_October_ 22_nd_.—They say the air is worse this year at Rome than ever,
and that it would be madness to go thither during its malign influence.
This was very bad news indeed to one heartily tired of Florence, at least
of its society. Merciful powers! what a set harbour within its walls! *
* * * * You may imagine I do not take vast or vehement delight in this
company, though very ingenious, praiseworthy, etc. The woods of the
Cascini shelter me every morning; and there grows an old crooked ilex at
their entrance, twisting round a pine, upon whose branches I sit for
hours,—hear, without feeling, the showers trickling above my head, and
see the cattle browsing peacefully in their pastures, which hazel copses,
Italian pines, and groves of cypress enclose.
In the afternoon I never fail hiding myself in the thickets of Boboli,
and marking the golden glimmer of sunset between their leaves. The other
evening I varied my walks, and ascended one of those pleasant hills {214}
which rise in the vicinity of the city, and command a variegated scene of
spires, towns, villas, cots, and gardens. On the right, as you stand
upon the brow, appears Fesule with its turrets and white houses, covering
a rocky mount; to the left, the vast Val d’Arno lost in immensity. A
Franciscan convent stands on the summit of the eminence, wrapped up in
ancient cypresses, which hinder its holy inhabitants from seeing too much
of so gay a view. The paved ascent leading up to their abode receives
also a shade from the cypresses which border it. Beneath which venerable
avenue, crosses with inscriptions are placed at stated distances, to mark
the various moments of Christ’s passion; as when fainting under His
burden He halted to repose Himself, or when He met His afflicted mother
(“Giesu incontra la fua afflitta madre”).
Above, at the end of the perspective, rises a chapel designed with
infinite taste and simple elegance by M. A. Buonarotti. Further on, an
ancient church, in the corrupt Greek style of the primitive Christians,
incrusted with white marble, porphyry, and verd antique. The interior
presents a crowded assemblage of ornaments, elaborate mosaic pavements,
and inlaid work without end. The high altar, placed in a semicircular
recess, which reminded me of the church at Torcello, glitters with
barbaric paintings on a gold ground, and receives the strongest glow of
light imaginable from five windows, filled up with transparent marble
clouded like tortoiseshell. A smooth polished staircase leads to this
sacred place: another brought me to a subterraneous chapel, supported by
confused groups of variegated pillars, just visible by the glimmer of
lamps. I thought of the Zancaroon at Cordova, and began reciting the
first verses of the Koran.
[Picture: Florence]
Passing on not unawed, I followed some flights of steps, which terminate
in the neat cloisters of the convent, in perfect preservation, but
totally deserted. Ranges of citron and aloes fill up the quadrangle,
whose walls are hung with superstitious pictures most singularly fancied.
The Jesuits were the last tenants of this retirement, and seem to have
had great reason for their choice. Its peace and stillness delighted me.
Next day a very opposite scene engaged me, though much against my will.
Her R. H. the G. Duchess having produced a princess in the night,
everybody put on grand gala in the morning, and I was carried, along with
the glittering tide of courtiers, ministers, and ladies, to see the
christening. After hearing the Grand Duke talk politics for some time,
the doors of a temporary chapel were thrown open. Trumpets flourished,
processions marched, and the archbishop began his business at an altar of
massive gold, placed under a yellow silk pavilion, with pyramids of
lights before it. Wax tapers, though it was noon-day, shone in every
corner of the apartments. Two rows of pages, gorgeously accoutred, and
holding enormous torches, stood on each side his Royal Highness, and made
him the prettiest courtesies imaginable, to the sound of an execrable
band of music, though led by Nardini. The poor old archbishop, who
looked very piteous and saint-like, struck up the Te Deum with a
quavering voice, and the rest followed him full gallop.
That ceremony being despatched (for his R. H. was in a mighty fidget to
shrink back into his beloved obscurity), the crowd dispersed, and I went,
with a few others, to dine at my Lord Tilney’s.
Evening drawing on, I ran to throw myself into the woods of Boboli, and
remained till it was night in their profound recesses. Really this
garden is enough to bewilder an enthusiastic spirit; there is something
so solemn in its shades, its avenues, and spires of cypresses. When I
had mused for many a melancholy hour amongst them, I emerged into the
orangery before the palace, which overlooks the largest district of the
town, and beheld, as I slowly descended the road which leads up to it,
certain bright lights glancing across the cupola of the Duomo and the
points of the highest towers. At first I thought them meteors, or those
illusive fires which often dance before the eye of my imagination; but
soon I was convinced of their reality: for in a few minutes the
battlements of the old castle, which I remember mentioning in a former
letter, shone with lamps; the lantern of the cathedral was lighted up on
a sudden; whilst a stream of torches ran along its fantastic turrets.
I enjoyed this prospect at a distance: when near, its pleasure was
greatly diminished, for half the fish in the town were frying to rejoice
the hearts of H. R. Highness’s loyal subjects, and bonfires blazing in
every street and alley. Hubbubs and stinks of every denomination drove
me quickly to the theatre; but that was all glitter and glare. No taste,
no arrangement, paltry looking-glasses, and rat’s-tail candles. I had
half a mind to return to Boboli.