Detained at Florence by reports of the Malaria at Rome.--Ascend one
of the hills celebrated by Dante.--View from its brow.--Chapel
designed by Michael Angelo.--Birth of a Princess.--The
christening.--Another evening visit in the woods of Boboli.
October 22nd, 1780.
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 vehement delight in this company, though very
ingenious, praiseworthy, &c. 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.
In the afternoon I am irresistibly attracted to the thickets of Boboli.
The other evening, however, I varied my walks, and ascended one of those
pleasant hills celebrated by Dante, which rise in the vicinity of the
city, and command a variegated scene of towers, villas, cottages, and
gardens. On the right, as you stand upon the brow, appears Fiesole with
its turrets and white houses, covering a rocky mount to the left, the
Val d’Arno lost in the haze of the horizon. A Franciscan convent stands
on the summit of the eminence, wrapped up in antient 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 this venerable avenue, crosses with
inscriptions are placed at certain 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.
Above, at the end of the perspective, rises a chapel designed by M. A.
Buonarotti; further on, an antient church, encrusted 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 is placed in a semicircular recess, which, like the apsis
of the church at Torcello, glitters with barbaric paintings on a gold
ground, and receives a fervid glow of light from five windows, filled up
with transparent marble clouded like tortoiseshell. A smooth polished
staircase leads to this mysterious place: another brought me to a
subterraneous chapel, supported by confused groups of variegated
pillars, just visible by the glimmer of lamps.
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 I was engaged by a very opposite scene, though much against my
will. Her Royal Highness the Grand 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 the Grand Duke had talked
politics for some time, the doors of a temporary chapel were thrown
open. Trumpets flourished, processions marched, and the archbishop began
the ceremony 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 indifferent band of music, though led by Nardini. The
poor old archbishop, who looked very piteous and saint-like, led the Te
Deum with a quavering voice, and the rest followed him with thoughtless
expedition.
The ceremony being despatched, (for his Royal Highness 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 T----’s.
Evening drawing on, I ran to throw myself once more into the woods of
Boboli, and remained till it was night in their 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 an interesting 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 about 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 lantern
of the cathedral was lighted up by agents really invisible; whilst a
stream of torches ran along the battlements of the old castle which I
mentioned in a former letter.
I enjoyed this prospect at a distance: when near, my pleasure was
greatly diminished, for half the fish in the town were frying to rejoice
the hearts of his Royal 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.