Santa Croce--San Lorenzo--_Day_ and _Night_--Picture-galleries--The
Tribune--_Venus de' Medici_--Excursion to Fiesole--Ancient Amphitheatre
--Aurora _Café_--Climate of Florence--Heavy hotel charges--Departure--
Bologna sausages--Venice.
The church of Santa Croce--the Westminster Abbey of Italy--possesses
great interest to every classical student and lover of art and genius.
It is situated within a few minutes' walk of the Cathedral in its own
piazza, in the centre of which stands the striking monument and statue
of the intensely thoughtful Dante, by Canova:
"In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is
Even in itself an immortality.
Though there were something save the past, and this
The particles of those sublimities
Which have relapsed to chaos:--here repose
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his
The starry Galileo, with his woes;
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.
These are four minds, which, like the elements,
Might furnish forth creation:--Italy!
Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rent
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,
And hath denied, to every other sky
Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay
Is still impregnant with divinity,
Which gilds it with revivifying ray;
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day."
The façade of Santa Croce, like that of the Cathedral, is finely encased
with marble; but it is the interior that excites such deep interest in
the mind; the many fine monuments, and the beautiful sculptures on the
tombs of the great and illustrious men whom Italy has had the honour to
call her children. In this she is indeed rich among nations. The church
contains a great number of chapels, some large, some small, but all
possessing paintings, sculptures, mosaics, and monuments of interest.
In the Church of San Lorenzo are the stately mausoleums of the Medici.
The Capella dei Deposite, or Chapel of the Buried, was designed by
Michael Angelo, on purpose to contain his two celebrated statues of
Giuliano and Lorenzo di Medici. At the feet of Giuliano rest the
recumbent figures, Day and Night; of the latter, the great Angelo
wrote--
"Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone
More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure
To see not, feel not, is a benediction;
Therefore, awake me not; oh, speak in whispers!"
The other and more imposing statue of Lorenzo, grandson of Lorenzo the
Magnificent, is a truly wonderful study. The figure is seated in a
perfectly natural attitude, one hand supporting the head, which is
covered by a kind of helmet; the shadowed face is full of intense
thought, and the stone almost seems to breathe beneath your gaze. The
statue is worthy of the master mind which designed it. Allegorical
figures, representing Morning and Evening, are recumbent on either
side.
There are many other churches to visit in Florence, but although they
may well repay the trouble, I think, as a rule, that visitors waste much
time and money in making a point of seeing every individual church and
chapel in each place they stop at. The hotel-keepers, who make the
objects of interest as numerous as possible, derive by far the greatest
benefit from it.
Florence is truly wonderful in picture-galleries, and nearly every
antique shop is worth stopping at, to look at the copies of great works,
though there is too frequently a doubt as to their genuineness; for
there is great difficulty in obtaining permission to copy some of the
most celebrated of the old masters, therefore the demand for these
copies far exceeds the supply, and the shopkeepers resort to
unscrupulous means to satisfy their customers and fill their own
pockets. Many a British householder has pictures hanging upon his walls
with which he is so well pleased, that it would be a pity to question
their genuineness and undeceive him.
The chief and most important of the Art Museums are, the Uffizi or
National Gallery of Florence, and the royal Pitti Palace. These two
buildings, although on opposite sides of the river, are connected by a
picture-gallery some seven hundred yards long, which extends across one
of the bridges of the Arno. It is impossible to view separately, or form
a very connected after-idea of, all the various treasures gathered
here--a collection which equals any other in the world. The chief and
most universally admired paintings by the old masters are contained in
one room called the Tribune--here are also five of the most beautiful of
antique statues--the Wrestlers, the Dancing Faun, the Apollino, the
Slave, and lastly, the famous Venus de' Medici. Of this last I may truly
say, with Hawthorne, "It is of no use to throw heaps of words upon her,
for they all fall away, and leave her standing in chaste and naked
grace, as untouched as when I began." It is very, very beautiful, but
not to be compared with that perfect _chef d'oeuvre_ of sculpture, the
Venus of the Capitol, of which it is supposed to have been a copy.
The statues are hardly seen to the best advantage, as the paintings
behind them, and the many beautiful art treasures in the room, distract
the attention and weary the eye. In fact, in visiting all these
celebrated galleries in Italy, one is really unable to devote to each
the attention and admiration it deserves, and which we should naturally
accord were we not simply overwhelmed and dazzled with such profusion of
treasure; the mind refuses to store away all the beautiful and tender
thoughts that crowd into it in wild confusion--they pass away almost as
swiftly as they come, leaving our after recollections in a sadly
fragmentary state, with a feast of undigested mental food.
It is said that both painting and sculpture are almost lost arts at the
present time in fair Italy; and that the former has emigrated to
England, and the latter to Germany.
Besides paintings, there are some very beautiful mosaics, representing
scenes from Roman life. One room also contains a very rich collection of
gems, priceless relics of the Medici family set in jewels.
"Precious stones, never grow old."
There are some cabinets wonderfully inlaid and adorned with the smallest
possible miniature paintings, representing Scripture scenes in
infinitely minute compass; they are exceedingly curious and beautiful,
and must have occupied years of patient toil and persevering talent.
There was noble and appreciative patronage in those days! Some of the
tables in the different rooms are marvellously inlaid and studded with
precious stones, the subjects being very beautiful in harmony of colour.
One great table, said to be worth £30,000, was sent, I believe, to the
exhibition of 1851.
The Pitti Palace was originally built by a rich merchant of that name,
and afterwards sold to the Medici; it now belongs to the King of Italy.
The gardens at the back of the palace are well worth walking through,
chiefly on account of the fine views of Florence obtainable from the
upper terraces.
* * * * *
One of the most enjoyable trips outside Florence is to Fiesole (the
mother of Florence), the ancient Fiesula, an Etruscan town, older even
than Rome. It is situated in the mountains some thousand feet above the
valleys. We took a carriage thither, winding our way up the hillsides,
and passing many a picturesque-looking villa. One of them, Villa Mozzi,
is the property of an English artist, Mr. William Spence; another, the
Villa dei Tre Visi--celebrated in one of Boccaccio's tales--belongs to
the Earl of Balcarres. This site is much esteemed for the views it
commands of the beautiful plains and valleys by which fair Florence is
environed. Many of Italy's men of genius have retired to these peaceful
abodes, to recruit their health and meditate on those imperishable works
of art and literature which are now the admiration of the whole world,
adding greatly both to its pleasure and instruction.
In about half an hour we reached the quaint little village at the top,
having enjoyed our drive exceedingly, and having bought some pretty,
quaintly shaped straw baskets from the peasant women _en route_. After
passing into the Cathedral--there is no town or village in Italy too
small to boast of its Duomo, or Cathedral--we mounted still higher to
the little chapel on the site of an old monastery, and here we had a
magnificent view of the valley of the Arno, for nearly half its extent.
Florence, with her great Duomo reposing in the centre of a beautiful
plain, and numerous convents, villas, and villages lying here and there
around, some in the glens and valleys, others on the hillsides, the
whole encircled by the fine chain of mountains which formed a circular
boundary-line to the landscape. We found, a few minutes' walk from this
spot, the remains of a half-circular Etruscan amphitheatre, in fairly
good preservation. Wherever I have seen these coliseums and open-air
theatres, I have always found them most admirably situated for grand and
extensive views of the country beyond, and this, I think, must have
greatly added to the impressiveness of the performance, and perhaps
dignified the cruel and barbarous exhibitions that took place there, as
the silent and solemn forest scenery raised the superstitious sacrifices
of the ancient Druids to acts of veneration and worship.
We found here a very pleasant restaurant called the _Aurora Café_. It is
owned by the artist I before mentioned as the proprietor of one of the
charming villas. We partook of some refreshment, and I was offered
sundry coins and antiques, supposed to have been dug up from the
amphitheatre, or the still more ancient Etruscan village. I selected an
iron coin, with a fine superscription.
On descending the hillside, we met an English coach and four, and our
Italian driver fully shared in our enthusiastic admiration of the fine
"Hyde Park" turn out, and the skilful manner in which the horses were
handled on these mountain heights. Late in the evening we met the same
team, admirably coached through the narrow and crowded streets and lanes
of Florence.
* * * * *
We found the climate of Florence bright and pleasant, bracing and
healthful, but it was rather too dear a place for those with a limited
income. We had heard that it was an expensive city, and so indeed we
found it, for with all our efforts to be economical our bill at the
Hotel de Russie was astonishingly high; nor were we alone in this
experience, our fellow-travellers averring that it was quite necessary
"to cut down your hotel bill, and not to pay quite all that was
demanded, as you were always overcharged," and we all remembered what
the "Innocents Abroad" had to say on the subject. As far as I have seen
of Italian travel, it is a system of "spoiling the Englishman," whenever
there is a chance, and the traveller might save himself the trouble of
ever taking his hand out of his pocket. As a specimen, we were actually
charged a franc each for four small mutton cutlets, and three francs
(_2s. 6d._) for a cauliflower! Of course I complained, and got one or
two francs knocked off. I believe most of the landlords are fully
prepared to reduce their bills, but Englishmen as a rule pay the
exorbitant prices charged, contenting themselves with a hearty growl at
the same on departure. I told the landlord plainly myself, that the
English seldom objected to pay liberally, but hated extortion. The
charge of two francs a day for attendance is a snare and a delusion, for
it is well known that this does not in the least exonerate one from
feeing the waiter, chambermaid, porter, boots, and even the omnibus
tout. It is a system of blackmail throughout, and I think something
should be done to abolish it, for it is undoubtedly one of the greatest
drawbacks to foreign travel. At present there seems a private
understanding among the servants, that one and all are to establish
some sort of claim on you, thus:--you ring--the chambermaid appears; you
ask for candles--she withdraws and sends the sommelier with them; and
every trifling duty is performed by a different personage, instead of
one servant taking the entire attendance, to whom you might feel some
satisfaction in giving a remuneration. I think that, under the present
_régime_ there is little doubt that the visitors pay the servants wages
rather than the landlord, and therefore the item of "attendance" charged
in the hotel bill is simply a fraud.
Then, at the railway stations you have a regular chain of porters for
your luggage, as formidable as the array of officials who receive and
show you into your hotel, one and all expecting a fee for the service of
_welcome_ (?) they have rendered. Hence, it is far cheaper to travel by
Cook's Tickets; and if you decide to remain a week or longer at a place,
it is a good plan to select a _pension_, where you will be charged so
much a week _inclusive_.
Such is the system of extortion in Italy, that if you purchase anything
at a shop--mosaics, jewellery, or what not--you are held in contempt if
you at once pay the price that is demanded, the shopkeepers naming a sum
perhaps three times as much as what they finally take and consider as a
good bargain.
* * * * *
The 29th of March, the morning of our departure from Florence, was as
bright and bracing as a real old-fashioned English May morn, and we felt
it to be truly enjoyable as we sped over the well-cultivated and sunny
plains of the Florentine Basin, the outlines of the distant scenery
charmingly developing in the clear Italian atmosphere. Indeed, it is
this atmosphere which renders Italy so beautiful, every feature
displayed to the best advantage, and the eye allowed to roam from one
object to another; whilst in our London, for instance, during one half
the year, the view too frequently presents a blurred mass, little really
to be seen with distinctness, the buildings and great edifices looming
darkly through a half fog--no dimpling lights and shadows, giving life,
warmth, and animation, quickening one with admiration and rapture. It is
like an otherwise beautiful woman spoiled by a bad complexion.
We passed through fine open plains, then a series of tunnels, rocky
defiles, over mountain streams and fertile valleys, until we reached
Pracchia. We had been steadily ascending to higher ground, and were now
nearly at the top of a mountain range, a wild defile and stream on the
one side, a mountain road on the other. Then craggy cliffs, waterfalls,
and snow-capped mountains follow in grand succession; sometimes a deep
valley, with a mountain torrent plunging far, far into the depths below,
the water hanging from the rocks in long petrified icicles. Men and
women, like specks in the distance, toiling up the steep hills and
winding paths, laden with faggots. We seemed to have been circling round
two great mountains whilst having these enchanting glimpses of
ever-varying scenery, with no end of intervening tunnels. At last we
appear to have passed through a final one, and, emerging quite into
daylight, find we have attained the topmost part of the mountains at a
station called Pittachia, where we found a good buffet. We here
encountered a great many little country maidens, offering bunches of
beautiful primroses and violets--veritably a sweet refreshment!
Now we swiftly descend, a mountain stream chasing us on the right,
gradually swelling into a river, the Reno. In one part was the wreck of
a stone bridge which had evidently been carried away during the
inundations of December and January. Many parts of the river-bed were
silted up by the action of wind and water on to the great overhanging
sandstone mountain, enormous landslips in some places blocking up the
river and changing its course. We thus saw how the sand is carried down
to the mouths of the rivers into the sea, and how the great sand-banks
are formed, such as those on which Venice is built. Everything in Nature
is done progressively, never hasting, never resting.
At Bologna we had an opportunity of tasting the famous sausage-meat, and
found it exceedingly good, the flavour being somewhat like spiced beef.
The dogs of Bologna were, I believe, once a celebrated breed, which is
now almost extinct. I do not mean by this remark to induce any
uncomfortable reflections with regard to the sausages, but I really was
surprised that nothing in the shape of a dog made itself visible in
this town.
Journeying round from here, I could not help thinking what a total
contrast the scenery now presented to our view. It was one monotonous
level, a lagoon-like plain, partly swamped with water, the only features
in the landscape being the stunted trees, to which, at regular
intervals, the vines were symmetrically trailed and spread. Yet in the
far distance we caught the outline of the Apennine range, their snowy
summits almost disappearing in the warm blue-grey sky. Slightly in the
foreground the darker outline of the nearer hills bounded the basin of
the level plains.
At Monselise the scenery improves, and we saw some very picturesque
castle ruins, conical-shaped hills lying round; and on approaching Padua
we again obtained a fine view of the snow-clad Alps, with the huge mound
of hills at their base. We did not stop at Padua, having decided to do
so on our return. It is only an hour's journey from Venice, which we
were now rapidly nearing, and we eagerly scanned the horizon ever and
anon to catch the first glimpse of the wonderful city--the "eldest child
of liberty." We had the sea on our right, from whence blew a most
refreshing breeze; but soon it spread ahead and to the left, and then we
caught sight of little glittering minarets in the midst of the waters,
and then Venice, fairy-like disclosed herself to our admiring eyes,
rising slowly from the sea, and strangely bringing to mind Tennyson's
description of the magic city of Camelot:
"Fairy Queens have built the city,
They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand;
And built it to the music of their harps."
Gradually the marble city took form, the slim towers and great domes
forming a lovely outline against the clear and cloudless beauty of the
evening sky.