CHAPTER XIII.

We found ourselves early in the morning, after an all-night ride,

running over a flat, marshy, sea-shore-looking country, approaching

Venice. Venice! There was something magical in the sound of that name,

as conjuring up memories of school-boy dreams and youthful imagination,

equal in effect to the sonorous boom of the word London, that fills the

fancy like the tone of a great cathedral bell, when we felt we were

actually to set foot in that great city, which historian, poet, and

novelist had made us hunger to see for so many years.

Venice, the scene of so much of Byron's poetry; Venice, that Rogers sang

of; Venice, with its Doges, its Council of Ten, its terrible dungeons;

Venice, the Merchant of Venice--we should see the very bridge that old

Shylock met Antonio upon; Venice, with its great state barges and the

Doge marrying the Adriatic; Venice, with its canals, having those water

parties in gondolas that we see in engravings representing ladies and

gentlemen in silk and velvet attire, with fruit, wine, and musical

instruments before them, and broad, embroidered table clothing dragging

from the boatside into the water.

The Venice of Shakespeare and Byron, and Rogers and Cooper,--

"Beautiful Venice, the Bride of the Sea."

We rolled in on our train over the great railroad bridge, of two miles

in length, which spans the lagoon, and enters Venice on the Island of

St. Lucia. This bridge is fourteen feet wide, and upheld by two hundred

and twenty-two arches, and its foundation is, of course, built upon

piles driven into the muddy bed of the lagoon.

We halt in a great railway station, a conductor pokes his head into the

railway carriage, and ejaculates, "_Ven-neat-sear_," and we are at

Venice.

Following the advice of an old tourist, we had telegraphed to the Hotel

Danieli that we were coming, and to have a conveyance ready at the

station. We were, therefore, prepared, by our former experience in

Vienna, for the gentlemanly personage who addressed us in English, on

alighting, to the effect that he had a gondola in waiting to convey us

to the hotel. Our luggage was soon obtained, and safely stowed in the

bottom of the long, black craft, with its two oarsmen, one at each end;

and in another moment, propelled by their measured and powerful strokes,

we were gliding over the great canals of Venice, and having our first

ride in a gondola.

The novel sight of tall marble buildings, rising directly from out the

water; the numerous gondolas gliding hither and thither; the great

reaches of canals, or alleys of water, stretching up between marble

buildings; the light iron lattice-work bridges; painted gondola posts;

the slowly crumbling and time-defaced fronts of many an ancient palace;

the stalwart gondoliers, and their warning shouts at the canal

corners,--were all novelties on this our first gondola ride, till we

arrived at the hotel, once the palace of the Danieli family, and which

we found fronted on the grand canal, and but a short distance from the

Square and Church of St. Mark, Doge's Palace, &c.

Every traveller and letter-writer tells about the gondolas and the

gondoliers, and some sentimental scribblers do draw the long-bow

terribly about them. The long, low water craft, with their easy,

comfortable, morroco cushions, upon which you might sit or recline at

full length, and be either hidden or exposed to view, as suits the

taste, with their gentle, almost imperceptible motion, I found to be the

most luxurious and lazy mode of travel I ever experienced. But let not

the reader understand that the canals, these water alleys that slash the

city in every direction, are its only highways; one may walk all over

Venice on foot, although, of course, in passing from certain points to

others, he may have to go a more roundabout way in order to cross the

bridges than he would have to take in the gondola.

The tall, graceful gondoliers are quite a study, and the marvellous

skill with which they manage their long crafts a wonder. The scientific

whirl of an oar-blade, a mere twist of the hand, or a sort of geometric

figure cut in the water, will wind their narrow craft in and out a crowd

of others, or avoid collisions that seem inevitable. The shout of

warning of the gondolier as he approaches a corner, or to others

approaching, is musically Italian, and much of the charm undoubtedly

comes from the athletic forms, the dark Italian faces, deep black eyes,

and graceful movements of the rowers, and the swift passage of their

mysterious craft past tall palaces, flights of marble steps sloping down

to the shining waters, and graceful bridges. Yet one wants to be on the

larger or broadest canals to get up anything like poetic fervor in

Venice, and then in sunlight, or, as was my good fortune, beneath the

gorgeous gilding of the full moon.

When your gondola takes you on a business trip, and you turn off from

any of the great canals upon a narrow one for a short cut, in fact,

leave the main street for a back or side one, you become aware that

there is something besides poetry in the canals of Venice. The water,

which was bright and shining in the sunlight, becomes, when shut up

between tall buildings, like a great puddle in a cellar, or the dark

pool in an abandoned mine; foul greenness and slime stick to the walls

of old buildings and decaying palaces, fragments of seaweed and other

debris float here and there, the perfume is not of "Araby the Blest,"

and the general watery flavor of everything causes one to appreciate the

Western American's criticism as to what sort of a place he found

Venice, who replied, "Damp, sir; very damp."

Dreamily floating upon the Grand Canal, however, beneath the full moon

of autumn, with the ducal palace and its pointed arches and columns,

making a beautiful picture of light and shade; the tall pillars, bearing

St. Theodore and the Winged Lion, shooting up to the deep-blue sky,

their summits tipped with silver in the beam; the tall obelisk of the

Campanile rising in the background like a sentinel; the canal between

the palace and the prison, like a stream of light, revealing the

well-known Bridge of Sighs, spanning the gap; and withal the canal

itself, a sheet of molten silver, which, disturbed by the gondolier's

oar-blade, flashes like a shattered mirror,--and you realize something

of what the poet has sung and the novelist written. Then comes the

tinkle of a guitar faintly across the water; long, dark gondolas glide

silently past your own like magical monsters, guided by dark genii,

whose scarcely perceptible motion of a dark wand in the silver sea sends

them on with hardly a ripple; the very shout of these fellows heard

coming across the water at night has a melody in it, and the tremulous

light from tall marble palaces reflected upon the water, with the

flitting hither and thither of gondolier lanterns seen upon some of the

narrower ebon currents, scarce reached by the moon between the lofty

buildings, make the whole scene seem like a fairy panorama, that will

vanish entirely before the light of day.

The Grand Canal, the main artery of the city, which varies from one

hundred to about two hundred feet wide, seems to wind round through the

city, past all the most noted churches and palaces. Over one hundred and

fifty other aqueous highways lead out and in to it, and more than three

hundred bridges cross them, linking the seventy-two islands of Venice

together like the octagon braces of a spider's web.

The flood of memories of what one has read of the ancient glories of

Venice, Queen of the Adriatic, its great commercial power, its

government and doges, its magnificent palaces, its proud nobles, its

wealth, luxury, and art, and, above all, the investment of every

monument and palace with historic interest and poetic charm, is apt to

cause the tourist to expend his epistolary labor in recalling and

rehearsing historic facts and figures relating to the wonderful City of

the Sea; for, in these modern days, one can hardly realize, looking at

her now, that, in the early part of the fifteenth century, her merchants

had ten millions of golden ducats in circulation; that three thousand

war ships and forty-five galleys, besides over three thousand merchant

ships, flew her proud flag; that fifty-two thousand sailors, over a

hundred great naval captains, a thousand nobles, besides judges,

lawyers, merchants, and artisans were hers.

"Once she did hold the gorgeous East in fee,

And was the safeguard of the West,"

but now is but an exhibition of the traces of ancient grandeur, power,

and magnificence combined with the too evident indications of modern

poverty and decay.

The Doge's Palace, Piazetta, Ducal Palace, and the two tall pillars

bearing the Winged Lion and the statue of St. Theodore, seen from the

water, are such familiar objects from the numerous paintings,--no art

collection is complete without one or two,--engravings, and scenic

representations, that they seem to be old acquaintances, and at first to

lack the charm of novelty. Around the base of the two pillars, when the

shade of the buildings falls that way, lay lazzaroni at full length on

the flat pavement, while at the edge of the broad platform of stone,

that ran out to the water of the canal, were moored groups of gondolas,

the gondoliers on the alert for strangers who might wish to visit the

Lido, Dogana del Mare, or Rialto.

Rialto! Yes; that is the first place we will visit.

"Many a time and oft upon the Rialto."

"Hey, there, gondolier! _Ponte di Rialto._"

The gondolier certainly understood English, for he said something about

"_see_, signore," and prepared the cushions of his gondola for us, upon

which we straightway reclined, and in a few moments' time were

corkscrewing our way through a crowd of market-boats, gondolas, and

'long-shore-men's craft, near the landing at one end of the celebrated

Merchants' Exchange of Shylock's time.

After various remarkable curves, twists, and wonderful windings among

the water craft, enlivened with shouts, exclamations, a sparkling of

black eyes, and play of swarthy features on the part of the gondoliers,

we were brought to the dirty landing, and ascended from it, and stood

upon the bridge--the Rialto. Much of the poetry of the Rialto bridge is

destroyed by some of the guide-books, which state that the _land_ on the

left of the canal passing up was called the Rialto, and was considered

the city, and distinguished as such from the _state_ of Venice; and upon

this Rialto, _not_ the bridge, were the custom-house, various

warehouses, and other establishments connected with trade and commerce;

that the real "on 'change," where Antonio and Shylock met, was in the

square opposite the Church of San Jacope, which, in olden time, was

crowded with merchants, who there transacted their business of weight

and consequence.

However, when I was a boy, I always, in my mind, made the rendezvous of

the merchant and the Jew on the bridge; but it must have been sadly

changed since the time Shakespeare wrote of, unless Shylock came to buy

some old clothes, and Antonio to obtain grapes, figs, or onions for

dinner. This we thought while standing on the bridge. The view of it

from the water, where its single arch of ninety-one feet span,

twenty-five feet from the current, lifts up the six arches on each side,

rising to the open or central arcade at the top, with the rail and

swelled balusters at their base, is so familiar, that, as we looked at

it from the gondola, it seemed as if some old scene at the theatre had

just been slid together at the sound of the prompter's whistle, or that

we were looking at an old engraving through a magnifying-glass.

The romantic imagination of him who fancies that he shall pace over this

old structure, and muse on Shylock, Antonio, and Othello undisturbed

upon its broad platform, is dispelled when he finds that its seventy-two

feet of breadth is divided into three or four passages or streets, and

two rows of shops, devoted to the sale of every conceivable thing in the

way of provisions, fruit, vegetables, macaroni, clothing, cheap

ornaments, beads, dry goods, and china, absolutely crowded with

hucksters of every description, giving an amusing panorama of the

Venetian retail business in its various departments.

Hard by our hotel was the Doge's Palace, another familiar edifice; and,

as we stood within its great court-yard, we could realize something of

the luxury and art of Venice in former days.

The marble front of the palace, looking into this enclosure, was a

wilderness of elegant carving, armorial bearings, statues, wreaths,

elaborate cornices, elegant columns, wrought balustrades, graceful

arches, and beautiful bass-reliefs. Here, in the centre of the marble

pavement, are the great bronze openings of cisterns, nearly breast high,

richly wrought, and five or six feet in diameter. Standing upon this

pavement, we look up at the celebrated Giant's Staircase--a superb

ascent, and architecturally simple and grand. At its top stand two

colossal statues of Mars and Neptune on either side; and it was here,

upon this upper step between the two colossi, that the doges were

crowned; and here Byron locates the last scene of Marino Faliero, where,

when the citizens rush in,

"The gory head rolls down the Giant's Stairs."

The panelling of this grand staircase is of the most elegantly wrought

and polished marble, of various hues, artistically arranged. Everywhere

the prodigality of rich and costly marbles in panellings, pillars,

arcades, arches, colonnades, and luxurious decoration is lavished with

an unsparing hand. Opposite the Giant's Stairs are elegant statues of

Adam and Eve, while others of great Venetians, or allegorical subjects,

appear in various niches. We stood in the Hall of the Great Council,

a splendid apartment of over one hundred and seventy-five feet

long and eighty-five in width, the walls covered with magnificent

paintings--Tintoretto's huge picture of Paradise, eighty-four feet wide

and thirty-four high; the Discovery of Pope Alexander, painted by the

sons of Paul Veronese; a splendid battle-piece, representing a contest

between the Turks and Venetians and Crusaders; the Return of a Doge

after a Victory over the Genoese; Paul Veronese's allegorical picture of

Venice, and many pictures illustrating the history of Venice, among them

one of a great naval battle, full of figures, and quite a spirited

composition; others portrayed various scenes illustrating the doges'

reception of the pope, and the performance of various acts acknowledging

his power.

All around the upper part of the walls ran the noted series of

portraits, seventy-two in number, of the Doges of Venice, and, of

course, our eyes first sought that of Marino Faliero, or, rather, the

place where it should have been. Directly opposite the throne--probably

that other doges might take warning--hung the frame, like the others,

but in place of the aged face and whitening hairs, crowned with the

doge's cap, was the black curtain, on which was painted,--

"_Hic est locus Marini Faletro decapiti pro criminibus._"

This inscription does more to perpetuate the doge's name to posterity

than his portrait, or anything else, even had Byron never written his

tragedy. Here, among these portraits, are those whose names are famed in

Venetian history. Francisco Foscari, who reigned for over thirty-five

years; "blind old Dandolo," who, when elected doge, in 1192, was

eighty-five years of age, and led the attack on Constantinople in person

at ninety-seven. Foscari's tragic story is told by Byron; and there are

others whose deeds, and almost very names, are forgotten.

History tells us that of the first fifty doges, five abdicated, five

were banished with their eyes put out, five were massacred, nine

deposed, and two fell in battle long before the reign of Marino Faliero,

who was beheaded. Andrea Dondolo died of vexation. Foscari, after his

long and glorious term of service to his country, was rewarded by that

circle of demons, the Council of Ten, by fiendishly torturing his son,

in the vain hope of extorting a confession, failing in which they

deposed the father, who, when the great bell of St. Mark sounded,

announcing the election of his successor, fell dead from a rupture of a

blood-vessel.

An historical apartment is this Hall of the Great Council, with the

painted battles of the once proud republic lining the walls, and the

faces of its seventy-two doges looking silently down upon these mimic

scenes of their glory and triumph. Here, upon the very platform where I

stood, was once the doge's throne. Here he spoke to the council; so

would I.

"Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors;"

and Othello's address never had more quiet listeners than the

seventy-two red-robed, bell-capped old nobles in the picture frames as

my voice echoed in this grand old hall, where theirs had, nearly five

centuries ago, been listened to upon affairs of state with rapt

attention. A wealth of art in the collection of splendid creations of

great artists pervades this ancient home of the doges, which greet the

visitor at every turn as he goes from room to room; collections of

bronzes, curious carvings, and rich ornamental work are profuse, and in

one apartment is an exceedingly curious collection of ancient maps, made

in the sixteenth century, and a rare and interesting collection of

manuscripts, autographic letters, &c.

But, after having stood upon the doges' throne in the Council Hall, and

stepped out on the balcony where the doges were wont to show themselves

to the people below, we must see the "Lion's Mouth."

Upon inquiry, we found we had passed it; and no wonder, for not far from

the staircase was pointed out to us a narrow slit in the wall, very much

like that at a country post-office for the reception of letters, through

which the secret denunciations were slipped for the inspection of the

terrible Council of Ten.

"But where is the Lion's Mouth?"

"Here is where it _was_," said the guide: and he further told us that

government was having a bronze head made to supply the place of the old

one, that was long since removed--for travellers would not be satisfied,

unless they saw here the real bronze head of a lion, with a fierce

mouth, emblematical of the cruel grip of the terrible inquisitorial

council, that denunciations which sent a man to the tortures of the rack

and the block itself could ever have been thrust through so contemptible

a slit in the wall.

Next we sat down in the Hall of the Council of Ten itself--a room with

its ceiling richly ornamented with paintings by Paul Veronese, and

beautiful paintings by other artists upon its walls. Then we visited the

doges' audience chamber, rich in pictures by Paul Veronese; but the best

picture we saw here, from this artist's pencil, was the Rape of Europa,

in which the soft beauty and rich coloring of the landscape contended

with the loveliness of the female figure in exciting the spectator's

admiration. This picture is in an ante-room, said to have once been a

guard-room, upon the walls of which are also four of Tintoretto's best

pictures--Venus crowning Ariadne, Mercury and the Graces, Vulcan at his

Forge, and Pallas and Mars.

But it is useless to _enumerate_ paintings in these grand old palaces,

as such enumeration becomes but little better than a catalogue. As we

have said before, these glorious creations of the great artists waken

enthusiasm in the dullest breast. We have nothing at home with which to

compare them; they are sights and wonders in foreign lands that are a

large portion of the charm of foreign travel. To the lover of, or

enthusiast in art, they are a luxurious feast and a joy forever; and the

ordinary sight-seer soon ceases, after travelling abroad, to regard what

he has before deemed undue praise or admiration of the old masters, as

affectation on the part of many of those who utter it. We stand "in

Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs," and wonder if any modern tourist ever

does so without repeating Byron's couplet; slowly we pass over it,

glance out at the window at the water flashing beneath, think how many

sad hearts have crossed this little span, and follow our guide down

into the prison vaults below, down through intricate passages, terrible

dungeons in the solid masonry, and dimly lighted from the loopholes of

the passage.

"But will signore go down and see the others?"

"Others! Great heavens! can it be that there are any worse than these?"

The guide answers with a significant shrug, and we follow him to a still

lower depth.

Here, down below the level of the surface of the canal, are a tier of

holes in the solid masonry--one can hardly call these relics of tyranny

anything else. A narrow gallery leads past them, from one end of which

the only light and air obtained by the inmates were received. These

dungeons are about twelve feet long by six in width, and seven feet

high, and were formerly lined with wood, with a little wooden platform

raised a foot from the floor, upon which the prisoner rested on his

straw. We went into one of these hideous dungeons, where some of the

wood-work still remained, upon which, by the aid of a candle, we saw

some half-obliterated cuttings and inscriptions in Italian, said to be

the mementos of unhappy prisoners who had pined in these terrible

places. It makes one almost shudder to stand, even now, in one of these

fearful prisons, although their grated doors were long since wrenched

from their hinges by the French; but the light of day cannot even now

reach them, respiration is difficult, and the visitor feels, while

standing in them, a nameless horror, or a sensation akin to dread, lest

some forgotten door should clap to and fasten him down forever: so we

hurry forth, glad to see once more the blue sky above, and chase dull

fancies from the brain by an invigorating draught of heaven's pure air.

Across the broad pave, in front of the Doge's Palace, and we come to the

two granite pillars, each hewn from a single block, one bearing St.

Theodore, and the other the Winged Lion, which, upon their pedestals,

must be over sixty feet in height; they form a sort of state entrance,

or indicators, as it were, to the grand Square of St. Mark. The end

colonnade of the Ducal Palace, towards these towers, at the landing, or

mole, ranged along the edge of the canal, forms part of the piazetta,

continuation, or grand state opening of the square out to the water

side.

We pass between these columns and over the place that has been so often

reddened by blood at public executions, and glance up before entering

the square, at the elegant architecture of the palace on our left.

First, a row of Corinthian pillars upholds a richly-ornamented frieze,

and within the pillars Gothic arches form the covered passage for

pedestrians; above, the Gothic pillars are repeated, the bend of

the inner arches having elegantly sculptured marble figures, in

half-reclining positions, and carved heads over the key-stones; above

this second tier comes an elegant frieze, ornamented with Cupids holding

beautifully-sculptured hanging garlands, and sheltered by an elaborate

projecting cornice; above this, the marble carved rail and balusters,

with each post surmounted with a full-length marble statue.

This elegant and elaborate workmanship, these two grand columns, and the

series of arches of the Doge's Palace, the canal between the palace and

the prison, and the Bridge of Sighs, were the first objects that greeted

my sight going out from the hotel in the morning; like the gondolas and

canals, they seemed of the Venice we read about, as they do even now, as

we look at them in one of the photographic mementos of our visit.

The great Square of St. Mark, or "_Pe-at-zir San Marko_," as tourists

learn to call it, after they have been there, is five hundred and eighty

feet long by about two hundred and seventy wide. It is an elegant

enclosure, paved with broad, flat slabs, and surrounded by elegant

buildings, the lower stories all around, except beneath one or two

public buildings, are arcades, in which are shops, restaurants, and

money changers' offices.

At one end of the square, right across the whole space of it, rises the

Church of St. Mark, with its arched entrances, florid decorations,

bronze horses, and mosque-like cupolas: upon one side extends the Ducal

Palace, the lower story on the square utilized into cafés and shops;

upon the other side are the Mint and Library, and also the great clock

tower, with a huge sun-dial, in blue and gold, upon its square side;

above it, in a sheltered niche, is the Virgin and Child; above this, a

huge winged lion upon a cornice; and standing high upon the top of the

tower, in the open air, is a great bell, beside which stand two huge

bronze Moors, armed with hammers, with which they strike the hours on

the bell.

Looking towards the Church of St. Mark, we see the lofty Campanile

lifting its huge pyramidal top three hundred and twenty feet above the

pavement. Here, in this great square, of a cool evening and moonlight

night, played a fine band of music, while the public distributed itself

about at tables, which were set far out upon the pave, and ordered

refreshing ice-creams, delicate cakes, and light wines, from the café

waiters, which they enjoyed while listening to the music. Ladies and

gentlemen sauntered up and down; lazzaroni stretched themselves at full

length in shadowy nooks; pedlers of curiosities, selecting foreigners

with unnerring instinct, sought to dispose of their wares at six times

their value, reminding one very forcibly of their image-selling brethren

in America. A fellow, with a handful of tooth-picks carved out of bone

into the shape of a gondola, sauntered up.

"Signore Inglese" (exhibiting his wares), "you buy him?

"No, no" (shaking my head); "don't want it."

Who ever heard of a man's picking his teeth after eating ice-cream? But

the peripatetic dealer was not to be repulsed at the first charge.

"Signore, buy; varee sheep."

"How much?"

Unlucky words. He scented a trade at once. His black eyes sparkled, and

his white teeth glittered in the moonlight. The rogue understood a

little English, too.

"One lira, one franc, sare; magnifique."

"One franc! Quarter of a dollar for a contemptible little tooth-pick!

Get out."

"Varee fine, sare; gondola, sare; tree for two lira" (holding up his

fingers, and laying the merchandise on the table before me).

"No, no; too dear."

"Vat you give me for him?"

At this moment the café waiter brought me a few copper coins in change,

and was profoundly grateful for two of them. I chinked the others in my

hand absently.

"Give you four sous."

"Ah, no, signore" (with a deprecatory shrug); "take for half lira--ten

sous."

"No; don't want it. Four sous."

He gathered up his tooth-picks, replaced them in his little tray, walked

away half a dozen steps--then returned.

"Signore sall have him for four sous."

He pocketed the coins and passed away, and I became possessed of a

Venetian memento which I afterwards found could be bought in any of the

shops for half what I paid for it. Nevertheless, it was a cheap lesson

in the Italian retail trade, which I afterwards profited by.

The reader will recollect that the promenading, and the lounge at the

tables in the square, is undisturbed by horses and vehicles. There are

no horses in Venice. If one by chance should be brought there, he would

be exhibited as a show. The shops around the square are frequented by

travellers for the purchase of Venetian jewelry, glass beads, and glass

ware.

Little silver gondolas, scarf-pins, with the winged lion in gold, and

mosaics, inlaid with figures of beetles, are much bought by tourists. So

are the little mother-of-pearl-looking shells, strung together in

necklaces and bracelets, and hawked round by the pedlers. But let no one

who visits Venice leave without buying some of Carlo Ponti's

photographs, the best and cheapest in the world, unless he has changed

since we were in his shop, 52 St. Mark's Square. These photographic

views were of rare beauty, and of all the interesting views in Venice,

public buildings, exteriors and interiors; also all the great

paintings, besides views of buildings and paintings in the great

galleries of other cities. These beautiful large-sized views, which

bring back what they so faithfully represent vividly to mind, we

purchased at from thirty to seventy-five cents each. In New York and

Boston the price was from three to five dollars each.

We have sauntered all around the great Square of St. Mark, have waited

till the hour of two was struck, and seen the cloud of pigeons that

come, with their rush of wings like a shower, down to the pavement at

one end of the square, to be fed with their daily ration of corn by the

government, punctually at the stroke; we have stood before the three

huge pedestals of bronze, which are a dozen or twenty feet high, and

look like elegantly-wrought gigantic candlesticks, the candles being the

tall masts that rise therefrom, from the peaks of which, in the days of

Venetian glory, floated the silken gonfalons emblematical of the three

dominions under the republic--Venice, Cyprus, and the Morea. These

beautifully-wrought pedestals exhibit in bass-relief figures of Tritons,

ships, and sea-nymphs at their base, with a circle of the everlasting

winged lions further up towards the centre, and above them ornamental

leaves and flowers enclosing the medallion portrait of one of the doges.

We entered the Campanile, or bell-tower, after admiring the statues

about the base, with some doubts about undertaking its ascent, fearing

such a getting up stairs as its lofty altitude would call for. To our

surprise, however, we found that there were no stairs whatever, the

ascent being made by a brick-paved walk, laid in a series of zigzags,

each a gradual ascent from the other. So up we went, the whole three

hundred and twenty feet,--a long walk,--to the great pyramid above, and

enjoyed a superb view of Venice, and the Gulf of Venice, from the top.

But the lion of Venice (not the winged one) is the grand old Church of

St. Mark, with its five great arched doorways, surrounded by magnificent

frescoes, its elegant columns, and bronze horses, of historic fame,

looking out into the square. This church is said to be a mixture of

Grecian and Roman architecture, but its domes give it a suggestion of

Saracenic style.

The three huge masts, with their bronze pedestals, stand directly in

front of it, and the pavement of the square before the church is

fancifully laid out. One great beauty about the entrances is the double

row of numerous little columns of various kinds of marble, beautifully

wrought. I counted of these fifty-two in the lower tier. They are

supported by the same number above, and in the arches of the five

doorways are great mosaics, in bright colors, representing the Last

Judgment, the Entombment of St. Mark, &c. Above these, over the huge

arches of the doors, except the central one, are other rich mosaics,

representing the Descent from the Cross, the Ascension, &c. A marble

gallery and railing run above the great arches of the doorways; and over

the central one, in front of a huge arched window of many-hued glass,

stand the four bronze horses of which so much has been written. They are

said to have been brought to Rome by Augustus after his victory over

Antony, to have adorned a triumphal arch there, and been successively

removed by Nero the fiddler, Domitian the fly-catcher, and Trajan, forum

and wall-builder, to arches of their own. The Emperor Constantine then

carried them to his new capital, Constantinople, which, hundreds of

years after, fell into the hands of the Turks, but which, in turn, was

taken by the crusaders in the fourth crusade, in 1206, whence they were

wrenched from where they stood by knightly plunderers, and brought to

Venice, to be again pulled down by the great modern crusader, Napoleon.

France, after having them trotting forth from the top of the Arc du

Carrousel for eighteen years, had to trot them back to Venice. So that

these horses in their day, which is a space of fifteen hundred years,

have travelled about the world to some extent. These bronze steeds weigh

nearly two thousand pounds each.

Above the upper mosaics, the horses, and upper arches, the fringe or

decoration of the arches is crammed and crowded with fret-work,

statuary, and ornament. Six open-work, ornamental steeples enclose

colossal statues of saints, a fringe and fret-work of angels,

palm-branches, saints, and scroll-work run all along the top of the

arches; upon the points of four stand four other saintly statues; on the

point over the great arch is the statue of St. Mark; under him is his

winged lion, with his paw upon the Book, and in every conceivable nook

and corner a statue, mosaic, or carving, making this great temple one of

florid display, while it is rich with the plundered spoils of the

crusaders, wrenched from mosques of the Moslem, and from Constantine's

capital, when it fell into their hands. Everywhere in this church the

visitor sees evidence of this plunder of the East, or, as the old

crusaders might have said, "reclamation from the Moslems." One of the

great bronze doors leading into the spacious vestibule is said to have

been one brought from the Mosque of St. Sophia in 1203; and the vaulted

roof of this vestibule is filled with beautiful mosaic representations

of Scripture subjects, while around its walls are elegant columns of

rare marbles, brought from the East. The huge portals of entrance are of

bronze, and besides the one mentioned above is the elegant central one,

of a sort of Moorish workmanship, with its panels inlaid with figures

and carvings in silver.

Amid these artistical and historical curiosities, we are pointed to an

inlaid red and white place in the pavement, at the principal entrance,

marking the spot where Pope Alexander III. and Frederick Barbarossa, the

bold, red-bearded emperor of Germany, who did so much to raise the

secular power of his kingdom in opposition to arrogated papal supremacy,

met and were reconciled. In other words, here is where, in 1177,

Frederick rather "knocked under" to the pope.

Passing in at the portal, the spectator is amazed at the vast mass of

elegant columns of marble, porphyry, verd antique, agate, and other

elegant stone, superb mosaics, gilding and ornament in profusion that

meet his view on every side. This church was, in fact, a sort of

treasure-house to the Venetians. Every ship that went out from the

republic when it was building was enjoined to bring back material for

it; the doges lavished their wealth upon it, and great artists left

their work upon its walls, while the wealth which rich sinners paid in,

in offerings, in the hope of purchasing with money immunity from divine

wrath for their cruelties and crime, was expended on it with unsparing

hand.

It is like many other old cathedrals in other countries--a monument of

the nation of the past, and not of the present. So St. Mark's is a

symbol of old Venice as it was, and of which we read in history and

romance; and as we stand upon its pavement, uneven in marble billows, we

look for solemn, long-bearded doges, priests in their vestments, with

swinging censers, moving amid the pillars; or a group of crusaders

around the octagon pulpit, with a Maltese cross in its panel, instead of

a few modern dressed tourists in the midst of its dim-lighted splendor.

The church is built in the form of a Greek cross, with a great dome over

the centre, and also one over each arm of the cross. The walls and

columns of the interior are of marbles of the richest and most elegant

description; there are said to be five hundred of the columns, and the

various portions of the interior, with its different style of

architecture, Grecian, Gothic, and Saracenic, would take a volume to

describe. In fact the visitor hardly knows where to begin first to

examine this incongruous mass of architectural defects, historic

interests, splendor, and collection of rare works of art badly

displayed. The interior of this wonderful old church can no more be

described in a tourist's sketch, than it can be seen in a single visit.

There is the very porphyry basin which holds the holy water set on a

pedestal that was once a Greek altar, upon which the Achaians sacrificed

to their gods. There is the superb marble colonnade separating the nave

from the choir, supported by columns of black and white porphyry, and

upholding fourteen elegant marble statues, seven on each side, with a

huge cross bearing the figure of the Saviour, in solid silver, in the

centre. There is a magnificent high altar; with its four richly-wrought

columns, elegant bronze statues, its costly mosaics, its pictures in

gems and enamel of scenes in the life of St. Mark, its rich bass-relief

and gorgeous canopy. The canopy of another altar is supported by four

fluted spiral pillars brought from the Temple of Jerusalem, two of them

of translucent alabaster. The sacristy, with its roof covered with rich

mosaics; the curious tessellated floor, and the wonderfully decorated

roof above; the different chapels and altars, each one of which is a

specimen of the art of a different time, are seen here.

There were the splendid tomb of Cardinal Zeno, built in 1515; bronze

doors made in Venice in the year 1100; the marble columns taken from

Constantinople in 1205; the bronze statue of St. John, by Segala in

1565; the altar table made from a slab of stone brought from Tyre in

1126; monument of the last doge buried in St. Mark in 1354; the figure

of Christ, in silver, 1594; Greek, Byzantine, and Gothic specimens of

art. The church is a study of marbles, pillars, and colonnades; every

part of it seems to have a history, and the eye becomes wearied with an

endless succession of different objects, and the mind confused in

endeavoring to grasp and retain distinct impressions of various

portions, which it only preserves, at last, as one general picture.

In Venice the tourist cannot but be struck, as elsewhere in Italy, with

the splendor of the churches, the wealth of gold, silver, and bullion

locked up idle, dormant, and useless, contrasted with the abundance of

the beggars that in grisly crowds beset the very doors of these splendid

temples. Cathedrals, whose wealth would build a hundred such religious

edifices as we erect in America, and which contribute nothing to the

expense of the state, maintain little more than a corporal's guard of

bedizened priests, while hundreds of gaunt, famine-stricken wretches are

perishing at their very threshold for the necessaries of life. It seemed

wicked to look upon great solid silver busts of forgotten archbishops,

gem-crusted crosiers and mitres that make their public appearance but

once in a year in a church ceremonial; altars with borders of solid gold

and flashing jewels, hidden from public view, and unveiled only on the

occasion of church festivals, or for the tourist's shilling, while the

poor, ignorant followers of the church vainly plead in misery at its

portals.

The wealth that has been lavished here on the churches seems to have

been poured out with as free a hand as if the coffers of the church were

exhaustless. In the Chiesa de Gesuiti, or Church of the Jesuits, the

luxurious magnificence of the interior is almost indescribable. The

walls of this edifice are completely sheathed in carved marble, polished

to the highest degree, and inlaid with other colored marbles in flowers

and running vines. Up, around, and near the pulpit are heavy, massive,

and rich hangings, apparently of white and blue brocatelle, graceful,

rich, and luxurious; but you find it to be solid inlaid marble,

fashioned by the cunning of the artificer into the semblance of drapery.

There it is with fringe and fold, tassel and variegated pattern, wrought

with costly and laborious toil from the solid stone. Great twisted

columns of verd antique uphold the altar, and a costly mosaic pavement

covers the space before it; the altar itself is rich with many-colored

marbles, agate, and jasper, and all around the church the sculptors have

wrought out the marble into a counterfeit resemblance of rich

draperies--a wondrous work of art. In this magnificent temple, in front

of the great altar, is a slab marking the last resting-place of the last

doge of Venice, Manini--the Latin inscription telling that "the ashes of

Manini are transmitted to eternity."

The Church of Santa Maria de Frari, built nearly six hundred years ago,

is another edifice rich in artistic works and monuments. Here is a

mausoleum erected to the doge Pesaro, who died in 1659, and of which all

tourists speak; and well they may. It is a great marble temple, eighty

feet high, its lower story of a sort of Moorish architecture, open; and

in the centre sits a statue of the departed doge upon a sarcophagus

upheld by dragons, while two obliging bronze skeletons hold in their

bony hands scrolls for the purpose of revealing the virtues of the great

departed to posterity. But this is not all of this remarkable monument.

At the four corners of the pillars, upholding the temple, stand four

huge Nubians carved in marble; their tunics are of white marble, their

legs and faces black, and seen through rents in their white marble

garments appears the black as of their skins--a novel effect of

sculpture, most certainly.

The beautiful monument to Titian, completed in 1853, is another of the

artistic wonders of this church. Upon a marble platform of three steps

rises, first, a great marble base or pedestal about thirty feet long,

at each end of which are seated two allegorical figures of men, with

tablets upon which they have written inscriptions. One of the figures

is of a man in the full vigor of life, and the other of extreme old

age; between these two rises another huge pedestal or ornamental

marble cornice, ten feet high, bearing upon its face two angels in

bass-reliefs, supporting a wreath enclosing the names of Titian, and

King Ferdinand, who completed the monument; upon this second pedestal

four richly-decorated Corinthian columns support a lofty Corinthian

canopy, looking, in fact, like the grand arched entrance to a temple,

the centre being the widest, highest, and composed of an arch. Seated in

the centre is a grand statue of the great artist, with the figure of an

angel at his side; between, and at the sides of the tall columns

supporting the canopy above, are colossal marble statues of four female

allegorical figures, and on the background, behind these groups, upon

the walls of this marble temple as it were, are sculptured elegant

bass-reliefs of the painter's greatest works, the Assumption, Martyrdom

of St. Lawrence, and Peter Martyr; upon the wings of the great arch,

above the column supports, are other beautiful bass-reliefs, and

surmounting the whole, the winged lion, in sculptured marble. The whole

structure is very beautiful in its workmanship and elaborate in detail,

the eight colossal statues finely done, the marble drapery strikingly

natural. Even a picture of this elegant monument is something to study

and admire, and to be able to stand before the structure itself is more

than doubly gratifying.

The same may be remarked also of the monument of Canova, directly

opposite, the design of which is almost the same as that of Archduchess

Christiana at Vienna. It is a huge pyramid of white marble, and at the

right, passing towards its open door, is a procession of life-size

figures in marble, representing, I suppose, Art, Religion, Genius, &c.

The first, a figure completely shrouded in its white marble drapery, is

bearing a funeral urn; next comes a youthful figure ascending the steps,

bearing a torch; next to this comes a male and female, walking together

in an attitude of grief; bearing a festoon of flowers, and following

them two boys with torches. At the left of the open door of the monument

rests the winged lion in a crouching attitude, with paws crossed upon a

book, and below him a colossal figure of an angel, seated upon loose,

flowing drapery thrown upon the marble steps, and leaning, with

half-bowed head, upon his extinguished torch. This last figure is most

naturally and effectively posed, and, with one of its feet hanging

carelessly down from the lower step over the pedestal, and the drapery

fluttering beneath it, has an exceedingly natural air, and the figure is

beautiful and graceful as one might suppose an angelic visitant would

be.

There are many other monuments rich in historic interest in this fine

old church. There is that of Francesco Foscari, whose name has been

rendered immortal by Byron; and opposite it the tomb of another doge--a

colossal structure, forty feet high and twenty-seven feet wide,

decorated with a profusion of sculpture, including nineteen full-length

figures; the monument of Simeone Dandolo, who was one of the judges of

Marino Faliero; the elegant monument in rich marble of Jacopo Pesaro,

who died in 1547, and near it a picture over the Pesaro altar, the

property of the Pesaro family, representing the Virgin and Child, seated

within a magnificent temple, with St. Peter, St. Francis, and other

saints standing near, while numerous members of the Pesaro family were

kneeling at different points. It was a grand and elegant painting, said

to be one of Titian's best works. The little chapels opening out of the

church were rich in beautiful pictures, monuments, and sculpture--votive

offerings, or to perpetuate the memory of members of some of the great,

but now extinct or almost forgotten, Venetian families. Those who have a

desire to view the tombs and monuments of the old doges will find many

of them in the Church of Santi Giovannio e Paolo, including the splendid

one of Andrea Vendramin, who died in 1479.

This great church is three hundred and thirty-one feet long, one hundred

and forty-two feet wide in the transepts, and one hundred and

twenty-three feet high. Here, on entering at the left, we saw the space

that was occupied on the wall by Titian's masterpiece, Peter Martyr,

recently destroyed by fire. Owing to some repairs that were to be made

in this part of the church, this priceless painting was removed to one

of the side chapels for greater safety, which soon after took fire, and

was totally destroyed, with all its rich decorations and pictures, the

Titian among the rest.

The Santa Maria della Salute, an elegant church, with its great dome

supported inside by eight pillars, between which open seven chapels, is

beautifully decorated; and here we saw Tintoretto's picture of the

Marriage at Cana, Titian's Descent of the Holy Spirit, and the

elegantly-sculptured high altar.

We become wearied with paintings at the churches, and saints, martyrs,

and Madonnas are at last so monotonous that one ought to take a vacation

between a visit to the churches and the Academy of Fine Arts, in which I

cannot begin to enumerate the beautiful paintings. Titian's Assumption

of the Virgin is one glorious work, however--rich in color and elegant

in execution; Tintoretto's Adam and Eve, another; the Fisherman

presenting the Ring to the Doge, very fine; and the great picture, by

Paul Veronese, of Our Saviour in the House of Levi, an immense painting

covering one entire end of a hall,--I should think thirty feet or more

long by twenty in height,--a very animated composition; Titian's St.

John in the Desert, and Tintoretto's Crucifixion, with the Three Marys,

besides an indefinite number of saints, martyrs undergoing tortures,

Madonnas, holy families, Virgins, &c., in various styles of art are

here.

All the guide-books tell us that Florence is the fairest city of the

earth, that it is Florence the Beautiful; so old Genoa is called Genoa

Superba; and, in fact, local pride gives many of these old cities

grandiloquent or flattering titles, the present significance of which

the tourist fails to see. Florence owes its reputation for beauty more

to its beautiful surroundings and its charming environs than to any

beauties of its own, being in the centre of a sort of pretty valley, as

it were, with gentle elevations surrounding it, and the picturesque

peaks of the Apennines rising in the distance. From the hill of Fiesole

the visitor gets a most charming view of hill, valley, mountain, and

plain, and of the city beneath, with the Arno twisting its silver thread

through it. The country all around is picturesque in the extreme, with

exquisite bits of landscape taking in vineyards and country houses,

villages and church spires, gently sloping hill-sides, and distant

mountain peaks assuming many strange hues in the sunlight. But the

streets of the city itself are generally narrow, and with but little

architectural display. The great palaces look like fortresses, and

built, as perhaps they were, for the strongholds of royalty.

Our first walk carried us to the Piazza del Gran' Duca, and here rose

the huge square, massive-looking building, the Palazzo Vecchio, with

great, projecting battlements, and the tall, mediæval-looking

watch-tower rising up at one corner, so familiar from the many pictures

that have been drawn of it. Right about in this vicinity are many superb

works of art in the open air--an equestrian statue of Cosmo I., the

Fountain of Neptune, with the god in his car drawn by sea-horses, with

nymphs, sea-gods, and tritons sporting about the margin of the basin;

and on one side of the door of the palace stands a colossal group of

Hercules slaying Cacus, while on the other is a statue of David by

Michael Angelo.

This reminds me that we hear this great artist's name at every turn in

Florence, see his portrait in every picture store, and prints of his

works in the window of every print shop; for are we not in Florence, the

birthplace of Angelo--not only of Angelo, but of Dante, Petrarch,

Galileo, Boccaccio, Leonardo da Vinci, the artist, and Benvenuto

Cellini, the wondrous worker in metals? But I am forgetting the

beautiful works of art that stand all about one here in the open street,

which I stood gazing at in silent admiration.

In a sort of grand arcade, or "loggia," as it is called, which looks

like a house with the two lower stories taken out, and formed into three

great arched porticos, is a broad stone platform, gained by an ascent of

half a dozen broad steps, and in it some fine statuary. One of the most

prominent is a fine colossal bronze, one of Perseus with the head of

Medusa; a grand figure executed by Cellini, representing the helmeted

figure standing with one foot upon the fallen monster, while with one

hand he holds aloft the decapitated head, and the other grasps his

sword. The pedestal of this statue is elegantly ornamented. In each of

its four sunken panels are small figures of mythological deities. Next

comes a marble group of a helmeted warrior bearing away a female figure

in his arms, entitled the Rape of the Sabines, Hercules slaying a

Centaur, Judith slaying Holofernes, and the Dying Ajax, supported by a

Greek warrior. There are also six colossal female statues, and a couple

of grandly-sculptured lions. We were full tilt on the way to visit the

Uffizi Gallery when these groups arrested us, and were a new

sensation--sculpture after so much painting, and a good preparation for

what we were to see in that celebrated gallery.

At our first visit here, impatient, we pressed on to the room known as

the Tribune, which contains some of the greatest works of art in the

world. Those that every looker-in at a city shop window has seen copies

of are here in the original. The room is lighted from the top; but it

does not appear the most favorable place for an exhibition of these

great works. First greeting the visitor as he enters the door is the

celebrated Venus de' Medici, one of the most graceful and elegant

statues in the world, the pure, modest beauty of which is wonderful. The

easy grace of attitude, the modest beauty of the face, and perfect

symmetry of the whole figure are faultless. Its height, five feet two

inches, was less than I supposed it would be, and the hands, which are a

modern restoration, are bad, as all writers agree.

The Apollino, another beautiful figure, shows the numerous seams in it,

where it was joined together, after having been broken by a large

picture which fell upon it a few years since. And the Dancing Fawn is

one of those indescribably natural-looking and faultless pieces of

antique sculpture that makes one wonder if we really do have any great

sculptors in these modern days; for the position, and every feature,

limb, and muscle are so faithfully rendered as to make the marble seem

so endowed with life that it would scarce astonish the spectator if it

continued its agile motions, and assumed a dozen other attitudes upon

the pedestal.

Then comes the group of the Wrestlers, admirably executed, and

technically and anatomically correct in its sculptured delineation of

straining sinews and swelling muscles. The spectator is more than

astonished at the wonderful art displayed in the well-known figure of

the Slave overhearing Conspirators while sharpening a knife. It may

strike many, as it did ourselves, as the best subject possible for the

sculptor's chisel--this listening figure pausing at his work, as if just

stricken into stone, his attention suddenly arrested while at his

occupation, the intent, eager, listening look, the natural attitude of

the figure, the earnestness in the face, and the parted lips--all make

you think that there is only one thing more the artist could have done

with his marvellous touch, and that was, to have imparted to the figure

life and speech, for it seems as near a living thing as statue can be.

We linger long in the Tribune, loath to leave these superb creations,

that reveal new beauties the longer we gaze upon them. On the walls of

this room hang works from the pencils of Titian, Michael Angelo, Andrea

del Sarto, Correggio, Guido, and Vandyke. You are surrounded by

priceless gems of art, the choicest works of the whole Uffizi

collection. There was Titian's Venus, a marvellously beautiful figure,

upon the canvas; Del Sarto's Madonna and Child, a grand and beautiful

painting of most exquisite coloring; Albert Dürer's Adoration of the

Magi, the heads of the figures magnificent studies, and grand in their

execution; Paul Veronese's Holy Family; Raphael's St. John preaching in

the Desert; and Guido's Virgin, besides many others.

And then we wandered, hour after hour, all through this wonderful

gallery, said to be the richest and most varied in the world, though

less extensive than the Louvre or Vatican--twenty-five rooms, besides

corridors, vestibules, &c., crammed with works of art. Murray says that

the original collections of the Medici family were dispersed at various

periods. The collections of Lorenzo the Magnificent were sold in 1494,

and their palace plundered in 1637; but Casimo I. recovered much of what

had belonged to his ancestors, and his successors rendered this

collection of art what it now is--the most interesting in Europe.

Busts of this Medici family are placed in the vestibule approaching the

gallery. Here also are bronze statues of Mars and Silenus, and an infant

Bacchus; and as you get into the vestibule great bronze wolf-dogs guard

the door, and huge statues of the Roman emperors look down upon you. It

would be useless to attempt a description of the collection, which is

divided into selections of different schools of art in different rooms.

The corridors are occupied both as sculpture and picture galleries. The

paintings in them are historical series of the Tuscan school, and the

statuary a splendid series of busts of the Roman emperors, statue of a

Gladiator, Apollo, Urania, Cupid, Bacchante, &c.; Michael Angelo's

bass-reliefs, and his statues of the Drunken Bacchus and Faun; also his

Wounded Adonis and Donatellos, David as the Conqueror of Goliah. Then we

have a room filled with curious Roman sarcophagi, with curious

sculptured bass-reliefs, representing their chariot races, gods, and

sea-nymphs.

There is a room full of pictures of the French school of art, two of the

German and Dutch schools, another of the Dutch and Flemish schools, with

pictures of Van Ostade and Gerard Dow, and two rooms with magnificent

pictures of the Venetian school, such as Paul Veronese's picture of

Esther before Ahasuerus,--only think what a grand picture this makes,

with its crowd of figures, full of life and spirit,--Giorgione's

Judgment of Solomon, and Tintoretto's Christ entering Jerusalem. Then

come two other intensely interesting rooms--autograph portraits of

painters, many of them painted by themselves. There are Guido and

Vandyke, Rembrandt, Titian, Tintoretto, Da Vinci, and Michael Angelo,

and the portrait of Raphael, which has been so frequently copied and

engraved in pictures, that we recognize it instantly, as the eye wanders

over the crowded walls.

There is so much in this Uffizi gallery to satisfy every variety of

artistic taste! Just think, for instance, of the pleasure of looking

through a whole room full of the original drawings of the old masters,

with their autographs attached! Here were parts of Michael Angelo's

architectural plans, his rough sketches in red chalk or charcoal;

Titian's drawings--rude outlines, from his portfolio, that on the canvas

grew to voluptuous beauty; also, those of Rubens, Albert Dürer,

Tintoretto, Del Sarto, and a host of others; and these that we see hung

upon the walls are only a mere selection of specimens from the wealth of

this great collection of original sketches, which contains nearly

twenty-eight thousand in all.

But paintings and sculpture are not the only wonders of the Uffizi

gallery. Coming out of the gallery of original drawings, we find a room

of medals and coins, containing a set of nearly nine thousand imperial

medals, a set of coins of the mediæval and modern Italian states, and a

set of gold florins from as far back as the year 1252. We could not but

notice that more than one custodian or official regarded us with a

curious eye as we wandered from room to room, and halted, catalogue in

hand, pencilling down, all over its pages, the notes from which these

pages are written, as if wondering whether we were noting down anything

that was illegal or not, so suspicious do they appear, in these foreign

countries, of anybody who appears to be taking notes or drawings. We

loitered all among this surfeit of artistic beauty, through the whole of

that portion of the day it was open, only to find, at last, that we had

not seen half of it. So we returned to the charge again, note-book in

hand, for another day's enjoyment.

On our second visit we stumbled, first on the Etruscan collection--two

rooms full of Etruscan vases and sepulchral urns, of ancient make, and

very beautifully decorated with antique paintings, such as battles of

the centaurs, Grecian warriors and combats, all very interesting, as

giving, in many instances, the costumes and manners of the ancient

Greeks, painted at the time of their existence. There was also a very

extensive collection of ancient black vases, found in Etruria, and in

the Necropolis of Sarteano, the graceful and elegant shapes of which

form the copies of many of our richest and most beautiful vases of

modern manufacture. The celebrated Medicean vase, or Hadrian vase, which

was found in Hadrian's villa, near Tivoli, of course claimed our

attention, and also a curious collection of urns, in which the ancients

used to enclose the ashes of their dead.

"Niobe dissolved in tears." How much we have read and studied about

Niobe, and how writers delight to quote her name, especially whenever

tears are spoken of! I remember getting a thwack at school for

pronouncing the name of the tearful mother, _Nigh-oab_, soon after

another youngster had been corrected for the same blunder. The story of

Niobe and her children was often taken as a subject by the ancient

artists, and the most celebrated of the ancient representations was that

which filled the temple of Apollo Sosianus, at Rome, and was found in

that city in 1583, and now preserved here in a room very properly

devoted to it, called the Hall of Niobe. The group consists of the

mother, who holds one of the children upon her lap, while thirteen

statues of other sons and daughters are grouped about in various

attitudes. It is useless to attempt to convey the impression made by

such masterly specimens of ancient art--figures which may have been

shaped by the chisel of Praxiteles, certainly by some sculptor who

wrought as though he felt he was portraying a domestic tragedy he had

been an eye-witness of, and not a mythological legend. The deep,

touching grief of the mother, the admirably natural figure of one of the

dying sons, that almost causes the spectator to rush to his aid,--in

fact, the whole story is told in marble, and with wonderful effect,

making a powerful impression upon the beholder.

Turning from this great work of the ancient sculptor's art, our eyes

fall upon the original, of which we have often seen copies, Snyder's

painting of the Boar Hunt; then the spirited picture of Henry IV. at

the Battle of Ivry,--King Henry of Navarre, whom all the school-boys

will recollect, from the poem which is so popular with them for

declamation:--

"The king has come to marshal us,

In all his armor dressed,

And he has bound a snow-white plume

Upon his gallant crest."

Another spirited and beautiful figure painting was the Entrance of Henry

IV. into Paris after the Battle of Ivry.

Among other riches of this great collection is a cabinet of gems, where

were a wonderful casket of rock crystal, with seventeen compartments, in

which were elaborately wrought figures representing events of the

Passion; an elegant vase of sardonyx, on which Lorenzo de' Medici's name

was engraved; another cut out of a solid block of lapis lazuli, &c.

Then came a great cabinet of ancient bronzes; and it is curious to see

how these specimens of antique Grecian art--figures, vases, and

bass-reliefs--form models for the most graceful, popular, and beautiful

specimens of artistic work and ornament at the present day. In this

collection, besides the bronze figures of Jupiters, Venuses, and other

deities, and various beautiful bass-reliefs, discovered in ruined

cities, we found a most interesting collection of ancient Grecian and

Roman arms and helmets, candelabra, household utensils, &c. Here were

spear-heads of Roman legions, that marched hundreds of years before

Christ, the weights and measures of artisans, the helmet of the warrior,

the bronze brooch of the Greek maiden, and the bronze greaves of the

Etruscan soldier. The hall of modern bronzes gave us figures by artists

of modern times, such as Ghiberti's Sacrifice of Abraham, Giovanni of

Bologna's Mercury, a bust of Cosimo I. by Benvenuto Cellini, an angel by

Donatello, &c. And all this grand collection, this wealth of art, where

student may study, the dreamer may dream, sight-seer may drink his fill,

the artist educate his taste, and the lover of the beautiful feast to

his heart's content, is free to all who desire to look upon it. It is

hard, indeed, to tear one's self away from the treasures that are heaped

up here; but there are other sights to be seen, and more galleries, and

churches, and palaces to be looked at.

An interesting visit was that made by us to Michael Angelos's house, or

the Palazzo Buonarroti, as it is called. It belongs to the city, having

been bequeathed, with its contents, by the great artist's last male

relative at his death, and contains many interesting relics, much of the

contents and furniture being kept in the original position. Here we

passed through the rooms, which open one out of the other, and have

their walls adorned with choice pictures by great painters. One room has

a series of paintings representing the principal events in his life, and

another is hung with pictures relative to members of the Buonarroti

family; for, be it known to many who suppose that Michael Angelo is the

entire name of the artist, that it was Michael Angelo Buonarroti. He had

intended before his death, which occurred in Rome, in the ninetieth year

of his age, to have sent all his personal property to Florence, where a

house was to have been purchased to receive it; but this was not done;

so at his death the Florentine ambassador at Rome, acting under

instructions, took possession of and forwarded the mementos which we

looked upon, and which are now deposited in this "palace" of the family,

which was not, as many travellers understand, the last residence he

occupied previous to his death. That event took place in Rome, on the

18th of February, 1564; and on the 11th of March following his body was

returned to his native city of Florence, after thirty years of voluntary

exile, and entombed in the Church of Santa Croce.

Around one of the rooms in this interesting mansion hung drawings and

sketches by the great artist's own hand, and in another were various

models in plaster, wax, and terra cotta, of portions of his great works;

also of his own make, such as a model in wax of his statue of David, a

bass-relief of the Descent from the Cross, &c.; then we were shown, in a

little boudoir, a collection of his plans and drawings, including his

pencil sketch of the' Last Judgment, painted for the Sistine Chapel;

also several interesting manuscripts, and other autographic memorials,

and the little oil-cups, flasks, and other utensils that he used in work

upon painting.

In a little side-room, scarcely larger than a closet, we were shown a

table at which he was said to write, and from one of the drawers were

taken the slippers which he used to wear, and which we were reverently

permitted to handle; nor was this all; his two walking-sticks, with

crutched handles, and the sword worn at his side on great occasions, and

other interesting personal relics, were exhibited. This room is

designated, by the guide, "Michael Angelo's Study," though when he

studied there the guide was unable to communicate; still we had seen

enough personal mementos of the great artist to render our visit

interesting enough not to cavil at trifles; and there being no question

of the authenticity of the relics, we allowed the guide to communicate

harmless little fictions regarding the house unquestioned.

First of all the churches in Florence we visit the magnificent Duomo, or

Cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, the magnificent swelling dome of which

is a prominent and imposing object in all the views of the city seen

from the surrounding heights. Notwithstanding the numerous grand

architectural wonders I had looked upon, each new one, even after six

months of sight-seeing, excites admiration and interest. These vast

piles of architectural beauty, the wealth of artistic execution in their

sculpture, grand conception, skill in grouping pillars and arches, taste

in decoration, and withal the overwhelming vastness and grandeur of

these great monuments of the old cathedral-builders, can but have an

effect even upon the most ordinary perception.

This great cathedral was commenced in 1298, and was one hundred and

sixty years in building, employing, during that time, many of the most

celebrated of architects in its construction, and serving as a model, or

rather giving Angelo his ideas, for the model of St. Peter's at Rome.

The cathedral appears built of marble, and as you enter from the bright

glare of an Italian sun into its cool interior, and upon the tessellated

pavement of rich marbles, seems dark and sombre. This is accounted for,

in some degree, by the small size of the windows, and the deep color of

the rich stained glass with which they are filled; this glass is said to

have been made in 1434, and is superb, both in color and designs.

The first view we had down the four great arches of the nave was grand,

and the distance seemed more than it really is; but then fancy the size

of a cathedral the height of whose nave is over one hundred and fifty

feet. This great Duomo is five hundred feet long, the top of its cross,

three hundred and eighty-seven feet from the ground, and its transepts

are three hundred and six feet in length; the height even of the

_little_ side-aisles is nearly a hundred feet. Above all looms the great

cupola, about one hundred and forty feet in diameter, and one hundred

and thirty-three feet high, which is extremely grand and beautiful. Its

interior is painted in fresco, with figures of angels, saints, Paradise

and Purgatory.

The grand altar is directly under this great dome, and behind it is an

unfinished group, representing the Entombment by Michael Angelo. Around

the sides of the church were tombs and monuments, which our guide would

gladly have explained to us _seriatim_; but to make them interesting

required a more intimate knowledge of Italian history than we are

willing to claim; but we did stop opposite the bust of Giotto, whose

skill was called into operation in building a large portion of the

cathedral; the tomb of Antonio d' Orso, a bishop, who, when the city was

besieged, called around him officers of the church, and, in full armor,

manned the walls against the enemy; and the picture of Dante, upon one

of the walls, in red robe, with laurel crown on his head and book in

hand, familiar from the engraving we have so often seen of it. A climb

up, to view the marvellous beauty of the great dome, gave us not only a

good idea of its vastness,--it being the largest cupola in the

world,--but also a superb view out towards Fiesole.

The Campanile, or bell tower, situated quite near the cathedral, is an

elegant structure of Grecian architecture square in form, with beautiful

Gothic windows, and is built of light-colored marble, and adorned with

rich sculptured work and decoration; four hundred and fourteen steps

carry you to the summit, the height being two hundred and seventy-five

feet. We took another view here of the country, also at the symmetrical

dome of the cathedral close at hand, inspected the six huge bells that

are swung up here, and descended to view the two statues of the artists

of the cathedral, which are placed in the square. That of one of them

has a plan of the cupola upon his lap, from which he is looking up at

the cathedral itself as completed.

The superb Baptistery of St. Giovanni, of whose bronze doors we had

heard so much, was close at hand, and next claimed our attention. It is

built of black and white marble, and the chief beauty inside, which is a

regular octagon, is the splendid Corinthian columns and the beautiful

mosaics in the cupola. The floor is paved with black and white marble,

in most curious, complicated, and elegant designs. But the great

attraction of the building is its splendid bronze doors. Michael

Angelo's speech about them is inserted in every guide-book, and repeated

by every cicerone who shows them. He said they were worthy of being the

gates of Paradise; and as no tourist's description would be complete

without the expression, I have here introduced it. They are, indeed,

wonderful and elaborate works of art. One contains groups of figures,

wrought out of the bronze, representing scenes in the life of St. John

in the upper compartments, and allegorical figures of the Virtues in the

lower. This is the gate completed in 1330, and the Florentines do not

seem to take great care of its beauty, for the figures were sadly filled

up with dust and dirt, and needed a most thorough cleansing when we saw

them. The other two are filled with scenes from the Scriptures, such as

the Creation of Man, Noah after the Deluge, Queen of Sheba visiting

Solomon, Esau selling his Birthright, &c. The execution of all these

figures is marvellous; and we are told these portals, which are not, as

may be supposed, of large size, were the result of forty years of

patient labor on the part of the artist (Ghiberti) employed upon them.

The work seems such as would be more in place, however, upon a casket or

smaller surface than the doors of a church, being too elaborate for such

a position, and spread over too much surface to receive the careful

examination which their merit requires.

The most noted church in Florence is that of the Santa Croce, founded in

1294, and celebrated as being the burial-place of many great

Italians--Angelo, Galileo, Machiavelli, and others. But whoever expects

that the cathedral mausoleum of these illustrious ashes is one of

architectural grandeur will be somewhat disappointed, as he comes to a

huge, ungainly brick structure, which seems utterly unworthy to enclose

the illustrious dead that have been interred within its walls. The

interior, lighted by stained glass windows, contains many interesting

monuments--Angelo's, with his bust and allegorical statues of Painting,

Sculpture, and Architecture; a huge monument to Dante, with the genius

of Poetry deploring his death; that to Machiavelli with an allegorical

figure of History; a monument to Alfieri, executed by Canova.

There are monuments to various great scholars, naturalists, and

historians--Galileo; Lami, a Florentine historian; Targioni, a great

chemist; an elegant one to Leonardi Bruni, a great scholar, who died in

1444; Michele, a great botanist; Nobili, a philosopher, &c. At one end

of this church, which is four hundred and sixty feet long and one

hundred and thirty-four wide, is a series of chapels, rich in frescoes,

paintings, and other works of art, among which we find the usual

scriptural paintings, such as Assumption of the Virgin; Coronation of

the Virgin; Madonna and Child; also fine frescoes by Giotto. The

Nicolini Chapel is elegantly decorated with marbles, and contains fine

statuary, including noble figures of Moses and Aaron, and various

allegorical figures; and so we wander from one chapel to another, gazing

at frescoes and paintings, bass-reliefs, monuments, and ornamental

carvings, till sated with art and fatigued with gazing.

The Church of San Lorenzo we must visit, to view: the wonders it

contains in monuments from Angelo's chisel. In the new sacristy of this

church, which is a monumental chapel designed by Michael Angelo, are his

two great marble monuments, one to Lorenzo, father of Catherine de'

Medici, and the other to Giuliano de' Medici. Each of these monuments is

a casket or sarcophagus supported by two colossal reclining figures on

each side, and surmounted above by colossal statues of the deceased in

armor, seated, with a background of pillars, cornice, and elegant

architectural design. The two colossal reclining figures on Lorenzo's

tomb are called "Day" and "Night," and those on Giuliano's "Morning" and

"Evening." All of these four figures were of wonderful power, and make a

strong impression on the spectator; but there are two more.

Upon the top of Giuliano's tomb sits his statue, that of a Roman general

partly clad in armor, with a truncheon lying across his lap, and his

head turned on one side, as if thoughtfully gazing at something in the

distance. On Lorenzo's sits a figure we recognize instantly as one we

have seen a hundred times in bronze, in shop windows, and upon marble

clock tops; but did we ever recognize in the base copies the marvellous

beauty and the grandeur of expression seen in the original? A man in

full armor, seated, absorbed in thought, his face resting upon his hand,

and that face beneath his over-shadowing helm, so full of deep, quiet,

meditative thought, that you involuntarily wait for a play of the

features to reveal the deep, calm workings of the great mind behind it.

The whole attitude of the figure is unstudied, graceful, and

natural--the most natural attitude of a great warrior absorbed in

profound meditation. It was hard to tear yourself away from quiet,

wondrous admiration of this superb statue.

The first thing one inquires for on shopping excursions in Florence is

the Florentine mosaics, those ingenious specimens of painting in colored

stone, in breast-pins, bracelets, or sleeve buttons. As all know, these

mosaic pictures are made by joining together small pieces of stone of

the natural color into figures of flowers, fruits, animals, and birds,

the stone being first sawed by fine saws into very thin veneers, and the

design fitted upon a background of polished slate. These differ from the

Roman mosaic, inasmuch as the color of the latter is artificial; the

workmanship of the Florentine is also more elegant. Tourists are apt

here, as elsewhere on the continent, to be imposed upon by venders of

cheap and spurious imitations of originals, and will find that the

really beautiful and artistic ones, although surprisingly cheap in

comparison with the prices charged in America, cost a tolerably good

sum, for the manufacture of them is tedious, requiring much care and

patience. Besides, there were so many American tourists, before the

present war, constantly passing through Florence, as to make a constant

good, fair retail demand for them. Cheap ones could be purchased from

two to ten francs each, of course unmounted, while the price of the more

beautiful ranged from fifteen to sixty francs. We purchased an elegant

one for a lady's pin at forty-five, which, as usual, was marked fifty,

and which a native might possibly have bought for forty. The difference

in the price of Italian and American labor was discovered in the price

charged by a Boston jeweller in setting up this bauble in the plainest

possible style, which nearly trebled its price.

After having visited the mosaic shops, the tourist is, in a measure,

prepared for the elaborate specimens of the art which are exhibited in

the construction of the Medicean Chapel, which is attached to the Church

of San Lorenzo, and which is the most extravagant and costly interior of

its kind that can possibly be imagined. It is a huge octagonal room,

surmounted by a beautiful cupola elegantly painted in fresco; the scenes

are of various scriptural subjects, such as Adam and Eve, the

crucifixion, resurrection, last judgment, &c.

The lofty sides of this chapel or costly mausoleum, to the grand ducal

family, are completely sheathed in the richest marbles, elegantly

polished jasper and chalcedony, glittering agate of different colors,

malachite, and lapis lazuli. All around, rising tier above tier, are

sarcophagi and cenotaphs of the Medici, wrought from the richest and

costliest stone, polished to a mirror-like surface, and decorated with

unparalleled richness. At different points in the walls were the

armorial bearings of different families, the shields, the richest and

most beautiful Florentine mosaic work imaginable, even carnelian and

coral being employed in some of the coats to give the proper shadings to

the elegant emblematical designs. The sarcophagi are inscribed each with

the name of the illustrious personage whose ashes they represent the

casket of, the remains of the different grand dukes being deposited in a

crypt below this chapel. A representation of a large cushion, upon which

rests the ducal crown, all carved from colored stone, is a most

wonderful work of art, and the beautiful tomb of Cosimo II., by John of

Bologna, rich and elegant. This wondrous funeral chamber, in costly

marble, sparkling with precious stones and elegant decorations, is said

to have cost over seventeen millions of dollars, and, as a distinguished

writer remarks, "recalls our youthful visions of Aladdin's palace."

He who takes pleasure in visiting old churches and cathedrals may keep

tolerably busy for many days, even weeks, in Florence; as for ourselves,

we found the plethora of scriptural pictures, architectural effects,

and wondrous carvings, memorial cenotaphs, and historical relics was

beginning to work confusion in our mind, and destroy the pleasant effect

of those already viewed; it was, therefore, not without reluctance that

we gave up our design of seeing _all_ the churches in Florence; indeed,

we cannot undertake, in the space of these pages, to attempt description

of all that we did see in this city, so crammed with objects of interest

to the lover of art or enthusiastic tourist. The old church and convent

of San Marco, with its pictures by Fra Angelico, and its convent, into

which no female tourist is admitted; Santa Maria Novella, full of

pictures and frescoes; Santo Spirito and others, will give the traveller

all he wants of the wonders of Florence's religious edifices, and he may

also find, as we did, that there is apparently more thoroughly honest

support, or we may say blind attachment, to the Romish church by its

adherents in the city of New York, than in this Roman Catholic Italian

city. The better portion of the common people have lost respect for the

idle priests by whom they have been surrounded, and several with whom we

conversed did not hesitate to express their hopes in favor of Garibaldi,

and that be might ere long "drive out the pope from Rome, who ought to

wield no temporal power."

The carriage-driver, who drove us about to various sacred edifices, and

who spoke French tolerably, bent his knee reverently when passing the

high altar, but, on finding the portals of one church closed, left, with

not very pious ejaculations, to find the attendant priest to admit us,

vowing that they did more eating than kneeling, more drinking than

praying, and were of more injury than service to Italy. Rather strong

expressions these appeared to us from an Italian Romanist, in one of the

strongholds of the church; but judging from recent accounts from Rome,

some of this pious individual's wishes respecting the head of the church

appear likely to be gratified.

The surfeit of art in Florence fairly confounds the American tourist who

has any taste that way, and who has resolved to give, in his fashion of

reckoning, the liberal time of eight or ten days to seeing the city and

its treasures. The splendid Pitti Palace contains a better collection of

paintings, as a whole, than the Uffizi Gallery. They are also well

arranged; and O, boon to sight-seers! chairs and sofas are placed in

various places, where one may rest the tired limbs and aching vertebræ.

Besides vestibules, corridors, &c., there are fifteen grand halls, named

from the heathen deities, and each elegantly decorated in great frescoes

on the ceiling, illustrative of the deity for which it is named. Thus

the Hall of Mars has its ceiling decorated with battle scenes, and

allegorical figures of War, Peace, and Victory. The Hall of Jupiter has

a grand painting of Hercules presenting some other individual to the

Thunderer, and the Hall of the Iliad has scenes from the Homeric poem.

Here, in the Hall of Venus, we saw great views of coast scenery from

Salvator Rosa's pencil, Titian's Marriage of St. Catherine, and splendid

landscapes from the industrious brush of Rubens.

In the Hall of Apollo are a splendid Bacchus by Guido, a Virgin and

Child by Murillo, portraits by Raphael and Rembrandt.

In the Hall of Mars are Andrea del Sarto's Joseph and his Brethren, two

pictures of great beauty--Guido's Rebekah at the Well, a St. Peter, also

by Guido; and here also is another one of those celebrated pictures,

known the world over from the engravings of it that are distributed by

thousands throughout Christendom--the Madonna del Seggiola, or Sitting

Madonna, the Mother seated with the infant Saviour in her arms, and

infant St. John at her side. The rare beauty of these little infantile

forms, and sweet, holy, motherly expression of the mother's face, the

lovely tenderness of the attitude, and withal, the wondrous expression

of beauty upon the children's faces, one can only see in the painting,

for no idea of its artistic power can be had from any engraving I ever

saw.

In the Hall of Jupiter the Three Fates by Michael Angelo, a picture of

great power, at once arrests the attention, and a grand and beautiful

figure of St. Mark, by Fra Bartolomeo, is a creation one can almost bow

in reverence to. Then there is a portrait of a lady with a book, painted

by Leonardo da Vinci, which excites admiration by its exquisite coloring

and lovely beauty. In this room is a large picture of an animated and

somewhat singular scene by Rubens, which is described in the catalogues

as nymphs assailed by satyrs, in which the latter are behaving in a

manner so disagreeable that you long to get at the lecherous rascals

with a bayonet or a cowhide.

The Hall of Saturn contains some of Raphael's finest productions.

Prominent among them is the Madonna del Baldachino, in which she is

represented enthroned, seated at the summit of a flight of steps at the

end of a temple, and beneath a canopy which is being drawn aside by two

angels. Four church dignitaries in their robes stand at the foot of the

throne, near which are two angels. The picture is of interest apart from

its beauty, as being one of the earlier works of the great artist. Among

his other pictures in this hall are the portrait of Pope Julius II., a

superb piece of coloring, his portrait of a Cardinal, and the Vision of

Ezekiel.

Another fine picture of the Virgin Enthroned is in the Hall of the

Iliad, painted by Fra Bartolomeo. Here also are two pictures of the

Assumption by Del Sarto, a full-length portrait of Philip II. of Spain

by Titian, Carlo Dolce's St. John the Evangelist and St. Martha, a noble

figure of a Warrior by Salvator Rosa, a Holy Family by Rubens, and

Susanna and the Elders, a fine composition, by Guercino.

Next comes the Hall of Jupiter, and in this the pictures of the rarest

merit are Fra Bartolomeo's Holy Family, Raphael's lovely painting of the

Madonna and Child, and Carlo Dolce's painting of St. Andrew.

The Hall of Ulysses is rich in pictures from the pencils of Carlo Dolce,

Salvator Rosa, Andrea del Sarto, Rubens, Titian, and Tintoretto.

The Hall of Prometheus, besides holy families, virgins, and saints by

the great masters, shows us magnificent tables of Florentine mosaic of

immense value, and the cabinets and corridor adjoining have a large

collection of choice articles of _vertu_, cabinet paintings, and a grand

colossal bust of the first Napoleon by Canova.

Then there is the Hall of Justice, with its complement of paintings,

including Sir Peter Lely's portrait of Oliver Cromwell; the Hall of

Flora, containing the statue of Canova's Venus--an exquisite piece of

sculpture, grace and beauty in every line of its form. Other halls and

cabinets, which I will not tire the reader's patience by enumerating,

but each of which was rich with gems of art, the choicest of the great

masters.

Not only were the walls, which were hung with these treasures, of

interest, but the frescoes on the ceilings of the grand apartments,

which were superbly executed. The gods and goddesses of heathen

mythology, and allegorical figures, crowded the space above--an army of

wondrous giants, attracting the visitor's gaze upwards till both neck

and spine are weary. The costly mosaic tables are wrought with figures

of birds, fruit, and flowers, and their value is measured by tens of

thousands of dollars. Then we have bronzes and statuary, elegant

miniatures, Sèvres vases, carvings, and articles of _vertu_, making the

whole of this beautiful palace one treasure-house of art. Attached to

the palace are the beautiful Boboli Gardens, with their picturesque

walks and arbors, elegant statues, plashing fountains, and grand groups

of statuary, wonderful plants, beautiful vistas of embowered walks, and

magnificent terraces and vases, which will tempt one for hours with

their picturesque beauty.

Determined to feast our fill of fine art, we also visited the Academy of

Fine Arts--an interesting collection of beautiful pictures, ancient and

modern, forming in itself one of the great attractions of Florence, to

say nothing of the interesting antiquities of the Egyptian Museum, the

literary curiosities of the Laurentian Library, or the wonders of the

great Museum of Natural History.

Of course we wandered through the streets of Florence, visited Doney's

celebrated café in a broad street, which at five in the afternoon is

nearly shielded from the sun by the shade from the tall buildings; and

then it is that the young men, the young bloods of the city, begin to

come down to the cafés for their daily lounge, and ladies and gentlemen

to eat the luxurious ices and delicious confectionery, and watch the

strollers. Out-of-door life becomes quite brisk at from five to six, and

everybody seems riding and walking, and they keep up the latter, as we

found, till a late hour of the night; for the windows of the room of our

hotel, looking upon one of the great streets, gave us the full benefit

of that unceasing clatter of feet, that lasts in these places till long

after the noise of vehicles has ceased, and the Campanile bells begin to

chime the first hours of morning.

We found the Cascine a delightful resort of a pleasant September

afternoon. This is a beautifully laid out park along the banks of the

River Arno, where a pleasant ramble may be had beneath the deep shade of

forest trees and on velvety-green turf. But the chief attraction in the

afternoon is the drive along its great carriage roads, to view the

numerous equipages of every nationality and description that frequent

them. It is really an interesting study to view the solid old

establishments of English residents, with driver and footmen, the young

English bloods driving those heavily-timbered vehicles of theirs, which

they seem to have invented for the purpose of taking their valets out to

ride, and showing the neatness of their livery, the length of their

whips, and the points of the horse attached to the clumsy gundalow. Then

there were beautiful coroneted barouches, of great taste and elegance,

officers in rich uniforms on horseback, and crowds of pedestrians--an

ever-shifting, ever-changing scene. To get views of enchanting beauty,

pictures in Italian sunshine, ride up the hill, and past the beautiful

private residences, till you reach Fiesole Fortress, a thousand feet

above Florence, where you may look down upon its roofs and spires, the

surrounding country, the luxuriant gardens of the private villas upon

the hill-side, the winding Arno, and the peaks of the Apennines in the

distance.

The grounds of private residences and villas just out of Florence were

invisible from the road, by reason of the high walls which surround

them; and it is only after we really leave the city behind that we get

fair eye-sweep of these delightful places, which add so much to the

attractiveness of the outskirts. We chanced to be in Florence in the

grape season, and the heaps of this luxurious fruit that were piled up

in the market-places were pleasant to look upon--Muscats, sweetwaters,

black Hamburgs--great, luscious bunches! Half a dozen cents would buy a

lapful of them. Then there were peaches, piles of figs and pomegranates,

and other fruits. The Italian flower girls, whom we have read of so

often, and seen so romantically represented in pictures, are, in

reality, bold, hard-featured women, with nothing picturesque or pretty

about them, persistent in their importunities, and often with gaunt want

written in their features. They are most numerous on the Cascine, when

the band plays, offering their bouquets at the carriage windows and to

passers by.

But we must leave Florence and its attractions, not, however, without a

kind hand-grasp with Hiram Powers, the American sculptor, who, although

he has lived in Italy thirty years, is as loyal and true an American as

one new come to Florence. His beautiful statues of California, Faith,

Hope, Charity, the Greek Slave, &c., in various stages of work, from the

rough ashler to the perfectly developed figure, and all the departments

of the sculptor's work-shop, were shown to us by the great artist in

working cap and apron, for he delights to meet his fellow-countrymen,

though I fear they must make sad inroads upon his time during the

travelling season; this, however, may be compensated for, in a degree,

by orders received for copies of his works from visitors. The beautiful

busts of the Faith, Hope, and Charity figures are popular with those who

wish to preserve a specimen of the great sculptor's work, and can afford

one hundred guineas to gratify their taste in that direction.