Life in the Old World/Station 10

by Fredrika Bremer

 

TENTH STATION.

A Week in Genoa—Folks-Life—Palaces—Italian Evangelical Church—Journey to Spezia—Glance over the Sardinian States—Pisa—Exterior of Hospitals—Pisa, formerly and at the present time—The Leaning Tower—Catharina Ferucci—La Donna Italiana—Rosa Ferucci—The Cathedral of San Piso—Florence—Life—Art—Beauty—La Specola—Galileo—La Tribuna—Tuscany as formerly, and at the present time—From Florence, by Sienna, to Rome.

Genoa, October 25th.—I did not go by way of Novara! I had merely the satisfaction of having seen the handsome, little, and very lively city, lying upon elevated ground; environed by alleys of beautiful trees, and of having seen the field where the last great battle was fought between Carlo Alberto and Radetzky. I was shown the house where the king took up his abode, and whence, immediately after his abdication, he went into voluntary exile. I was obliged in the evening to return to Turin. The day following communication was re-established, and I went to Genoa by railway.

The locomotives used on the Swiss railways have such names as William Tell, Stauffacher, Wilkenreid, Grutli, and many other such national appellations. In Italy they are called Alfieri, Dante, Tasso, Vico, Volta, Galileo, Manzoni, and so on; very symbolic of the dissimilar genius of the two countries. On this occasion the locomotive was the Arno which conducted me southward. The morning was glorious; and glorious seemed to me the green food-bearing earth, as I sped forward upon it; and the sun, in his ascent, lit up the great Alpine chain and their giant heads in the most gorgeous coloring of gold and crimson. We passed by Asti, the city where Alfieri was born, and the vineyards of which produce the most delicious grapes, which afforded to my palate its greatest enjoyment at Turin, and Alessandria, which—like Asti—is a town of increasing life and population.

The nearer we approached Genoa, the more hilly became the country, and therefore the more worthy of admiration was the construction of the railway, sometimes by means of viaducts, which, like goats, boldly throw themselves from rock to rock across the abysses. We reached Genoa in the afternoon. I took a cittadina, a little Genoese carriage, which conveyed me round the city for a whole half hour, probably with the view of receiving a higher payment, but nevertheless to my great pleasure, because it was Sunday, and the entire population of Genoa seemed to be abroad in the streets. Whichever way one looked, one saw men and women walking about for pleasure; all well-dressed, and all looking cheerful. Transparent snow-white gauze floated from the heads of the women, fastened into their beautiful dark hair with golden pins or ornaments, and beautiful dark eyes glanced from beneath them. The streets and promenades were thronged with people. It all looked festal.

I fetched away from Madame B.'s my young country woman, Jenny Lind, who is not however our great artist, Jenny Lind, with the glorious voice, but a good girl, true, handsome, and blooming as a Hebe, as are many Swedish girls. We obtained two most charming little rooms, with mosaic floors, and the most lovely view over the harbor and the great ocean, in the Hotel de Ville, up four flights of steps. It was rather high, but the steps are of white marble, and convenient. The hotel was a Palazzo Grimaldi, and one is willing to ascend somewhat aloft to have such air and such a view. Jenny, I, and one of the young Norwegians, who accompanied me hither, spent the evening comfortably with a tea-supper, conversing before the open glass-doors of the balcony, and with a view over the sea and the vast horizon, which was lit up every minute with grand lightning flashes without thunder. The air was refreshing and pleasant.

After a week in Genoa.—One might live here a long time, and continually have new pleasure. The popular life is peculiar and full of animation. The women's vails, or gauze pezottos, as they are called, give a remarkably picturesque character to their heads, although these in general lack beauty; but the pezotto which flutters round the figure, gives a grace and embellishment to it. The pezotto indeed has no other purpose than this, because it does not cover, it does not even cast a shadow over the countenance, but it flutters from the crown down over the shoulders and back.

One sees in the streets a lively movement everywhere, trade, opulence,—no beggars. People talk, buy and sell, laugh, eat macaroni, and farinella, a very nice cake, made of pea-meal and oil. The working men look strong and well-conditioned—a handsome people.

White marble palaces, with laurel and orange trees in their courts, shine out on all hands. The palaces lying along the harbor are now nearly all converted into hotels, and some of them look outwardly very much like nests of thieves (and that perhaps with reason), but they have within beautiful marble stairs and large splendid rooms. Thus, our Palazzo Grimaldi, where one flies, rather than climbs up and down the stairs, which are exquisite from bottom to top. Within the city, the palaces are still in full splendor, and belong to wealthy and powerful old families, who are now beginning to repair and adorn them, somewhat in competition with the democratic tide which threatens to overflow the formerly very aristocratic republic. But Genoa la Superla deserves its name at the present day, because she sits on the shore of the Mediterranean, like a princess amongst cities, with her proud palaces and laurel groves, with a back-ground of hills, and before her the sea, which, from her glorious half-circular harbor, she seems to rule with a grand and steady glance. Thus did her greatest son, Columbus, whilst gazing across with his spirit glance, direct his eyes to the New World; thus Andrea Doria, called “the father of his country,” from the terrace of his marble palace in the myrtle and orange groves which he himself planted, raised his gray head in the proud consciousness of his country, and his life of citizenship in her service. Fiesco, the bold head of a party, must have comprehended the Genoese republic with the same proud, grand glance, when, as in Schiller's Fiesco, he exclaimed, “Thou mine!” The mighty spirits of the first republic have left here evident traces, and although Genoa has lost her republican independence, and is now merely a city of the Sardinian state, it is still, nevertheless, one of the most remarkable and peculiar cities of Italy. I will now say a few words about what I saw there, and first of the Villa Pallavicini.

It is a hill converted into pleasure grounds, with temples, ruins, three hermit's cells, Swiss chalets, pagodas, and all kinds of buildings, scattered here and there amongst groves, rocks, lakes, without plan or method, as by an architect of genius half intoxicated. The guide who conducted me around, repeated continually, “une belle exposition!” And of the ruins, the groves or the temples; “tout est vieux; tout est neuf!” Which expression might indeed imply, that the plans from which they were taken were old, but the buildings new. The most beautiful feature of the Villa, seemed to me, however, to be the view, from its laurel groves, of Genoa and the sea. The most remarkable object there, was, in my opinion, the artificial grotto, made of natural, splendid stalactites, in the dark vault of which we were rowed round in a little boat, and came out upon a lake of the clearest water, on the shores of which stand kiosks, obelisks, pagodas, &c. It is like a magical scene, especially when, from the gloomy stalactite vault, one emerges upon the little lake on the summit of the mountain, and the view expands over the infinite, glorious blue sea! It is an astonishment of the highest species of beauty. Bare flowers and trees, seats of porcelain, all kinds of ornamental curiosities, scattered about in the walks and groves, are lesser surprises, which are everywhere to be met with; also jets of water which unexpectedly besprinkle the wandering stranger. There are two temples of dazzingly white marble, which are of striking beauty.

The Villa Pallavicini is the pearl of this species of splendid villa, and deserves a visit from every lover of art. The day was lovely, and our guides extremely polite and kind. It seemed to be a pleasure to them to carry in portantina, the pretty Jenny, who, after a severe illness had but little strength for continued exertion in walking.

Secondly, I will speak of the Corso of Genoa, the grand promenade, where the gay world of the city presents to observation, its marriageable daughters and marrying young men. For there is neither social intercourse, nor social life in Genoa. The young ladies, whom their parents or relatives wish to have married, promenade upon the Corso, where they are seen by the young men, and may see them if they venture to raise their eyes. When any one of them has attracted the attention, or taken the fancy of a young man, he gains from some of her connections information regarding her property, or expected fortune, and the circumstances of her family. If these are all found to be unexceptionable, he then announces himself as a wooer. The young lady's connections have, in the mean time, been making their inquiries relative to his position, monetary affairs, &c., &c.; and, if the result be satisfactory, she is then informed of the intended match, in which her wishes have been very seldom consulted, but which has been arranged by the two families, and the young couple are betrothed without becoming more nearly acquainted with each other. Marriage and domestic happiness come afterwards. Yet, even in these respects, things are said to be better now than they used to be formerly, and the cicisbeism much less general.

We observed that this kind of market was being held on the terrace La Concordia, when there with Madame B——, a few days since. The promenade was much thronged. The marriageable daughters walked two and two before the parents, looking bashful, and a little conscious of the object for which they were there, and glanced neither to the right hand nor the left. The silk-dresses were splendid, and a few pezottos were worn with much grace. They are an incomparable ornament to young and beautiful figures. Formerly, this kind of vail was universal, even in the highest classes; but many ladies now wear bonnets. The gentlemen were very numerous, and gazed at the promenading ladies industriously. I wished them luck of a good bargain.

The shops of Genoa, especially the jeweller's, have still an old fashioned appearance, are small and dark, but appear to be well furnished, and to do much business. The peculiar pleasure of the people generally, seems to be walking on the promenades and attending church-festivals.

Genoa is strongly Catholic; as may be perceived by the great numbers of priests, churches, and convents. At three o'clock, every morning, a regular alarm begins from the bells of innumerable larger and smaller churches, which sound in chorus for an hour. In the evening, this ringing begins again. It is not melodious, yet, at the same time, it sounds well, and is full of animation, pealing as it does through the air which is free and fresh from the ocean. The air here is charming, only too full of life; I feel my nerves, as it were, excited by it. The weather is now so warm, that we sleep at night with open windows, the jalousies alone closed.

Yet, Catholic as Genoa is, there are, at the present time, five Protestant churches there. One of these belongs to the Italian branch of the Waldenses church. It is under the care of the late lawyer Mazarella, a man of fervent zeal and remarkable eloquence, whom I hope to hear. This Italian Evangelical Church, is peculiar in having, as yet, no determined formula of established faith, but it satisfies itself with preaching the Gospel, and by proclaiming Christ as a redeemer and saviour for society at large, as well as for each individual human being. To such as wish to become members of this church, this question is propounded: “Do you believe in our Saviour Jesus Christ, and in his Gospel?” If the question be answered in the affirmative, and with an emphasis which testifies of a sincere faith, the candidate for membership is received into the church. Without attaching themselves to socialistic theories, the community acknowledges a warm interest in the liberation of Italy, and believes that it will be arrived at through a religious regeneration. And in this respect it is probably right. It waits for a definite inspiration, or an inner call, before its dogmas can be clearly defined. And in this respect it is also certainly right.

November 1st.—The rumor of a Mazzinian outbreak in Genoa, in consequence of some political prisoners being brought hither from Naples, prevented me from going to Signor Mazarella's church. M. Delarue, the banker,—who has shown me much kindness and attention,—strongly advised me to go out at this side of the city. Every thing, however, remained quiet, and I saw neither an Italian outbreak, nor heard an Italian sermon in the Italian Evangelical Congregation, and what is worse, shall not at a future time, because I am leaving Genoa on the morrow.

Many old families here, are dissatisfied with the annexation of Genoa to Piedmont, and dream of yet making the city and its territory an independent republic; dream of the grandeur of ancient times, without comprehending that of the present age, and without comprehending—like the English aristocracy—how to become great by actively taking part in its development. The Genoese princes built up their palaces and marble villas, and look with displeased glance on the decreased obeisance of the working class and the peasants, to their excellencies. Nevertheless, people are beginning even here, to do something for the education of the people; and a few years ago, a National Institute was opened under the management of Signora Teresa Ferucci, for the instruction of young ladies. This promises something! The ladies of the higher classes are also beginning, in a still more earnest manner than formerly, to look after their poor, ignorant sisters. But the Italian woman, has not, as yet, much of the gold of true cultivation to communicate.

Genoa, in her annexation to Piedmont, has also entered upon a path of citizenship-of-the-world which secures her future, and opens to her people a new period of greatness—that of humanity! The spirit of association—that fresh force of formation in constitutional states—is already in full activity in Piedmont, and collects the thinking portion of all classes for general popular undertakings in many directions, industrial, scientific, commercial. When this spirit begins to operate, life can never again stagnate, if only the noble gifts of life and cultivation are not confined merely to the few. The citizens of Genoa are now erecting a splendid monument to its great son, the discoverer of a world, Columbus. A good sign for Genoa!

I leave Genoa with regret. I would yet gladly ramble about for many days amidst its marble palaces and orange-terraces, and in its narrow lanes thronged with trafficking, striving, industrious people, noticing the handsome children, seeing the white pezottos fluttering in the wind, and glancing into the dark, fervent, Italian eyes; gladly would I yet be able to see for many a morning from my bed, the crimson of sunrise above the sea, and watch the evening inclose it in a ring of purple and gold,—hear the cheerful larum of church bells sounding through space! But time flies; I wish yet, to see Florence, and to reach Rome before the beautiful time of year is quite over, and I would avail myself of the present good temper of the weather, in order properly to see and enjoy the celebrated beauties of the road between Genoa and Pisa; we shall therefore, make the journey leisurely, and by easy stages, with a careful Vetturino.

La Spezia, November 4th.—All the praise which has been lavished upon this road, gives but little idea of its beauty, which eye and thought are incapable of taking in. Bed roses nod from the nearest walls of the terraces; beyond these, shine out groves of oranges, laurels, and myrtles—on the right, lies the sea, calm, and grand; before us, and on the left, the Apennines, in lofty billows, with olive-woods, villas, towns, churches, vineyards in their bosom. It is incomparably fine! The road clambers up mountains, sweeps round bays of the sea, presenting continually new pictures, where the delightful and the grand are united;—wonderful! The most lovely summer weather enabled us calmly to enjoy these scenes to the full, and many an unspoken, grateful sentiment rose from the beautiful earth to the mild summer-heaven above it. Swarms of begging children, however, which ran after our carriage great part of the way, disturbed the quiet enjoyment of the journey. Is this beggary the result of an evil habit, or of actual poverty? In either case, it is equally melancholy, and Piedmont will not have done her duty until this condition ceases.

We passed the first night of our journey at Sestri, a bay and harbor of great beauty. Spezia, where we are at the present time, at the close of our second day's journey, is a large harbor, in which we see large vessels lying at anchor. Spezia is also a considerably frequented bathing place, and one sees some bathing company still promenading the shore.

The sun is below the horizon, but the glow of his setting shines bright upon the bold group of the marble-mountains of Carrara. The evening star blazes above the sea, which breaks softly in long, calm, waves upon the shore. We have excellent quarters in the Croix de Malte, with white marble steps and all the appearance of a palace. We, Jenny and I, have each taken a salt-water bath, drank tea, read together, and now whilst my young friend has gone to rest, I write my last farewell to Piedmont, because in the morning we shall pass out of its territory. We are here on the extreme southern boundary. I am glad to have seen something of the beauty of Piedmont, also, in the north. How richly endowed is this state in every respect, how formed for the life of a free and happy people. Few countries combine more various beauty and peculiar characteristics. The valleys of the Waldenses, on the sources of the Po, at the foot of Monte Viso; the beautiful lakes Lago Maggiore and Como, with their borders of Alps, and enchanting shores; the rich plain, where all the fruits of the earth come to maturity; where increasing cities stand with their grand old memories, and new aspiring life; the country on the coast from Nizza, hither, with those grand harbors, and an incomparable climate, the salubrious bathing—where the sick find health—and everywhere a beauty beyond description!—May the state of Piedmont be as good as it is beautiful and affluent, and—then it will be the pearl of all the kingdoms of the earth. But the government and the people have a great deal to do to attain to this great requirement. Those begging children which swarm upon this road cry aloud for the means of education and food. The large island of Sardinia, formerly under the Roman sway—well cultivated and richly populated, is at this moment a wilderness, pleasant only to hunters, and artists, who love the picturesque in costume and nature; and Savoy has a poor, half-savage, population! But Piedmont is a young state in an old, long-neglected, country. It is a youthful knight, well equipped by our Lord to enter the arena of the time, to encounter the old dragon, and liberate the people, fettered by its power. The people regard the young warrior hopefully, and cry, “Success to thee! young champion!” And so do I, even now!

Pisa, November 7th.—Pisa is celebrated for its leaning tower, and for its mild winter air. Travelers come hither for the sake of seeing the tower, and to spend the winter in the city for the benefit of the mild, salubrious, winter air. But for all the world's towers and all the world's health, I would not reside in Pisa. Because, Pisa strikes me as a hospital where nothing flourishes excepting—misery. The sky is gray; the earth is gray; the city is gray; the Arno is gray; and the quays along the river are crowded with beggars, young and old, children, old men, old women, people with one leg, and people without legs, or without arms, the blind, halt and lame, who all surround, and persecute the poor stranger from street to street, from lane to lane, with a pertinacious importunity that makes him feel unhappy and quite depressed. For if all this want and suffering be real—and so it seems to be—then it is terrible, and places an individual person in a state of despair. One might in an hour's time give till one reduced one's self to want, without having, after all effectually helped a single one of this swarm of beggars. One cannot be at peace for a moment, and whilst you are pursued by half a dozen, or a whole dozen of people, who exhibit or describe their misery, you are met by a masked figure, a man clothed in black, from head to foot, remarkably like the dead—with this difference merely, that eyes gleam dismally through the eye-holes of the black leather mask—who audaciously, although silently, stretches out towards you, a black jingling netted bag, on which is written per gli infirmi, whilst on the right hand, and on the left, are shrieked into your ear promises of prayers to the Madonna, for prospects for you in paradise. All this has very little that is paradisiacal about it, and excites the greatest desire to flee away from such a purgatory of wretchedness and beggary.

Happy they who have no necessity to live here on account of the mild winter air! Mild it is certainly, but mild as unsalted water-gruel; and for my part, I would rather be ill, than in health amongst this population of beggars. It is legion in comparison with the few well-dressed people, who are to be seen in the streets. The city itself, has a sickly, dying or dead appearance. It is in fact, merely the corpse of the formerly powerful Pisa, the head of an independent republic of that name. For there was a time—from the 10th to the 14th century—when the State of Pisa was mighty in war and peace, on sea and on land. But contentions with the growing republics of Genoa and Florence crushed its power, and since the year 1406, Pisa, with her territory, has belonged to Tuscany. Art and science have, however, upheld the life of the city until a later period. But the death-blow came in 1848, when, in consequence of the youth of Pisa, and its University also, having taken part in the Italian attempt at liberation, the Tuscan government removed the greater part of the university to Sienna. Since this time, Pisa has been principally supported by foreigners, who come to see its tower, or for the benefit of its air. But there seems to me to be a danger of their being devoured or chased away by its beggars, and that the dismal hunger-tower (the tower of Nyalina,) will, in the end, become a symbolic ghostly image of the whole city.^[1]

November 8th.—Pisa possesses, however, four remarkable objects well worthy of a journey thither; the cathedral, the leaning tower, the Baptistry, and the Campo Santo. They have been sufficiently described by learned men and dilettanti, so that I may spare myself and others any trouble of description. I will merely here note down a few of the impressions which I received from these great monuments; and first and foremost, of the cathedral, its glorious columned aisles, its lofty dome, and its many beautiful works of art. The walls are covered with, paintings, both of the older and later masters. Many are by Andrea del Sarto, simple, tender, and full of deep feeling in expression, and natural in execution.

Some antique statues stand also in the church. “This,” said my cicerone, pointing to a warlike figure in marble, “is a statue of the god Mars, which was found not far from this place.”

“But what has the god Mars to do in the church here?” I asked.

“Oh,” replied Antonio, the sacristan, “they have baptized him to San Piso, and so they were able to set him up here.”

“How! they have baptized a marble statue?” I repeated.

“Yes,” replied Antonio unmoved, “because they said it was a beautiful statue, which would be an ornament to the church. And therefore the god Mars was baptized, and now he is San Piso.”

Whilst we walked, thus conversing, through the church, the priests were performing mass at the high altar, for the soul of some long-deceased canon of the church, and all around lay people upon their knees, or sitting at the confessional. Antonio, for all this, did not intermit his explanations in a high key, and coughed and spit, sometimes just before the kneeling and confessing penitents, in a manner which scandalized me, but did not seem either to move or disturb them. It was in this church that Galileo, then only eighteen years old, discovered the principle of the pendulum from the swinging of a lamp which hung from the roof.

The leaning tower—the Campanile for the bells of the cathedral—did not astonish me because it is out of the upright, but because it did not annoy me; as I had expected, in a work of art, which I consider to be a piece of architectural charlatanry, intended to exhibit—not the artist's sense of beauty—but his skill in trickery. To my astonishment, however, I received no unpleasant impression from this leaning tower, but a feeling of pleasure, of satisfaction, which I at first could not explain to myself, partly because my mind works slowly, and partly because the beggars, combined with the twilight, chased me from the Piazza del Duomo. But I returned hither early in the morning, before the beggars, and then the matter became clear to me.

This tower is not in a falling position; it leans, but as if in the act of raising itself. It slants most in its lower story, after which the tower sweeps upwards imperceptibly, and at the same time perceptibly, with the delicate colonnades of its light stories, so that the uppermost circle is almost horizontal. It is a form which erects or raises itself. Hence the agreeable rather than painful impression. One has not the slightest uneasiness lest the tower should fall, or any sense of a desire to have it propped up. One can see that it sustains itself, or rather is drawn upwards, as by some power above, and victory is already visible.

All the higher art of building is to me symbolical, and is interesting merely from the divine or human life which it represents. Thus the body of the ecclesiastical structure, appears to me like an image of the supplicating or the worshiping congregation; the church tower or towers, are its extended hands. The interior of the church, especially the interiors of the large Catholic churches, corresponds to the inner world of Christianity and the spiritual organism—in conformity with their deeply significant type, the Mosaic ark of the testimony. Every individual Christian finds also in it, an image of the temple of his own soul, with an outer court, a sanctuary, and a holy of holies, where the cherubim watch over the Word of the Eternal God; and where the awakened eye can read in the symbolic, plastic writing of the church, the doctrine of revelation. The tower of Pisa is to me like a word from this doctrine; no longer a leaning tower, but an image of a sinner who raises himself, or is raised up by the invisible, who dwells above and in the light.

Campo Santo is a magnificent museum of tombs, interesting rather with reference to historical art, than for the beauty of its works of art. For the greater number of these are mutilated or belong to a class of art long since dead and gone, as for example; Orgagna's large frescoes of heaven and hell, which seem to me beautiful only as corpses and skeletons are so. In hell, it is evident, that it would not be advisable to be a dweller; but Orgagna's heaven, in which stiff figures sit in rows under orange-trees, seems to me so unbearably wearisome, that I would rather be anywhere else than there. The paths of the Campo Santo, are for the rest, full of figures without arms, heads, noses; and of monuments, more or less devastated by time or man. The genius of the Danish Thorwaldsen has, however, produced even here, an image full of light and life, in the monument to the memory of the young oculist Vacca, who is represented as restoring sight to an aged, blind man.

The earth of this church-yard—which is surrounded on the four sides by stone-galleries was brought hither from Jerusalem, in fifty galleys, belonging to the republic of Pisa. The construction of the Campo Santo was completed in the year 1283, and singularly—from that time the republic began to hasten to its grave. Nicolo Pisano, and his son Nino Pisano, are the great artists of Pisa, who, during the heroic ages of the republic, advanced Italian art to a greater resemblance with the old Greek models, or with ever-young and beautiful nature, which was the great teacher of the Greeks.

The baths of Pisa, and its Bassino or park, situated at three hours' distance from the city, are celebrated; the former for their health-giving power, the latter for its grandeur and beauty.

But I will now speak of an acquaintance I made in Pisa, who interested me more than all its monuments and notabilities, that of a woman remarkable both for talent and character, the authoress Catharina Franceschi Ferucci.

I had already, when in French Switzerland, heard her spoken of with great praise. During the gloomy period of Italy's unsuccessful attempts at liberation, she, like many another Piedmontese patriot, sought an asylum in Switzerland, and gave in Genoa a course of lectures on Italian literature, which, in connection with her personal character and amiability, obtained for her a numerous circle of admirers and friends. When all hope of a brighter future for Italy seemed lost in the sorrowful result of its struggle for freedom, Catharina Ferucci wrote, with lacerated heart, but with firm hope and love, her work for the moral and intellectual education of la donna Italiana. She wishes to educate mothers, in the young women, who will give sons and daughters to Italy; to elevate its life effectually, and to make it noble and independent. She feels profoundly that which is wanting in the Italian woman, and has a deep conviction of the vocation of woman, and her power as an educator, especially by example and influence. As Beatrice awoke in Dante a vita nuova, which led him to the highest virtues as citizen on earth, and to a sight of the light and truth of heaven; as the silent prayers and patient, steadfast love of Monica, drew her son Augustine from a life of earthly pleasure to a life in God; so will the noble woman, in noble truth and the highest love, also attract in our days, the hearts of sons, and of man in general, to a life of virtue.

Like Madame Neckar de Saussure, Catharina Ferucci founds her doctrines of education upon the impulse towards perfection, which she regards as a mainspring in the human breast, and she is less afraid than the Swiss lady of extending the horizon of woman's life and knowledge, as far as this divine impulse may require. The Swiss lady dwelt on a lake amongst lofty walls of mountains; the Italian dwells beside the vast ocean, and nothing impedes her view into the far distance. One peculiarity in Catharina Ferucci is the importance she lays upon the young woman being educated to a consciousness of citizenship, “to an insight into that which causes the greatness or the fall of nations, their honor or shame. The mother who does not understand this, who does not herself understand what is the true love of country, is not capable of instructing her child in it.” It is peculiar to her also, as an Italian, to assign the part which she does to the beautiful, as a means of instruction in the good and the right. Her views of the national in education appear to me infinitely beautiful and true. The individuality, which above all, belongs to a people from its country, scenery, history, natural character—these are what every individual should learn to understand, appropriate, and develop in beauty. It is by this means that nations can first attain to the purpose of their being, and fulfill the vocation given to them of God. That which distinguishes the Italian national character is, according to Catharina Ferucci, the necessity to love God according to the doctrine of the gospel, the necessity for wisdom, order, and beauty. These high necessities are, above all else, peculiar to the Italians. The satisfying of them is the condition of the people's honor and happiness.

“Let us be ourselves,” Siamo noi, says she in conclusion, “be that which we have been made by God, by our climate, by the country which we inhabit, by the great memories and the example of our forefathers. Let us be ourselves, and not, by imitating other nations, lose the sense of our own life and the honor of Italy.”

This is the principal theme of Catharina Ferucci, often reiterated, always strongly and warmly expressed. But in order to acquire this national independence she looks rather back to the ancient, honorable times, and toward a religious concentration, than to the ideals of political independence and civil freedom, which Gioberti and Balbo uphold as the banner of young Italy, and which, most assuredly, at the present time, constitute its highest wish and requirements.

The writings on education are of a beneficial character, especially from the influence which they ascribe to woman, and the demand which they make for a more thorough and a stronger education than hitherto, a full development of her mind and intelligence. “Such an education,” says she, as says also Louise Appia in the Waldenses valleys, “far from fostering the innate vanity of woman, will tend to destroy it. Vanity is nourished by the outward in life; it is the tendency of the egotistical soul. Intercourse with noble spirits, and the pursuit of lofty aims, will destroy this false fire and kindle one of an imperishable nature.”

A “Typographical Publishing Society,” of Turin, has included her books for La donna Italiana, in its nuova Bibliotica Populare, and a new edition is now being published; the best proof of its popularity.

It has been a great pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of this noble woman, who, with her heart bleeding from the misfortunes of her country, has raised her head so courageously above these to labor for its more beautiful future. It was a pleasure to me to visit her in Pisa, where her husband is the Professor of Ancient Languages in the University. I found her however, bowed, with a broken heart, over a grave—that of her only daughter Rosa, then dead only a few months. Catharina Ferucci tried her theory of female education upon this daughter, and succeeded to her heart's desire. Learned as her father in the ancient languages, “so that she could have filled his place as teacher,” she was led by her mother into the realm of history, philosophy, and literature. Nature had endowed her with more than usual grace and talent; religion, and the love of her parents, developed the life of her heart. At the age of twenty Rosa Ferucci was as near to perfection as a young woman can be. She was the darling of all—of her mother, her father, her brothers, as well as their pride. She was betrothed to a noble-minded young man, a physician, who was devotedly attached to her, and the young people were shortly to have been married. She was attacked by a fever, one of those fievres miliaires, so fatal in this country, which carried her off. The blooming gifted young woman, the daughter and the bride, was within a few days a corpse.

The authoress, Catharina Ferucci. was now lost in the sorrowing mother. Rosa had been her inspiration, her ideal. Rosa was now no longer on the earth, and the earth had become indifferent to her mother, who now wished merely to die that she might be near her darling. She felt her powers daily declining, and hoped soon to die. I spoke to her of “the duty of living for the future of Italy.” Catharina Ferucci no longer saw this future. It was closed to her by her daughter's grave. Yet has this dejected mother raised to her a monument, in the memoir which she has lately published of her daughter, which ought to be more rich in noble fruits, than all her works on education. It is a simple image of a lovely and gifted being, which will move many hearts, and move them to follow in the footsteps of the early perfected Rosa Ferucci. Her little notes to her betrothed husband exhibit a soul, in which unusual earnestness is united to the most attractive goodness and child-like grace. One sees her in the home of her parents preparing herself with a pious sincerity for her approaching marriage, whilst, at the same time, during the quiet evenings, she was arranging the materials for a Biographical Church History, which was to be the labor of her future. At the same time she attended to her parents, her music, to the whole little realm of home, ever glancing upwards, to the Father in Heaven, to whom she dedicated her labor, her love, and her whole life. Devotedness to His will consoled her in death, and gave her power to speak words of consolation to the mourners around her.

Catharina Ferucci is a warm Catholic, and although she combines with her devotion to the creed of her church, a discrimination unusual amongst Catholic women, it was evident to me that this prevented her from obtaining the comfort and the strength that she required. The many helpers, male and female, between the human being and God, prevent the soul from individually attaching itself to the only mediator between God and the soul, and prevent it from deriving the treasure of consolation and light from His life, death, and resurrection, which they impart. When we have one good all-sufficient guide to the kingdom of the Father, why take a number which are inferior? They can merely become a hindrance on the way, if they do not wholly mislead from it. That they mislead the attention from the first and the only one, is certain. Thus, in the biography of Rosa Ferucci, it is painful to see how, in the anguish of her soul, during the struggle with death, and with her glance seeking for the Saviour, she is exhorted by her priest “to commend herself to Santa Agatha!”

The Reformers, who again led the Christian community to the Scriptures, and to their living, divine centre, have restored them to the right path of the truth and the life. But Catharine Ferucci understands as little as most Catholics do, as yet, the principle of the reformation. I believe, however, that she will understand it before long, and I would willingly remain here a longer time, merely to have the opportunity of more frequently seeing and conversing with this noble, but unfortunate woman, who now stands bowed over a grave. With the gospel in her hand, she would raise herself again.

Florence, November 10th.—Beautiful, blooming Florence!—how unlike Pisa! All here is life, movement, beauty. The Arno has cleared its waters, green trees shine forth gayly among the elegant houses, the splendid churches and palaces; marble statues—forms of beauty or pensive thought—meet you everywhere, with porticoes and bridges, beneath the blue vault of heaven. The people swarm in crowds across the bridges and squares, through the streets and lanes, but cheerfully, without confusion and disturbance; carriages are rolling along incessantly; the sun shines with summer splendor and life, over the green hills, and parks, amidst which Florence stands like a flower of cities, affluent in beauty and life-enjoyment.

We have obtained good rooms in the hotel New York, by the Arno, and are delighted to be here, where Jenny beams in emulation with every thing that is gay and beautiful around us.

November 22d.—After nearly two weeks' residence here, and rambling about, I will collect the pure residue of all that I have seen and heard. I term “my residue” that which has entered into my soul, so fixed itself in my memory, as an image, or as knowledge, and which, from that moment, becomes my property,—a portion of my inner world. In this, my inner world, there is a museum, and in it, a little cabinet of curiosities. In my museum are contained all sights and forms which strongly impress my mind, and which arrange themselves, as by an inner necessity. There, too, is also a book, which I do not know how to designate, but in which all that I have learned of mankind, or of things in general, inscribe themselves without my having any trouble therewith; and so that I can thence derive a certain result for my truth-seeking spirit. I believe, my R——, that if thou wilt look carefully into thyself, thou wilt also find a similar museum, and a similar book.

My first ramble in Florence, was a little solitary expedition of discovery, such as I always like to undertake in every new place, and in every city which is new to me. I look about me in this way, far better than with a guide, and the objects converse with me at once, with freshness and power. I did not go far on this first ramble. I stopped at a square, which is, at the same time, a Pantheon, for on every side stand tall glorious marble statues, with expressive heads, of great individuality and character, men, interpreted by the master hand of art, which preserves the individuality whilst it presents the ideal. I recognized many old acquaintances,—Dante, with the energetic countenance of nobly bitter lineaments; Michael Angelo, Buonarotti, and Benvenuto Celini, in whom the rough strength is superior to beauty. Boccacio and Petrarch, who seem listening to gentle and pleasant inspirations. Many forms were new to me, as, for instance, Machiavelli, with a countenance devoid of beauty, but captivating from its expression of sagacity and keen sarcasm; Galileo, with a splendid head, indicative of strong concentration and deep attention to the problems of physical creation. But all the forms of artists, poets, thinkers, and warriors, seemed concentrated, one and all, upon his own special calling—whence the indescribably strengthening and beneficial effect of being amongst them. I found myself, without being aware of it, in the court of the Uffizi-reale. In niches all around, built in the walls, were placed, on pedestals, the nobles and great men of Tuscany, and above them smiled the bright heaven of their native land. They now enjoyed a state of tranquillity and honor which had not been granted to them during their lifetime. I proceeded this day no further. The following day I spent in visiting museums and churches.

I derived the following impression from the Galleria di Firenze. The ideal of beauty was high amongst the Greeks and Romans; but their actual humanity, at least what we see of it, as represented in their historical characters, is far below the ideal, and even far below the standard of beauty which is general amongst us at the present day. The heroes of antiquity, the wise men and emperors, are most frequently very ugly men, often extremely repulsive. The women, the Julias, Faustinas, &c., with few exceptions, in the highest degree of an ordinary character, from simple beauty to pure ugliness. Amongst the wise men of the Greeks, Plato is the only one who has a noble head, and a fine forehead; amongst the warriors, Alcibiades, but even this head is deficient in the higher, nobler character; amongst the rulers, Alexander the Great. Amongst the Roman emperors, the eye rests gladly on the handsome and mild countenance of Augustus, and that of Antoninus Pius might belong to a noble Christian ascetic; in the features of Marcus Aurelius we observe a calm beauty, but the forehead is broad, rather than lofty, and the expression lacks depth and elevation. These, and two other great men among the Romans, are exceptions in the multitude of heads of emperors and military commanders, many of which are actually caricatures of humanity, although evidently excellent portraits. Such are Marius, Sylla, Claudius, Caracalla, &c. From all this, it is clear to me, that the human race, at least the Christian portion of it, has not, since this time, deteriorated, but, on the contrary, considerably increased in the beauty of harmonious structure of the outward frame. The form of the head has especially undergone a change; for in the people of antiquity, the forehead and upper portion of the head was low, in particular amongst the Romans, with whom the head has a square build, broad rather than high. Amongst the modern cultivated nations, the arch of the skull is considerably higher, so likewise the forehead; the opening of the eye is also larger, and the whole countenance has a more beautiful rounding, and lovelier proportions, especially amongst the women. And must it not be so? A higher spirituality has taken up its abode in the human race; must it not, therefore, form for itself a dwelling in harmony therewith? The ideal has descended into reality, and has elevated it to a resemblance with itself.

Of the pictures in the Galleria di Firenze, I particularly remember two, by one of the Dutch masters—Honthorst—the pleasure of which increased with me the more I studied them. They both represent the birth of Christ; they show the mother and the child, surrounded by persons who appear to be of the lower class. But how natural these figures! and what life in the countenances! Mary is here, no Raphaelesque virgin, of almost supernatural, bloodless, beauty; she is a young, lovable, earthly woman, who, still pale from the suffering of child-birth, contemplates her heavenly child with tearful, devout joy; and the bystanders, both young and old, who press forward also to gaze upon it, half-curious, half in admiration, and joyful presentiments, how they smile, how they rejoice with sincere näiveté, which seems to enter into one's own soul only to behold. The light in these pictures is a thing of beauty to me. It proceeds from the new-born child, but without visible rays. All the countenances are illumined by this light, even some small angel-heads which peep forth out of the darkness, up in the roof, and who too also participate in the human joy.

These pictures are being copied by more than one artist. Amongst the amateurs copying in the gallery were several ladies, none of whom, it seems to me, have more talent, or come near to that of the Swedish artist, Sophie Adlersparre. Of the portraits, I return in memory to those of Alfieri,—a proud, but nobly beautiful exterior—and his female friend, the Countess of Albano—full of mild and womanly beauty. The celebrated Bianca Capella appears, on the canvas, to be a handsome woman, but of the ordinary, almost simple, character, loving pleasure, and rule, but not of a nobler nature.

There is an apartment in this gallery which I never entered without a sense of satisfaction, a feeling which I will call, olympic peace. This apartment is designated La Tribuna, and contains the choicest works of art which are possessed by Florence. Let me add to the abundant praise which has been given to the beautiful rotunda and the works of art which it contains, a word of grateful acknowledgment; because I have so much enjoyed them. I have questioned with myself whence proceeds this feeling of peace and satisfaction in a room filled with so many dissimilar objects? The magnificent proportions of the beautiful rotunda; its splendid cupola; the harmonious light, all these contribute somewhat towards this effect; but the principal cause of it is this, that nearly all the statues and pictures it contains express a state of noble and beautiful peace and life-enjoyment, that they present the ideal of life in a moment of quiet prosperity. The Madonna rests in the contemplation of her heavenly child;^[2] the child in the contemplation of the Father in Heaven, who regards with compassion even the fate of the sparrow; John in the vision which makes the desert bloom; Apollo and Venus, in the sense of their own beauty; fauns dance in their own vigorous pleasure of life; and the celebrated wrestlers, I Lottatori, content evidently only in noble sport, or noble earnest. One can see in him that is undermost that he will soon raise himself again, and that he knows he shall. The Pope sits calmly in the consciousness of his domination, and Charles V., on the shore of the stormy ocean, has a pleasure in guiding his horse against the wind, and in steadily keeping his seat whilst yonder ships are tossed by the waves. It may be necessary and important that art should arrest and perpetuate even the transitory dissonances of human life, but the highest aim of art must, however, be to represent the victory over them, as well as life's ideal of truth or beauty.

I have retained from the splendid halls of the Pitti Palace, for my inner museum, Michael Angelo's picture of the Three Fates—with secret astonishment that the Titan master has been able to produce forms so gentle and beautiful;—together with two pictures by Cigoli. One of these, an Ecce Homo, I already knew from an excellent copy by Miss Adlersparre; another, the Taking Down from the Cross, was new to me, and admirable. Cigoli's comprehension of Christ, is peculiar to him, and certainly nearer to the truth than that of most of the great masters. He loves to paint Christ as a beautiful young man, of a pure and noble character. He loves to contrast this lofty purity, physical beauty, and almost feminine delicacy, with coarse or ordinary human figures. The portrait of Cigoli, painted by himself, exhibits a refined, expressive countenance, with a trait of deep, almost nervous sensibility.

From the great collection of portraits I have, for the rest, merely retained in my memory the amiable, soulful likeness of Angelica Kaufmann.

From the admirable mosaics, which have here attained to the rank of the actual fine arts, I could not but carry away with me a couple of tables—you understand, in that innocent and convenient mode, which still leaves them where they are.

Let me now conduct you to La Specola, the Museum of Natural Science; because one more interesting and instructive, I believe is not to be met with. In the vast, well-arranged collection of minerals, the rich bosom of the earth is laid bare to our sight, so that we are filled with amazement and admiration at its treasures. Excellent representations in wax, make us acquainted with the inner structure of a multitude of plants, as well as of various animals. Many halls are devoted to wax models of the human figure, partly of the whole form, partly of various outer and inner portions. The representations are all colored according to nature and the life. It requires a degree of resolution to overcome a feeling of repugnance against entering and remaining in this room, where death and science united, have laid bare the whole physical machinery of the living human being. But I wished to see it, and I did so, not without a feeling of pain which continually mingled with that of interest and admiration. Probably this painful impression arises from the thought that these bodies, hearts, chests, &c., in the living subject would not be thus laid open without immense suffering, and the life-warm coloring of flesh, veins, skin, &c., presents an incessant illusion of life. This impression is, however, softened by the regard, or rather the reverence and piety with which these pictures are presented to the beholder. Every separate portion of the body is laid upon a silken cushion, part of them under glass. The whole form lies, the size of life, upon white beds, and while their interior parts are revealed to the spectator, the expression of the countenance seems to say; “For science which enlightens; for art which heals!” There is a patient, devoted, expression in these forms which affected me as something real and great. The female forms lie as if sunk in magnetic sleep, and the artist has in this given proof of sure tact and knowledge of human nature. Woman cannot sacrifice her womanliness for science, neither ought she. Most of these heads are young and beautiful; the cheeks bloom, whilst the eye gazes in fixed unconsciousness. Round the throat of one young and beautiful female figure, a string of glass beads has been placed, and the hands play with the rich plaits of hair, whilst the whole form from the throat downward is opened—laid bare!—Is this in derision?—It produced on me, a painful impression. I lingered with sincere admiration, contemplating the upper portion of the human body, the structure of the veins, which like the many-branched crown of a tree, extend themselves over the head of the heart upon its crook between the lungs—two mysterious wings;—of the eye so beautifully projecting from its sheltering sockets. I endeavored to neutralize the effect produced by these opened bodies in the contemplation of their most significant, symbolic, and prophetic parts—because the whole of nature is indeed represented there, mountains and rivers, trees, flowers, and animals! even physically, man is a microcosm, a little world, in which the great world is represented or comprehended. The human body is a rich symbolism, which awakens great thoughts and presentiments! And I repeated to myself the prophetic words, man has a natural body; man has also a spiritual body—“It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory!”

I endeavored to behold the new man on a new earth, surrounded by all nature and all animal creation, glorified like him and through him. All this, however, was not sufficient; the forms of death and corruption had taken hold upon my mind; three excellent, but terrible pictures, also in wax, from scenes during the plague in Florence, in the 16th century, completed this melancholy impression, and it was in vain that I went out into the warm sunshine, into the animated city; it was in vain that I lingered amongst the happy and beautiful figures in the temple La Tribuna; in vain that I visited again and again Galileo's Tribuna, which La Specola holds as her innermost sanctuary. I could not for many days free myself from them.

A word now about this last-named Tribuna, which is solely dedicated to the memory of Galileo, and one of the most beautiful monuments to his memory. Three beautiful paintings in fresco represent three principal periods in his life. The first shows him in the Cathedral of Pisa, at the moment when the movement of the swinging lamp turned his mind to the mechanic law which regulates the pendulum; the second, when he, already certain of his scientific knowledge, and inspired by it, demonstrates his discovery of the telescope before the Doge Leonardo Donato, and the Council of Ten in Venice. He is surrounded by inquisitive, admiring, and envious men, but he heeds no one, he is occupied, both body and soul, with his scientific truth alone. The painting represents him as a short but strong figure, full of fire and life, with a round countenance, and a good, frank expression; the eyes blue, clear, and large. In the third painting he appears as an old man and—blind, blind from having with too much perseverance gazed into the phenomena of light. You can trace in the old man's countenance the features and life of the youth; the blinded eyes are raised as if investigating, whilst with one hand placed upon a celestial globe, he points upwards, demonstrating to two young men, his pupils, the laws of the heavenly bodies. The form is still powerful, and an ermine cloak hangs from the shoulders. You see through the open door the clear, blue sky, and the mild countenance of a monk looking into the room, watchful over the blind seer. It is the warden and the friend who has been given to him when, after the period of persecution and imprisonment, they gave him an asylum in the beautiful Villa d'Arcetri, near Florence, which since then has been called La Giviella. They have intentionally omitted amongst these pictured memorials of his life, that moment which is perhaps the most remarkable of all, when, in order to free himself from imprisonment in the Roman Inquisition, he denied his assertion that the earth moved round the sun—which the wise fathers in Rome regarded as a contradiction of the doctrine of Scripture,—but immediately after the denial he protested against it, and as if compelled by his genius, stamped upon the earth, and exclaimed, “Ma pur si muove,” (but it turns after all)! What an exquisite subject for a picture!

In the rotunda, lighted from above, which arches over these pictures and the white marble statue of Galileo, are preserved all his instruments; even the forefinger of his right hand, encircled with a gold ring and pointing upwards, is shown under a glass case. On the vaulted roof, which is painted blue, all Galileo's astronomical discoveries are portrayed in gilded bas-relief. Round him are ranged busts of the men who, during his lifetime, where his patrons or friends, and most distinguished pupils. The walls are of white-marble, covered with tasteful arabesques of flowers and birds, which seem surrounding the instruments of science as if to pay them homage. The marble pavement presents a large mosaic picture of two figures, the one holding a torch, the other deeply occupied in the solution of a mathematical problem. Below are the words “provando e riprovando”

The beautiful little memorial temple produces a satisfactory impression, not alone of the life of the scientific man, but of the honor and gratitude which, after all, is commonly, though it may be late, shown towards him by posterity.

One cannot, at the present time, reproach Florence for not honoring the great man who contributed to her honor. It is the inhabitants of the city who raised, by voluntary contributions, the beautiful marble statues in the Loggia dei Uffizi; it is they also who united with the government of Tuscany in endeavoring to preserve and collect every thing which belonged to the memory of these great men, the friends of the fatherland. In the same spirit they lately requested from Ferrara every thing which belonged to Dante, every letter or piece of writing from his hand. But Ferrara has replied, not without a bitter significance, that she possessed nothing which the great exile had left behind him, excepting—his grave.

During the stranger's rambles through the streets of Florence, he observes many houses bearing inscriptions in gilded letters. On one he reads, “Here lived and died the prince of tragedy, Vittorio Alfieri.” On another, “Here dwell Machiavelli.” On a third, “Here lived Dante,” and so on. Nearly all these houses have in the mean time passed out of the hands of the former great possessor's family, and nothing speaks of them excepting the inscription outside. The house of Michael Angelo Buonarotti, has alone remained as it was in the time of the great artist, furnished and decorated by himself. It belongs at the present time to one of his descendants, a Buonarotti, now Minister of Finance in Tuscany. The house is shown to strangers twice in the week, and I too, went accordingly to see it. The exterior of the house is not remarkable; it is now so closely built round by other houses, that the rooms are in consequence darkened. These rooms are full of the great artist's life, and altogether too much of his deification. His pupils have represented scenes from his life in a number of pictures. The rooms, which are many, though small, contain numerous pieces of sculpture, and sketches from the hand of the great master, and many precious pieces of furniture and other things; the smallest space is every where made use of, and decorated with a kind of artistic coquetry. In the chapel is a small figure of Christ, in bronze—by Benvenuto Celini, as it is said; and in the innermost, small room, a portrait of Michael Angelo, painted by himself, and a bust from the mask taken immediately after his death. These present a face devoid of beauty and even of nobility; the nose is flat and broad, but in the expression of the countenance, and the compressed lips, you can see “those thousand devils,” which the Swedish sculptor Sergei, required as a proof of true genius. Michael Angelo was of a militant nature in his art; and his character and temper were not without the rough, almost savage strength which one reads in his countenance; and he passed through many a bitter struggle during his life. But he was at the same time mighty in the lofty and tender feelings. His love of his country was great and strong, and his love for the noble woman and poetess, Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, was of the most beautiful and noblest kind. His sonnets to her betray a feeling of the most profound earnestness and sincerity. No wonder was it that the lovely woman returned his devotion with warm friendship and admiration. The most interesting of the rooms is Buonarotti's dining-room, upon the walls of which, he himself painted in his spirited manner, the celebrated men of Tuscany in different groups. On one wall, you see the philosophers; on another, men devoted to natural science;—Galileo is seen in a sudden start of joy, gazing through his telescope;—on a third are shown theologians and philologists; on the fourth, poets and literary men. These last wear laurel-wreaths round their heads, and are surrounded by palm-trees and leaping fountains; amongst them you recognize Dante, Petrarch, Boccacio. In the back ground stands Savonarola, regarding with a gloomy look the garlanded poets. His powerful countenance bears a resemblance to that of Luther. And there was something of Luther's pure zeal and vigorous appearance in Savonarola. He dared to stand up against the Pope and the Popedom, then in the deepest decline. The evil life of Alexander VII. fired him to preach up pure living and a Christian art. He condemned with fervent, but often gloomy eloquence, all worldly art, and worldly enjoyment; he would have converted the whole world into a house of prayer. The people flocked to him, bringing to him many precious books, instruments, pictures, &c., which were burned by his orders. He combated against the Pope, but the Pope was stronger than the Reformers, and Savonarola's pile was raised on the same place, Piazza del gran Duca, in Florence, where he had burned the trophies of worldly art. Even at the close of the last century, the place where he suffered martyrdom, might be seen covered with garlands of flowers. Not fifty years after him, another monk, Luther, was to rise, who should carry out his protest to victory; yet, with a more enlightened zeal, and sustained by princes and people, awakening to the knowledge of the right of conscience and of truth.

The custodian who showed us through the house, was an old servant in the Buonarotti family, and a true type of those old family dependents who make the honor of the family their own. He had a deep feeling of the honor and grandeur of the Buonarotti family, and was quite angry if he thought it was not fully recognized.

“The Buonarotti had been great men in all ages; they had in all ages been rulers and governors as gonfalonieri or artists; and so are they still, because the present Buonarotti is Minister, and rules the state.”

A marble bust of this latter, together with one of his wife, shows a head of considerably more beauty than that of the great ancestor.

Piazza del gran Duca! Let us pause here a moment, for it is the scene of the great historical memories of Florence; it is the square where stand some of its greatest monuments, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Loggia dei Lanzi, the beautiful fountain of Neptune, the statue of Cosmo I. on horseback, as well as many works of art from the times of the republic. There it is also, that the popular life still exhibits itself in its most manifold variety. The post-office, and many of the public buildings are there, wealthy bankers have there their places of business, and there fachinos and lazaroni enjoy the sunshine, lying on, or standing by the marble steps and the statues.

The Palazzo Vecchio stands as a magnificent symbol of the bold aspirings of the ancient republic. Its tower seems to me especially expressive. It is a fortress-tower which supports a triumphal entrance, upon which is erected a pyramid. On the flag-staff which terminates this, leaps a lion rampant; and on the top is a lily. But ah! this last symbol, the summit of all, is an unfaithful image of the life of the republic, at least of the Florentine. Its fortress-gate, the gate of honor, its pyramidal ascent never attained to the success of peace. It was hurled to pieces long before in the struggles which were called forth by the ambitious aspiring of the republic itself; was hurled down by party spirit, which is the life of the republic, and which becomes also its death, when it is not guided by some noble, cementing idea, greater than the discord inherent in the state itself. The history of the Palazzo Vecchio, and its symbolical tower, prove that there was no such lofty idea in the Florentine republic.

The Cathedral of Florence, and the beautiful Campanile, dating also from this period of great, but egotistical endeavor, was built with the design—such was the bidding of the republic of Florence—“of being the largest and most splendid building which it was in human power to erect; and so perfect, that nothing more beautiful or larger could be thought of; it must be made in accordance with a very great heart, (ad un cuore grandissimo,) because it is decided upon by most of the citizens, united in one will.” The master-builder, Arnolfo, knew, it is said, how to accord with this will, and the building was commenced in 1298. But Arnolfo died long before his work was completed; and whether it were that something of the aims of the ancient Tower of Babel inspired the building of the Florentine Cathedral, and made it participant of the fate of the Tower of Babel, or any other cause, certain it is, that it remains unfinished at the present day, and probably will so remain. Every separate portion in the great design is in beautiful harmony with the whole, and is in itself a perfected piece of beauty; as for example, each several window, is an individual entity of beauty and taste. But the whole further side of the church looks like a bankrupt.

On one side of the square, in which the cathedral stands, a white marble seat is built into the wall, on which is inscribed, Sasso di Dante. Here Dante used to sit, contemplating the building of the Cathedral, and perhaps obtaining from its beautiful proportions, inspirations for his Comedia Divina, or perhaps watching for a glimpse of that Beatrice, who was able to inspire him with new life, merely from the fact that he saw her; and, that she was beautiful, noble, and kind. Thus she became his heavenly ideal. Thus we behold him, her, and his love, in his Vita Nuova.

The lofty Campanile stands near the Cathedral, like an independent work of art, completed in its lovely mosaic attire of many-colored marble. The Cathedral has likewise this richly-colored clothing, and shines therefrom, in the light of the sun, so that one might fancy one saw some wonderful gigantic flowers. It is also called Santa Maria del fiore.

These works of art, and the bronze gates of the Baptistry, upon which Lorenzo Ghiberti worked for fourteen years, and which Michael Angelo Buonarotti said were worthy to form the gates of paradise,^[3] are memorials of the time when the Signoria of Florence extended itself not merely within the territory of the state, but also within that of art and science. “At this period,” says Machiavelli, “our city was in a condition of unparalleled prosperity and success. She was affluent in people, treasure, and honor; she possessed thirty thousand citizens capable of bearing arms, to which seventy thousand might still be added from the country. The entire population of Tuscany obeyed her, partly as subjects, partly as allies; and although distrust and hatred prevailed between the nobles and the people, yet, so far, no evil results had followed, but all lived united and at peace.”

But this peace did not last long. Nobles and people, Guelphs and Ghibellines, white and black, interrupted it; by contentions which became sanguinary war; private family quarrels brought scenes of war into the district of the city, and they fought for life and death in the streets of Florence, from one ten years to another; and thus sunk, after flourishing for two centuries, the Florentine republic, which the princes of trade, the Medici, conducted to its higher perfection and to its fall. After this, Florence was ruled by foreign princes, and became, together with Tuscany, a ball tossed about at the will of foreign rulers. Its republican liberty was fettered under an absolute government. It was its good fortune that this government was a comparatively mild one, the mildest, as it is asserted, in Italy. It is so, at the present moment, and the princes of the house of Austria are said to have been, and still to be, paternally-minded rulers of the country. Notwithstanding, the Tuscan people have never ceased to long for the former independence, and to endeavor to regain it.

Tuscany belongs to the Italian states, which were unsuccessful in their struggle for liberty in 1848, and is now, as I have heard from experienced men, more than formerly subjected to the caprices of the government. This government is neither loved nor obeyed from love, but rather from fear,—therefore imperfectly. Nevertheless the present Grand Duke is a mild, rather than a severe ruler, and Tuscany, during the latter half of this century, has variously advanced in the direction which is the peculiar excellence of our time. Already had the French administration under Napoleon the Great produced beneficial reforms in the laws and constitution, as well in Tuscany as in other of the Italian states; and as a result of the ideas which took possession of men's minds during the revolution of 1848, many acts of arbitrary power which had hitherto been practiced by rulers, were now no longer possible, and many liberties were allowed, because the governments were afraid of the fire which was yet alive under the ashes. The penal laws have been considerably mitigated, and Tuscany has obtained a certain degree even of the freedom of the press. It is true that there are no considerable political newspapers published here, but the English and French papers circulate freely, and we all know what a breath of freedom comes into circulation with them.

Religious, Protestant, proselytism is strictly forbidden, but it nevertheless goes on, in all kinds of silent ways, and the number of Protestants is said to be very much on the increase. Ever since the affair of the Madiai, the government and people of Tuscany have been mutually circumspect in their treatment of the fiery question of the liberty of conscience and creed. People meet quietly in families and private houses, to read together the gospel, and to edify themselves with its doctrines of love and liberty. The Duke is aware of it, but he shuts his eyes to the fact. He is said to have avowed his knowledge of there being twenty-five thousand secret Protestants in his states, but so long as they do not openly appear, he will not recognize their existence.^[4]

Probably this silent increase is the best means for the religious development of Tuscany. Religious, as well as popular liberty, consists of ideas which grow even whilst they are checked, and which can be checked only until they have grown strong. They know this, the thoughtful patriots of Tuscany, and they have a firm hope in a better day which is coming. But it is to be deplored that popular education is altogether in the hands of the priests, because they take good care to require only such an education as will nullify its otherwise supreme power; and the people, ignorant, and, therefore, unreflecting, console themselves too easily with festivals and fruits of the earth, for want of the nobler rights of humanity.

That which the true friends of their country here, as well as in Piedmont, and, it may indeed be said, as well as the cultivated Italian community at large, desire above all things, is, for Tuscany, not a realm and a power like those of the middle ages,—that splendid blossom rather of beauty and prosperity than of moral nobility, not unlike the Cathedral of Florence, a work of art in form and outward covering, but imperfect and inwardly empty;—they want not this, for their ideal is one far more inward, far higher; but I will, once for all, let one of the noblest sons and lovers of Italy express this. Thus says Cesare Balbo, in his Speranze d'Italia, 11th chapter:

“That in which Italy is deficient, if not wholly, yet certainly comparatively so, is a stern, strong, effectual virtue. I say that it is deficient in this, in comparison with other Christian nations, our cotemporaries,—with England, although she is not Catholic; with France, although she proceeds from the revolution; with Germany, even, who is our ruler, which is the great misfortune. And these nations, who are heretics in dogmas, or on some moral points, do they not possess the whole treasure of Christian morality which is the foundation of every virtue, every advance in morality and culture. As far as regards revolutions, I do not call that an immoral people who enter into them, if they, at the same time, know how again to come out of them. And I appeal to all those Italians who know these three foreign nations by having lived amongst them as exiles, long and quietly in their capitals, and in families, in the provinces. Do they not, spite of their love for their country, tell us, and tell us with a sacred envy, of the morality and the unity in these families; of the industry, the strength, the earnestness in morals and in society! And what, indeed, on the other hand, do the foreigners who write about us,—the lovers and commenders of Italy,—say? a Goethe, a De Staël, a Byron, Lamartine, and others similar,—what do they say? Do they not praise Italy as the soil of the olive and the orange? and for that beautiful sky, those handsome women, those pleasant airs! It is for these alone that they love her, that they praise her. Oh shame! when they, wearied with their grave thoughts, come to sun themselves there, as in a garden, a public square, open to whosoever will. They praise, also, our genius—our lively, flexible, manifold genius—and in this they are right. But of our virtues—who speaks of them? Who is not silent regarding them? Even these, our admirers! But to maintain silence on the virtue, whilst they exalt the intelligence, that is the most treacherous of praise, and the most biting accusation!”

How severe soever this noble friend of his country may be against that very country which he loves so much, yet he is equally hopeful for its future.

Italy has lived long on unsuccessful attempts at revolution, on outward spectacle and petty love-intrigues, and an infinity of gossip which these have furnished, for want of nobler subjects. But a better time is coming, nay, is already come. Family life—that innermost sanctuary of the life of the state—has purified itself—Cicisbeism is becoming, more and more, a rare and strongly-censured phenomenon. The Italian women have awakened to a sense of their duties toward their families, and even toward society. The cultivated begin to take an active part in the education of their indigent sisters, in giving them instruction and work, and the independent labor of women is one of our century's greatest benefits to society. The seed which the struggle for freedom in the year 1848 sowed in the soul of the nation, shall not perish. When Italy gains independence and unity, she will shoot forth into new life. “Christian nations may fall sick, but not die!”

How pure are these ideas! A kingdom of justice, goodness and morality, founded upon the free decision of the people, of the nation itself—which is the aim of all free people,—this it is which Tuscan patriots desire for their land and people. And this beautiful Tuscany, remarkable also for the good-heartedness and natural amiability of its people, seems well worthy to be conducted to such a noble fate. But must the people for this purpose become of necessity a free, a self-determining people? Most assuredly, if it is to become free and to advance towards the accomplishment of the grand object. There are virtues, which may be acquired under pupilage, nay indeed, which require it, as during a period of education; but there are also virtues—and some of the highest—which never can be acquired excepting by the nobly dangerous lot of independence and self-responsibility. This applies to the individual man, as well as to the nation. And the most paternally kind government cannot compensate for that which is lost, if that which has inwardly attained to man's estate be prevented from asserting its right in its social condition; if it be compelled in this also, to remain in a state of pupilage. And this ought soon to be the stand-point taken by Tuscany.

Abbé Lambruschini, and Signor Buoncompagni, two distinguished Tuscan gentlemen, who have labored much for a better state of popular education, and to whom I had letters of introduction from persons in Turin, I have unfortunately been unable to meet with, because both are residing in the country—fanno la Villeggiature. I have nevertheless had the opportunity of conversing with some of the most deep-thinking Tuscan patriots, who have aided me in acquiring a better knowledge of the present condition of the country.

I had a great wish to become acquainted with the poet Nicolini, the author of the tragedy, Arnoldo da Brescia, who lives in Florence, where the Grand Duke gave him an asylum, and also a situation in the library, at the time he was under prosecution and would have been imprisoned in Rome, on account of his liberal opinions and anti-papal writings. But Nicolini—I was told—had become misanthropic and melancholy, and did not like to see strangers. I respected his unwillingness, but, oh! how gladly would I have repeated to the noble poet, now tormented with scruples of conscience, on account of his authorly activity, his own heroic words in Arnoldo—io forse errai, Meglio e errar che fermarsi!

Amongst the latest most distinguished poets and writers of Tuscany, are Guerazzi and Guisti. The former is a proud and vigorous champion of freedom, of a bitter and caustic spirit. He is the author of various novels, written in the spirit of the time, as La Battaglia di Benevento, L'Asseduta di Firenze, and many others, which are greatly esteemed. The Italians call him the Mathematician of Liberty, because he measures out political rights so accurately, whilst Mazzini, on the contrary, is designated il conspiratore della liberta, the conspirator of liberty. Guerazzi lives in Turin, and still writes. His last political satire, L'Asino, The Ass, has attracted considerable attention.

Guisti is a lyrical poet. He also is bitter, but only as it proceeds from the most ardent love for eternal justice and truth. Nothing can be more caustic than his satire, as for example, in “The Old Youth,” and “The Political Weathercock!” Nothing more profound, or more delicious than his love, as in the epistle to Un Amica Contana, to Una Madre; nothing nobler than self-criticism, as for instance in the poem to his Gino Capone. One sees in all his writings, that the main thought of his soul was the struggle for freedom, and the future of Italy. This gifted poet, who enriched the literary Italian language with a great number of words which he had adopted from the various dialects of the provinces, died whilst still young, as I have heard, heart-broken, by the unsuccessful revolution. This profoundly sensitive poetic nature could not survive the ruin of its noblest anticipations.

Leopardi is the name of another Tuscan poet and distinguished learned man, who was early garnered by death, after a brief life of great suffering. The erudition of this young noble is said to have been remarkable, and his facility in imitating the old classical poets marvelous. His view of life I can only deplore; it is a night without the crimson flush of morning. Suffering and pain are to him ever enduring, the only reality! The unfortunate young man reflected the world in his own condition; of life he experienced little, excepting—affliction. It would be interesting to know his biography, and also what it was which prevented the earnest thinker from embracing a doctrine which would have removed the sting from death, and from suffering its suicidal hopelessness.

I must, in conclusion, say a few words about our enjoyment in Florence. I now say our, and that is a pleasure to me.

One day we drove, with many others, in the beautiful park, Il Cascino, in the peninsula formed by the junction of the Arno and Mugnone—a very fine promenade, on which we saw a great part of the elegant world of Florence, both in carriage and on horseback. There were not many pedestrians, on the contrary, and the park, with its beautiful trees, is not to be compared to the Djurgârd of Stockholm, because the wild, wooded mountains are wanting. The flower-girls—celebrated in Florence for their beauty—threw lovely flowers into the carriages, but were themselves less lovely and less agreeable from the pertinacity with which they pressed their flowers upon us. Yet even this was done cheerfully and not without grace.

Another day we drove to Fiesole, the city which formerly held sway over Florence, but which has now only a glorious and magnificent view over that city. Dozens of not ill-clad women, surrounded us here, and persecuted us with their straw-plat, with an unwearied urgency which was distressing, because it resembled the urgency of want. I inquired in the evening at the banker, Mr. Q.'s, if such want really did exist? And I was told;—“Yes, probably; because the straw-plat had of late considerably fallen in value, and could not find purchasers!”

Young, well-born Italian women were sitting the whole evening at the card-table. I wondered whether they had any idea of the condition of the straw-platting women in their neighborhood.

Another day we drove to Belles-Guardo, one of the high hills which surround the valley. How beautifully shone the red roses by the way against the blue sky back-ground; and what a splendid view on the ascent and on the summit! Florence shone out, in the setting sun, like a flaming, golden rose, set in the fertile valley of the Arno. And the river wound, like a silver scarf around its walls.

One evening we heard, at Verdi's opera Trovatore, fine voices and not bad music; but, alas! what execution! Hard, without light and shadow; without feeling, unmusical. Has the genius of music fled from Italy to the North? It is preferable to go to the theatres of Alfieri and Goldoni than to the opera in Florence.

Not one of the least enjoyments here in the city, is wandering along its streets, squares, and bridges, and watching the life of the people; devoid, it is true, of any marked peculiarity, but full of life and movement. There is a crowd, but you easily make your way; and you hear no coarse language, although the exterior of the working people is often ill-conditioned. Begging is strictly forbidden; but many things besides are here also forbidden, and there are many beggars, but not pertinacious like those of Pisa. Fruits and flowers abound at every street corner. There are many shops for the mosaic work, and full of admirable productions in this beautiful art, which is carried on to a great extent in Florence, and with a taste peculiar to its people.

You often come upon splendid private palaces; but so built up by other houses, that it is not until you are quite close to them, that you are aware of having a grand seigneur before you, amongst the buildings. Of many handsome churches, and many other works of art, I shall now say nothing; because the time fails me to observe them more closely, and six months would not suffice to become well-acquainted with the treasures of art and science, which this flower of cities contains. They do not, however, constitute the highest interest for one in Italy; and the year draws towards its close. I therefore leave the beautiful Florence; leave Milan and Venice, Bologna and Ferrara, to another time—perhaps till my return home—and hasten to prepare for myself and my young friend, comfortable winter-quarters in Rome, “the eternal city,” the centre of Italy, anciently of the civilized world.

1. Of this tower, nothing now remains to be seen. On the place which it is said to have occupied, now stands a white-painted house with green shutters.—Author's Note.
2. La Madonna del Cardinello, the most beautiful picture which I have yet seen, by Raphael! The divine goodness expressed in the countenance of the child Jesus, while he holds his hand over the little bird and seems to say, “Not one of these is forgotten by my Father;”—is beyond all description!—Author's Note.
3. But a paradise à la Buonarotti, who belonged more to the old covenant than to the new, where the warlike march of the Children of Israel, and their battles, are represented—Author's Note.
4. Amongst those who have more latterly openly avowed their opinions, is a Venetian Count, “a descendant of one of the Doges of Venice,” and a Count Guicciardini, of Florence, who in consequence, has been obliged to leave the city, with his family. The reading of the Holy Scriptures made him a protestant against the Roman Catholic Church, and he has united himself to the Italian Evangelical body, which is at this moment represented by De Santis, in Turin, and by Mazzarella, in Genoa. This Church, which as yet refrains from more closely laying down a formula of faith, and satisfies itself by studying the Bible, diffusing its sacred writings, preaching the Gospel, and following its commands, is, at the present time, the peculiarly proselyting church of Italy. You meet with its members and small communities, not alone in the cities of Piedmont, but also in Florence, Imola, Bologna, Ferrara, and likewise in Milan and Venice. The organization of the community resembles that of the Darbyites. Every male member has a right to preach, as well as to comment upon the Scriptures. They speak according to inspiration. A true Italian mode.—Author's Note.