upon the Guelphs, they razed their dwellings, demolished
numerous towers, and even made a barbarous attempt to
destroy the temple of St. John, now called the Baptistery,
because their opponents had once held meetings there.
A beautiful tower stood at the commencement of the
street of the Adimari, and this they endeavored to make fall
upon the temple by placing rafters against the opposite
part, cutting away the other side, and then setting fire to
the props. Happily, however, the tower fell in another
direction. For a series of years, the arms of the Florentines
were constantly exercised, with various success, in
wars against the Pisans, Lucchese, Arentines, etc., but,
ever and anon, this original and fierce civil feud usurped
all their energies. Its history is one of the remarkable
evidences of the spirit of that age, and hereafter, as the
sounds of warfare and violence die away into the past,
before the mild influences of Christianity, it will be reverted
to by the philosopher as a fertile source of illustration.
Its consequences and incidental results are numerous
and interesting. The Ghibelines were generally
triumphant in Florence. In 1261, when Count Guido
Novella was elected mayor, in order to introduce his people
more easily from Casentino, into the city and palace,
he opened a new gate in the nearest walls, and the avenue
leading thence, is still called the street of the Ghibelines.
In the annals of these celebrated factions, we find now
one, and now another invoking foreign aid. Sometimes
a respite occurs of so long a continuance, as to induce a
belief that the demon of discord is at length laid asleep,
and anon it breaks forth with tenfold fury. At one moment,
the Pope's interposition procures peace, and the
next, some incident, trifling in itself, suddenly revives the
flame of party rage. After a solemn reconciliation had
apparently settled the dissension at Florence, it was again
renewed in Pistoia, a few miles off. A certain Ser Cancelliere
of that city was the father of a very numerous family,
the progeny of two wives, both of whom belonged to
noble houses. Between the descendants of these rival
mothers, a strong jealousy existed; and under the name
of Black and White chancellors, (Bianci and Neri) more
than a hundred individuals were included in the quarrel,
among whom, not less than eighteen, were chevaliers or
knights of the golden spur. Some young men of both
parties, having quarrelled over their wine, one of the Neri
received a blow from Charles Walfred, of the opposite
faction. In the evening, the aggrieved individual waylaid
the brother of his insulter, and having beaten him, so
mutilated one of his hands, that only the forefinger
remained. This aggression roused an universal spirit
of resentment on the part of the Bianci. The
opposite party vainly attempted to make peace; and
the inflictor of the injury, on repairing to Walfred's house,
to apologize, was seized and taken into the stables, when
one of his hands was cut off by way of retaliation, and he
was sent back to his partisans. This act rendered all further
attempts at treaty vain. Thenceforth, street-broils,
of the fiercest character, were of constant occurrence.
Some of the most guilty repaired to Florence, and there
fomented the old feud, the Bianci inciting the Ghibelines,
and the Neri the Guelphs. In 1301, Charles of Valois,
invited by Boniface VIII, into Italy, secretly concerted with
him the ruin of the Bianci party. The Neri were then
dominant. In consequence of the violence committed
under Corso Donati, the Pope had sent one of his cardinals
to Florence to bring about peace, but the efforts of
the prelate were vain. On Christmas day, the son of
Corso Donati, being on horseback in the square of Santa
Croce, and seeing Nicholas of the Cerchia family pass by,
ran after him out of one of the gates. A contest ensued,
in which both were killed, and, in consequence, civil war
once more kindled. At length, on the second of April,
the remainder of the Bianci party, among whom were
Dante and Petrucco of Parengo, the father of Petrarch,
were banished. The Neri threw fireworks upon the
houses and shops of their discomfitted opponents, near
the Mercato Nuovo, which, taking fire, produced extensive
destruction, and reduced many to poverty. In 1310,
the New German Emperor, Henry VII., prepared to descend
into Italy. Many cities invited him. In Tuscany,
Pisa and Arrezzo, alone desired his arrival. The following
year, Dante, in behalf of the Ghibeline party, wrote
him, earnestly, to come down upon Florence. This letter
sealed the poet's fate; and four years after, his exile was
again confirmed. Received openly at Pisa, and crowned at
Rome, Henry approached and besieged Florence, but
after a wearisome delay before the walls, and several fruitless
skirmishes, he fell sick, and on the last night of
October, 1813, abandoned the attempt to the glory of the
city. He soon after died at St. Salvi, and these eras of
violence and war were soon succeeded by a brilliant
period of literature and art.

The mausoleum of the Medici, against the extravagant
splendor of which, Byron utters so earnest a satire, is
now far advanced towards completion. It is an octagon,
lined with the richest marble and most precious stones.
As the curious visitor inspects the gorgeous monument,
how various and conflicting are the associations inspired
by the thought of the renowned family it celebrates.
Their redeeming characteristics were taste and liberality.
They promoted the progress of humanity by rewarding
the exertions of genius, rather than by a generous philanthropy.
The mass were as much cajoled and subjected,
as under more warlike princes; but the gifted received
encouragement, and were urged to high endeavor.
The annals of the house of Medici abound in scenes, at
one moment exciting warm admiration, and the next,
unbounded disgust. One instant we kindle at the refined
and enthusiastic taste of Lorenzo, and the next, are
revolted at some act of petty tyranny. Now we see
genius unfold with brilliant success beneath the fostering
rays of patronage; and the next, injustice, conspiracy, or
revenge, degrades the chronicle. The patriotic Cosmo,

ardently listening to the doctrines of Plato, Lorenzo,
the Magnificent, chatting with a young sculptor in his
garden, the dissipated and cunning Giovanni, the
imbecile Piero, the perfidious Lorenzino, and the cruel
Catharine, pass before us in startling contrast. Yet as
we behold the works to which the redeemers of the name
have given rise, and trace the splendid results of wealth
dedicated to the cause of taste, we feel their mission on
the earth was one, the intellectual fruits of which are
inestimable and progressive. The origin of the Medici
family has been romantically referred to Averardo de
Medici, a commander under Charlemagne. The first
authentic mention of this celebrated race seems, however,
to indicate Filippo as one of the earliest founders. Toward
the middle of the thirteenth century, the Guelphs
having obtained the chief authority in Florence, Filippo,
oppressed by the Ghibelines, fled from Fiorano, in the
valley of Mugello, to the Tuscan capital, which, thenceforth,
became his country. In 1348, we read of Francesco
de Medici, as the head of the magistracy, although
prevented by the plague from exercising his functions.
Filippo left two sons, Bicci and Giovanni. To the latter
succeeded Cosmo, and with his name began the renown
of the house. The world was but just emerging from
barbarism when this prince commenced his sway. Although
exiled by a faction, his absence was deeply regretted,
and his return triumphantly hailed. Cosmo invited
numerous Greek refugees to settle on the banks of the
Arno. Through them, a new interest was awakened in
ancient literature; classical studies revived, and manuscripts
were eagerly sought. While the council of Florence
were employed in barren theological disputes,
Cosmo was listening to Gemisthus Pletho, and planning
a Platonic academy. Among the illustrious Greeks
whom he befriended, was Agyropylus. `My son,' said
he, leaning over the cradle of one of his children, `if you
were born to be happy, you will have Agyropylus for your
preceptor.' Cosmo was succeeded by Piero, who had
previously married the wealthy Contessina Bardi. His
authority was near being overturned by a conspiracy,
headed by the Pitti family, who, in the end, were obliged
to flee, leaving their superb palace unfinished. Piero left
two sons, Lorenzo and Giuliano. The brilliant career of
the former has been made familiar by the elaborate and,
perhaps flattered portrait of Roscoe. That this magnificent
prince was a man of more than ordinary abilities,
is sufficiently proved by the address exhibited on his
youthful embassy to Ferdinand of Naples, as well as by
the numerous specimens extant of his poetical talents.
But no small portion of his renown is to be ascribed
simply to his immense wealth and exalted station. He
was a man of elegant taste, rather than of extraordinary
genius; and merits applause for his liberal patronage of
literature and the arts, more than for any example he has
bequeathed of intellectual or moral power. He renewed
and prolonged the impulse his father had given to the
cause of civilization. The visitor is continually reminded
of the obligations of Florence to Lorenzo. He established
a school of sculpture, greatly enriched the Laurentian
library, improved architecture, promoted the
study of philosophy, and revived the art of the lapidary.
His life was passed in the midst of men distinguished
for genius and acquirements, whom his magnificent
taste had gathered around him. His time was occupied
in supervising local improvements, cheering native
genius, collecting rare manuscripts and medals, cultivating
philosophy, studying politics, making love, discussing
poetry with Politiano, and writing sonnets. He demonstrated
that a prince could find ample employment,
and attain true glory without recourse to conquest.
He proved that there were more enduring monuments
than those which rise from the battle-field. His name
is associated with works of art and literary productions,
as indissolubly as those of their authors, and although he
only lived to the age of forty-four, he expired tranquilly
in the midst of his friends. His death was deemed a
national misfortune, and seems to have been the precursor
of innumerable woes to Italy. Giovanni, son of
Lorenzo, was an archbishop at ten, and a cardinal at
fourteen—the youngest person ever raised to that rank.
A letter still extant, addressed by his father to him at
Rome, evinces how much at heart he held his advancement.
After the death of Piero, Giovanni became the
head of the family; and all his wishes centered in the
hope of reviving its influence, which had again suffered
a serious interruption. This feeling he prudently concealed
for some time. After the battle of Ravenna, three
young men, resolute friends of the Medici, went to the
Gonfaliere, and, with their daggers at his throat, forced
Soderini to resign. The Medici being thus restored,
Giovanni was made Pope, under the title of Leo X.
His pontificate is celebrated as a period when letters and
the arts flourished to an unparalleled degree. Previous
circumstances, however, had prepared the way for the
many brilliant results of that remarkable epoch. The
sale of indulgences, and other church abuses, were then
carried to the highest point; and the protests against
ecclesiastical tyranny commenced, which ushered in the
reformation. Cosmo, Francesco and Ferdinand, maintained
something of the liberal and tasteful spirit of their
ancestors. But under Ferdinand II., who, in 1621,
came to the government, at the age of eleven, the aspect of
affairs changed. Extravagant expenditures drained the
state of its resources, and when Cosmo III., died, after
a reign of fifty-three years, Tuscany was reduced to a
most deplorable state, oppressed with a heavy national
debt, and exhausted by taxes. Fortunately for the country,
John Gaston was the last of his family, once so glorious,
but now so sadly degenerated. He died after an
indifferent rule, and in accordance with the terms of peace
with Vienna (1735) left his duchy to the house of Lorraine.
Francis Stephen, Duke of Lorraine, and Grand
Duke of Tuscany, made a contract with John Gaston's
sister—the last of the name of Medici, by which he acquired
the various allodial possessions collected by her
ancestors. Under the twenty-six years of the sway of
his son Leopold, Tuscany recovered from a decline
that had lasted more than a century. He encouraged
commerce, agriculture and manufactures, established
penitentiaries, abolished the inquisition, and proclaimed
a new criminal code. His financial administration was
admirable, and his own manner of life extremely simple.
The traveller in Italy still recognizes the happy influences
of his regenerating rule. Nor has the effect of his
noble example been contravened by his successor. An
air of contentment, and a feeling of safety continues to
distinguish Tuscany, and render it the favourite sojourn
of the stranger. Even the comparative severity of the
climate in winter, aggravated by the tramontana which
sweeps so coldly from the mountains, seldom drives the
foreign sojourners to more genial localities. It is not,
perhaps, without reason, that the distinguished literary
rank which Florence holds in Italian history, has been
ascribed to its inferior climate.

There is something almost oppressive to the senses,
and confusing to the mind, in the immense collections of
paintings in Italy. The stranger, especially if his time
is limited, and his eagerness for knowledge and true impressions,
a delicate and discriminating, as well as an
earnest passion, will not unfrequently regret the number
and variety of interesting objects which at once demand
his attention. A scene of natural grandeur or beauty
seldom distracts the eye with the variety of its features.
The mountain range which girdles the prospect, the grove
which waves above the cliff, the river flowing through the
vale, the flowers on its banks, and the rich cloud-land
above, are harmonized to the view, reposing beneath the
same light, and stirred by a common air. But each work
of art has a distinctive character. It is a memorial of an
individual mind. It demands undivided attention.

Hence, the first visit to a museum of art is almost invariably
unsatisfactory. We instinctively wish that the array
were not so imposing. Many a sweet countenance,
whose expression haunts us like a dream, we vainly endeavor
to recall; many a group we would fain transfer to
our own apartment, that there we might leisurely survey
its excellencies, and grow familiar with its spirit. There
are few public galleries which are less objectionable, on
this account, than that of Florence. When we have
paused in the vestibule long enough to recover breath
after ascending the long flight of stairs, and inspect the
specimens of statuary there arranged, the first paintings
which meet our gaze, on entering, are of an early date.
The stiff execution brings to mind the Chinese style,
and indicates a primitive epoch in the history of art.
The arabesques on the ceiling, the portraits immediately
beneath it, and the range of ancient busts below, fill,
without dazzling the eye. As we pass on, the interest increases
at every step. There is a gradual growth of
attraction. Curiosity is soon absorbed in a deeper sentiment.
Alternately we stand smiling before some
graphic product of the Dutch pencil, wrapt in a speculative
reverie over an obscure painting, or seated, at last,
quite absorbed in admiration within the hallowed precincts
of the Tribune. The perfect freedom of entrance and
observation, unannoyed by the jargon of a cicerone,
doubtless adds to the pleasure of a visit to the Florence
collections. And the heart is not less gratified than the
eye, when we behold one of the sunburnt conladini improving
a spare hour on market-days, to loiter in the gallery, or
turns from a miracle of art to the happy countenance of
some foreign painter, as he stands before his easel, intent
upon copying a favorite original. The most unique feature
in the collections of which this city boasts, however,
is doubtless the gallery of portraits of celebrated painters,
chiefly by themselves. How interesting to turn from the
immortal products of the pencil, to the lineaments of the
artist! Raphael's sweet countenance, eloquent with the
refined beauty which distinguishes his works, and subdued
by something of the melancholy associated with his
early death; Perugino, his master; Leonardo da Vinci,
who first developed the principles of that progress in art,
which was perfected during the fifteenth century, who so
earnestly and successfully devoted his life to the advancement
of his favorite pursuit, and died in the arms of his
royal patron; Salvator Rosa, the poet, musician and
painter, recognised by his half savage aspect, who so delighted
in scenes of gloomy grandeur, and studied nature
with such enthusiasm amid the wilds of the Appenines;—
all, in short, of that glorious phalanx, whose best monuments
are their works.

The bronze statue of Perseus, under the allogii of the
gallery, reminds the passer of one of the most remarkable
characters to which Florence has given birth. Born on
the night of All Saints' day, Cellini assures us he was
rapturously welcomed to the world by his father, who, as
if anticipating his future celebrity, instantly greeted him
as Benvenuto. Like Salvator Rosa, music, at first, disputed
the empire of his mind with the other arts, and his remarkable
performance on the flute, was the primary occasion

of attracting towards him attention and patronage.
Indeed, the artist's father most pertinaciously fixed all his
hopes for young Cellini's advancement, upon his proficiency
in this accomplishment. Benvenuto's ambition,
however, was of a far more various and earnest nature
than the success of a mere musician could gratify. To
please his parent, however, he long continued to devote
much time to practising upon his favorite instrument,
although the employment was frequently an occasion of
ennui and disgust. At length, having been apprenticed
to a goldsmith, the skill he displayed in the finer departments
of the trade, indicated, in a striking manner, the
true bent of his genius. Henceforth, we find Benvenuto
constantly employed in various places, and everywhere
with distinguished success. It strikes us, at the present
day, with no little surprise, to perceive the enthusiasm
excited by labors of such a nature as employed the mind
of Cellini; but the exquisite grace and rare invention he
displayed, were as significant of talent to the admirers of
art, in the fifteenth century, as the gifted limner exhibited
on his canvas, or the statuary in his marble. His abilities
were in constant requisition, and seemed to have excited
equal admiration whether bestowed upon a button for the
Pope, a chalice for a Cardinal, or a salt-cellar for King
Francis.—At one time we find him engraver to the mint
at Rome, and at another, exercising all his ingenuity in
setting a precious jewel, executing an original medal, or
designing the most beautiful figures in alto relievo, upon
a golden vase, for some Italian prince. For a considerable
period, he was without an equal in his profession.
Towards the last of his life, however, his energies seem
to have been concentrated upon sculpture, of which the
Perseus is the most celebrated specimen. The account
he gives of the difficulties surmounted in casting this
statue and the unworhy treatment he received from the
Grand Duke, in regard to his recompense, is among the
most painful examples of the trials of artists. Cellini's
life was one of the most singular vicissitude. Frequently
changing his abode, working under the patronage of various
princes, of a bold and active temper, his memoirs
present a picture in which the quiet pursuits of an artist are
grotesquely mingled with the experiences of an adventurer.
One day, banished from his native city for having been
engaged in a bloody quarrel, another, high in the confidence
of kings and popes; now pining in the dungeon
of St. Angelo, which he once so gallantly defended, and
now rich and honored in the service of a magnificent
court. If we are to place the slightest faith in his own
testimony, Benvenuto proved himself equal to any exigency,
and fairly overcame his various enemies by his prompt
courage, or quick invention. He is certainly the prince
of boasters. The coolness with which he speaks of
despatching his foes, is startling to one familiar only with
these peaceful times; and the ingenuity with which he
baffles those who are not to be reached by the sword, is
most remarkable. A striking instance occurred while he
was in the employ of the King of France. Madame
D'Estampes, who seems to have been extremely disaffected
towards Benvenuto, induced the king to inspect
some of his most recent works at an hour the most unfavorable
for their display. Cellini, anticipating the
effect, affixed a torch to the arm of a statue of Jupiter;
and while his female enemy and the monarch were regarding
his studies, in the dusky light, he suddenly ignited
the torch, and wheeled the Jupiter into the centre of the
room. The effect was most vivid, as the light was placed
at exactly the right angle to show the figure to the best
advantage. Francis received a new and powerful impression
of the genius of Cellini, and Madame's design
was completely counteracted. The versatility of talent in
the character of Benvenuto was not more surprising than
his boundless self-confidence. How much are we indebted
to this quality for the fruits of genius! Gifts of mind,
unaccompanied by a vivid sense of their existence, are
of little benefit to the world. Consciousness of power,
firm and unwavering, is the best guarantee for its appropriate
exertion. How much of the cool decision of great
men is attributable to confidence in their destiny! When
Napoleon was urged to leave a dangerous position, during
an engagement when the shot were flying thickly around
him, and calmly replied, `the ball is not yet moulded
which is destined for me,' who does not recognize one
secret cause of his intrepidity? No combination of circumstances
seemed adequate to shake Cellini's faith in
himself. He spoke as certainly of the issue of an experiment
in his art, as if it had been repeatedly proved.
Again and again he reinstated himself in the favor from
which the machinations of his rivals had removed him, by
the clear earnestness of his bearing. Whether discussing
the merits of a work of art, defending himself before a tribunal,
engaged hand to hand with a foe, or casting a statue
which had cost him years of toil, he seemed to act upon
the sentiment of the poet—

It cannot but provoke a smile in contrast with the theories
of later moralists, after having followed Benvenuto
thruugh an unequalled category of brawls, duels, amours
and intrigues, to find him consoling himself in prison by
communing with angelic visions, and cheering his heart
with the conviction that he is an especial favorite of Heaven.
Benvenuto closed his adventurous life where he
commenced it; and was buried with many honors, in the
church of the Annunziata, at Florence. His native city
is adorned with the chief ornament of his genius; and
the exquisite specimens of his skill as a jeweller and engraver,
are scattered over the cabinets of virtuosi throughout
Italy.

The opera-house of Florence, called the Pergola, is
remarkable for its chaste interior. Romani's poetry has
recently given a new interest to this favorite amusement.
It seems almost to have revived the dulcet numbers of
Metastasio, and wedded to the touching strains of Bellini,
leaves no occasion to regret the earlier eras of the musical
drama. The want of permanent prose companies in
the different cities of Italy, as schools of language, is a
great desideratum; and the number of trashy translations
from the French, degrade the national taste. Sometimes
the excellent company of Turin, including the inimitable

Vestri, a Tuscan by birth, visit Florence in the autumn,
and furnish a pleasant pastime at the Cocomero, while
during Carnival, Stenterello dispenses his jokes and
rhymes at the Borg' Ogni Santi. In Florence, alone, is
enjoyed the opportunity, at certain seasons, of witnessing
Alfieri's tragedies. The stranger, too, cannot but gratefully
recur to the comedies of Goldoni. They furnish
him with an admirable introduction to the language; and
when he is once more at home, and would fain renew the
associations of every day life in far distant Italy, he has
only to peruse one of these colloquial plays, and be transported,
at once, to a locanda or a caffé. Goldoni's history
is intimately associated with his comedies. Successively
a student of medicine, diplomacy and law, a maker
of almanacs, and a comic writer, his personal adventures
abound in the humorous. He solaced himself, when unfortunate,
by observing the passing scene. When jilted
by a woman, or cheated by a knave, he revenged himself
by showing up their conduct as a warning, in his next
play. He looked upon the panorama of human existence,
not as a metaphysician, but as a painter, not to discover
the ideal, but to display the actual. Yet he often aimed
at bringing popular vices or follies into contempt, and frequently
with no little success. At a time when ciscesbeism
and gambling prevailed in Venice, he portrayed
their consequences so graphically, that, a for time, both
practices were brought into disrepute; and when the
Spectator began to be read, and it became fashionable for
women to affect philosophy, he turned the laugh upon
them with his Filosofo Inglese. His comedies have
more humor than wit, but their chief attraction is their
truth to nature. Although much attached to Venice, his
native city, which he declares was never revisited without
discovering new beauties, Goldoni seems to have highly
enjoyed his long residence at the French court. He
boasts of having an excellent appetite after every fresh
mortification; and when care or sickness made him
wakeful, he was accustomed to translate from the Venetian
into the Tuscan dialect, and then into the French, by
way of a soporific. Overshadowed as his buoyant spirit
was at last, by illness and reverses, his happy temperament
made his life pleasant. He had the satisfaction of
feeling that, through his efforts, comedy was reformed
in Italy, and his country furnished with a stock of standdard
plays, of excellent tendency, sixteen of which were
composed in one year—no ordinary achievement of industry.

The house of the Buonarotti family has recently undergone
extensive repairs. But the rooms once occupied
by Michael Angelo, remain unchanged, save that
around one of them are arranged a series of paintings,
illustrative of the artist's life. How Florence teems
with the fame of this most gifted of her children! How
rife are his sayings on the lips of her citizens! How
eloquently do his works speak in the city where his bones
repose! As the Cathedral dome first greets the stranger's
eye, or fades from his parting gaze, how naturally does
it suggest the thoughts of St. Peter's and the artist's
well known exclamation! In a twilight walk along the
river-side, as we watch the evening star over San Spirito,

we remember that a prior of that convent taught him
anatomy. If we pass the church del Carmine, we are
reminded that he there studied the early efforts of Massacio.
In the gallery, we behold the Dancing Faun,
whose head he so admirably restored, wonder at the
stern face of Brutus, or ponder his own portrait. In the
Piazza is his David, in the church of San Lorenzo, his
Day and Night, and that perfect embodiment of Horatio's
familiar phrase—`a countenance more in sorrow
than in anger,'—the statue of the Duke of Urbino.
Here he made his figure of snow; there he buried his
sleeping Cupid, which was dug up for an antique. Near
St. Mark's was the school of sculpture, where he first
practiced. In Santa Croce is his tomb. The memory
of Michael Angelo constitutes the happiest of the many
interesting associations of Florence. Not less as a man
than an artist, does his name lend dignity and beauty to
the scene. We look upon the master-lines of his unfinished
works, and realize the struggles of his soul towards
perfection. Truly has one of his biographers remarked,
`his genius was vast and wild, by turns extravagant and
capricious, rarely to be implicitly followed, always to be
studied with advantage.' But we think not merely here
of the sculptor, painter, architect, philosopher and poet;
we dwell upon, and feel the whole character of him who
so nobly proved his eminent claim to these various titles.
As we tread the chambers where he passed so many nights
of study, so many days of toil, as we behold the oratory
where he prayed, or stand above his ashes, we think of his
noble independence which princes and prelates, in a venal
age, could not subdue, of his deep sympathy with the
grand and beautiful in human nature, and of his true affection
which dictated the sentiment—
Art seemed not an exclusive end to Michael Angelo.
For fame, he cherished no morbid appetite. He was
conscious of loftier aims. His letters and sonnets
breathe the noblest aspirations, and the most perfect
love of truth. When refused admittance to the Pope's
presence, he quitted Rome in disgust; yet watched as
tenderly by the sick-bed of a faithful servant, as at that of
a son or a brother. As the architect of St. Peter's, he
declined all emolument; and kissed the cold hand of
Vittoria Colonna with tearful reverence. After eighty-eight
years spent in giving a mighty impulse to the arts,
in cultivating sculpture, painting, poetry and architecture,
in observing `the harmless comedy of life,' in proving the
supremacy of genius over wealth, of moral power over
rank, of character over the world, Michael Angelo died,
saying, `My soul I resign to God, my body to the earth,
and my possessions to my nearest kin.' He left a bequest
of which he spoke not, for it was already decreed
that his fame and example should shed a perennial honor
upon Florence, and for ever bless the world.