FLORENCE, _October_ 5_th_.
It was not without regret that I forced myself from Lucca. We had all
the same road to go over again, that brought us to this important
republic, but we broke down by way of variety. The wind was chill, the
atmosphere damp and clogged with unwholesome vapours, through which we
were forced to walk for a league, whilst our chaise lagged after us.
Taking shelter in a miserable cottage, we remained shivering and shaking
till the carriage was in some sort of order, and then proceeded so slowly
that we did not arrive at Florence till late in the evening. We found an
apartment over the Arno prepared for our reception. The river, swollen
with rains, roared like a mountain torrent. Throwing open my windows, I
viewed its agitated course by the light of the moon, half concealed in
stormy clouds, which hung above the fortress of the Belvedere, and cast a
lowering gleam over the hills, which rise above the town, and wave with
cypress. I sat contemplating the effect of the shadows on the bridge, on
the heights of Boboli, and the mountain covered with pale olive groves,
amongst which a convent is situated, till the moon sunk into the darkest
quarter of the sky, and a bell began to toll. Its sullen sound filled me
with sadness. I closed the casements, called for lights, ran to a
harpsichord Vannini had prepared for me, and played somewhat in the
strain of Jomelli’s _Miserere_.
_October_ 6_th_.—Every cloud was dispersed when I arose; the sunbeams
glittered on the stream, and the purity and transparency of the tether
added new charms to the woody eminences around. Such was the clearness
of the air that even objects on the distant mountains were
distinguishable. I felt quite revived by the exhilarating prospect, and
walked in the splendour of sunshine to the porticos beneath the famous
gallery; then to an ancient castle, raised in the days of the republic,
which fronts the grand piazza: colossal statues and venerable terms are
placed before it. On one side a fountain clung round with antique
figures of bronze, by John of Bologna, so admirably wrought as to hold me
several minutes in astonishment; on the other, three lofty Gothic arches,
and under one of them the Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini, raised on a
pedestal, incomparably designed and executed; which I could not behold
uninterested, since its author has ever occupied a distinguished place in
my kalendar of genius. Having examined some groups of sculptures, by
Baccio Bandinelli and other mighty artists, I entered the court of the
castle, dark and deep, as if hewn out of a rock; surrounded by a vaulted
arcade, covered with arabesque ornaments, and supported by pillars as
uncouthly carved as those of Persepolis. In the midst appears a marble
fount with an image of bronze, that looks quite strange and cabalistic.
I leaned against it, to look up to the summits of the walls, which rise
to a vast height, from whence springs a slender tower. Above, in the
apartments of the castle, were preserved numbers of curious cabinets,
tables of inlaid gems, and a thousand rarities, collected by the house of
Medici, but exposed by the present sovereign of Tuscany to public sale.
It was not without indignation that I learnt this new mark of contempt
which the Austrians bestow on the memory of those illustrious patrons of
the Arts; whom, being unwilling to imitate, they affect to despise as a
race of merchants, whose example it would be abasing their dignity to
follow.
I could have stayed much longer to enjoy the novelty and strangeness of
the place; but it was right to pay some compliments of form. That duty
over, I dined in peace and solitude, read over your letters, and
repaired, as evening drew on, to the thickets of Boboli.
What a serene sky! what mellowness in the tints of the mountains! A
purple haze concealed the bases, whilst their summits were invested with
saffron light, discovering every white cot and every copse that clothed
their declivities. The prospect widened as I ascended the terraces of
the garden.
After traversing many long alleys, brown with impending foliage, I
emerged into a green opening on the brow of the hill, and seated myself
under the statue of Ceres. From this high point I surveyed the mosaic
cupola of the Duomo, its quaint turret, and one still more grotesque in
its neighbourhood, built not improbably in the style of ancient Etruria.
Beyond this singular group of buildings a plain stretches itself far and
wide, most richly scattered over with villas, gardens, and groves of pine
and olive, quite to the feet of the mountains.
After I had marked the sun’s going down, I went through a plat of vines
hanging on the steeps, to a little eminence, round which the wood grows
wilder and more luxuriant, and the cypresses shoot up to a surprising
elevation. The pruners have spared this sylvan corner, and suffered the
bays to put forth their branches, and the ilex to dangle over the walks,
many of whose entrances are nearly overgrown. I enjoyed the gloom of
these shady arbours, in the midst of which rises a lofty pavilion with
galleries running round it, not unlike the idea one forms of Turkish
chiosks. Beneath lies a garden of vines and rose-trees, which I visited,
and found a spring under a rustic arch of grotto-work, fringed round with
ivy. Millions of fish inhabit here, of that beautiful glittering species
which comes from China. This golden nation were leaping after insects,
as I stood gazing upon the deep, clear water, and listening to the drops
that trickle from the cove. Opposite to which, at the end of an alley of
vines, you discover an oval bason, and in the midst of it a statue of
Ganymede, sitting reclined upon the eagle, full of that graceful languor
so peculiarly Grecian. Whilst I was musing on the margin of the spring
(for I returned to it after casting a look upon the sculpture), the moon
rose above the tufted foliage of the terraces. Her silver brightness was
strongly contrasted by the deep green of the holm-oak and bay, amongst
which I descended by several flights of stairs, with neat marble
balustrades crowned by vases of aloes.
It was about seven o’clock, and everybody was jumbling to my Lord T—’s,
who lives in a fine house all over blue and silver, with stuffed birds,
alabaster cupids, and a thousand prettinesses more; but, after all,
neither he nor his abode are worth mentioning. I found a deal of
slopping and sipping of tea going forwards, and many dawdlers assembled.
As I can say little good of the party, I had better shut the door, and
conduct you to the opera, which is really a striking spectacle. However,
it being addressed to the sight alone, I was soon tired, and gave myself
up to conversation. Bedini, first soprano, put my patience to severe
proof, during the few minutes I attended. You never beheld such a
porpoise. If these animals were to sing, I should conjecture it would be
in his style. You may suppose how often I invoked Pacchierotti, and
regretted the lofty melody of _Quinto Fabio_. Everybody seemed as well
contented as if there were no such thing as good music in the world,
except a Neapolitan duchess, who delighted me by her vivacity. We took
our fill of maledictions, and went home equally pleased with each other
for having mutually execrated both singers and audience.