Florence: Michael Angelo’s House: Baptistry of St. John: The Uffizi Gallery: The Tribune: A drive to the suburbs: Dante’s House: Dante’s Poems: The Gardens: Mrs. Browning’s description of Vallambrosa: Michael Angelo’s work: Galileo, his trial, etc.

As we had little time for visiting other places of interest, the day being now far advanced, we determined to give our minds and bodies a rest. So we entered a cafe for refreshment, we found them exceedingly clean and most obliging; we took what refreshment we needed, then went for a stroll on the streets to see the shops, and we found the city has some fine streets and shops of almost every kind. The city has a population of about 200,000. We were reminded frequently of some of the worthies of the city in sculpture or in painting. Michael Angelo, though not born in Florence, spent a great deal of his life here, and here some of his finest works were completed, and in Florence he died and was buried. At the corner of the Via Buonarotti stands the house in which he lived. It is now (like the house of the immortal Shakespeare) a museum given to the city.

“Farewell,” said Michael Angelo, on setting out for where he was to undertake the finishing of the great St. Peter’s, in Rome. “Farewell, I go to try to make thy sister, but I cannot hope to make thy equal.”

About the old Baptistry of St. John, to which, we are told, all the children of the city are taken to be christened, there are two bronze gates at which a famous workman was employed forty years. Michael Angelo declared “these gates were worthy to be the gates of Paradise.”

I believe there is a cast of these gates exhibited at the South Kensington Museum.

The Uffizi Gallery or museum or both, where I should think may be found the most wonderful collection of art to be found in the world. Even in Rome we had seen nothing to equal it. It contains over 13,000 paintings. Cameos and original designs without number. There are long corridors where statues of celebrated Tuscans fill the niches. There is sculptured marble, or painted canvas, of all imaginable beings in heaven or on earth. Emperors and kings, saintly Madonnas, angels, gods and goddesses, muses and nymphs; all may be found in this marvellous collection. And on the ceiling are frescoes setting forth the annals of Florence. In one of the halls stands a painting of Niobe with her sons and daughters clinging around her, victims of the cruel vengeance of Diana and Apollo. In another room are some angels surrounding a Madonna, making a lovely picture. There is a gallery in which are paintings of the painters of all nations, painted by themselves. Vandyck, with his clear blue eye, long hair and fair countenance; Raphael, looking sad and gentle and very sallow; Michael Angelo, simple yet sublime, he is in his dressing gown. We were simply surrounded and bewildered by the fascinating sights on every hand. There are cabinets also, containing rare gems, cameos and bronzes of all sizes and shapes. The Tribune also demands notice, as it contains vast masses of valuable treasures. One room is paved with the most costly marble. There are five masterpieces of antiquity. In the centre stands the Venus de Medicis, serene, pure, delicate, and perfectly lovely; another, the Dancing Fawn; another, “Apollino,” “The Wrestlers,” and the “Grinder.” There is also here, one of the finest and best of Raphael’s paintings, “The Glorious Madonna.” Two others by Titian. We soon became exhausted and weary, so we left the entrancing scenes for another day. To our hotel was but the work of ten minutes; safely housed. Table-de-hote dinner, to write up our diaries, to commend our lives and our loved ones to the care of our Heavenly Father, we slept. During the night there was a severe thunder storm, the lightning played round our hotel, lighting up the great square in front, but so far as we know, no damage was done. We rose in health, refreshed and ready for a good breakfast; this, the Italians know how to provide. Their coffee is the best I have ever tasted. Fish, eggs, cold meats and fruits in abundance. We made a fine breakfast, and after writing some letters and post cards we ventured out, this time for a drive to the suburbs. I soon found carriage and driver and made terms.

Mrs. Wardle near The Duomo, Florence

Before starting, however, I took a snapshot of my wife in the carriage, with the archway or part of the facade of the Duomo for background. We passed through the principal parts of the city, and our driver pointed out the house, still standing, where Dante, the greatest of all the great poets of Italy, was born. It is very near to the church of Santa Croce, a very old building, but in its vicinity lies the dust of some of Italy’s noblest sons. Near here in the year 1865, on the 5th day of May, a vast concourse of people assembled to see the unveiling of a statue of Dante. It is 19 feet in height, and it is mounted on a pedestal 23 feet in height. This was the six hundredth anniversary of the poet’s birthday. Dante was not buried here, but at Ravenna, where he died in exile away from the city he loved so much. In the “Sheep-fold of St. John” as he called it. His life was full of strange vicissitudes, apparently more of cloud and storm than of sunshine. His father was in the legal profession, and this, Dante adopted, and studied very successfully at several schools in Italy and Germany. At an early age he fell madly in love with one, Beatrice, but she married another man, and left him with a great sore in his heart. He was called to bear arms against Ariezo and Pisa, where he served with great assiduity. He afterwards married, but not happily, at the age of 28. He had a family, however, and his first-born being a girl, he called her Beatrice, after his first love. A civil war had been brewing for some time. Again Dante took the field, this time, unfortunately, on the weaker side, and a revolutionary government being formed, he, with other ringleaders who wished to resist the extreme pretensions of the Pope, were sentenced to be burned alive. He, however, managed to escape into Germany, where he wandered about from place to place, finding no settled residence, and desiring to return to his native city, but this was denied him. He died, as we have seen, in Ravenna. His daughter Beatrice was a nun in one of the convents, but to do some tardy justice to the noble bard, a sum of money was raised for her own special use. I can hardly leave this interesting subject without a passing reference to his poems, as are now principally read. The volume I refer to includes the “Inferno,” “The Purgatorio,” and “The Paradiso.” It is here surmised that Virgil and St. Bernard conduct Dante through these divisions of the universal world, to help him to write something that would show up the source of Italy’s ruin. The poem is a fine allegory, showing, as it does in the first part, a Panther, representing Florence or envy; a Lion, France or ambition; a She-Wolf, the Court of Rome or avarice; a Greyhound, Our Saviour or His vicegerent the Pope; Virgil, human wisdom; and Beatrice, heavenly wisdom. His representation of Hell as a dark valley, at the mouth of which is Limbo, and which are nine circles indicating nine different degrees of sin to be punished. The wise and good even are represented as lying in tears and sorrow, because they were not baptized. Purgatory is a step hill in the hemisphere opposite hell. Seven rounds have to be climbed before the seven stains of sin are washed away. At the top is the Garden of Eden. It is most interesting to follow Dante, as he ascends with his beloved Beatrice to Paradise, through the various heavens of the moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, the Sun, Jupiter, etc. The eighth heaven contains the triumph of Christ; and the Virgin Mary and Adam he makes to dwell there also. In the ninth heaven is a manifestation of the Divine Essence, viewed by three hierarchies of Angels. While these poems are allegorical, they are full of interest and show that Dante was greatly moved and influenced by “the things that are unseen which are eternal.” In his youthful days he paced the fields and groves of lovely Italy, writing sonnets to his beloved Beatrice. In his later years he had to eat the bread of bitterness, being an outcast from his friends and from the city he loved. The world, however, has been enriched by his poverty. A sight of the place where he was born has suggested to us this commentary. We left the place not without reflection upon the immutability of things that are earthly. From here our driver took us towards the lovely gardens across the river Arno, the gardens of Boboli; these are open to the public Thursday and Sunday. Approaching the bridge which spans this lovely river, we were struck with its massiveness as well as its beauty. It is called the Jewellers’ Bridge, as jewellers’ shops line the bridge on each side fully, except a very small break in the middle through which you get a very nice view of the river as it rolls along. A bridge further on is adorned with statues, and is considered the most beautiful of the seven that cross the Arno. When over the bridge the road is very steep; our driver left his box to give the horse the benefit. Now we seem getting into the suburbs, the road is lined with trees of all sorts; the acacia, the box, the walnut, the maple, the olive and many others, I do not think I could tell the names of them all. Up and up we went, in a semicircular fashion, until we gained the summit. When we had gone through the gate into the garden, the view was simply entrancing. Florence, with its towers and spires and domes, lay like a fine panorama at our feet, and the river gliding gently through the city. The villages in the distances nestling amidst luxuriant foliage of trees and plants. The gardens around us full of beauty, adorned with statuary, and a profusion of moss and creeper and colour of flowers, we may never see again. Just across the river, we could see the tower of Galileo, where the great astronomer nightly watched the stars, or

“Moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views,
At evening from the top of Fiesole,
Or in Voldarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers or mountains, in his spotty globe.”

Dante And Beatrice, Florence

Farther out the Casine, or the Hyde Park of Florence, could be seen. Perhaps no better description can be given than by Mrs. Browning:

“You remember, down at Florence, our Casine,
Where the people on the fast days walk and drive,
And through the trees, long drawn in many a green way,
O’er roofing hum and murmur like a hive,
The river and the mountain look alive.

You remember the Piazzo there, the stand place
Of carriages abrim with Florence beauties,
Who lean and meet to music as the band plays,
Or smile and chat with some one who afoot is
Or on horseback, in observance of male duties.

’Tis so pretty in the afternoon of summer,
So many gracious faces brought together;
Call it rout, or call it concert, they have come here
In the floating of the fan and of the feather,
To reciprocate with beauty the fine weather.”

Along the valley of Vallambrosa, as you look across, pine forests, lawns and mountains combined, make a scene the fairest fair Italy can show. Milton, in his “Paradise Lost,” alludes to this valley, speaking of the fallen angels who

“Lay entranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallambrosa’s, where oh! Etrurian shades
High over arched embower.”

This was one of the favourite walks of Dante, where he loved to wander and muse on his lovely Beatrice. The views from this elevation on all sides were very beautiful, and we left it with a feeling we could never again gaze on scenes so delightful.

Returning from these lovely scenes, in and from the Boboli Gardens, over the same bridge we turned to the left and passed the Mozzi Square, where is the Mozzi Palace. A very large building that has connected with it, we were told, a very fine picture gallery, but we had not time to visit it. We then came to the Necropolis of St. Miniato, a church considered to be one of the oldest on the continent. The Florentine Republic considered its splendid military position, and ordered Michael Angelo to fortify it. He therefore threw a strong rampart around it, with strong bastions which were provided with cannon. It is said that many Christian martyrs died for the faith and were buried in this church. The tower was greatly damaged by Charles V., but Michael Angelo saved it from utter ruin. Rev. D. M. Pratt says of Michael Angelo:

“A master mind before the marble stood,
Fresh quarried was it, rough and all unhewn,
To other eyes it seemed a shapeless stone;
To his, a stately form and beautiful.
Chisel in hand he wrought and what he saw
Came forth a statue, living and divine.
An artist stood and gazed on fallen man:
He to the soul, what to the marble rough
Was Angels, he saw and sinful man
A seraphs form. He wrought, and forth there came
Manhood divine—the lifeless took on life,
Oh! for the artist’s eye! In every man
God’s image dwells, and he who sees the Christ
Sees God in man restored, and with him seeks to bring
His thoughts to life in saving men.”

A poet has written:

“In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is
Even in itself an immortality.
Though there were nothing save the past, and this
The particles of those sublimities
Which have relapsed to chaos, here repose
Angelo’s Alfieris bones, and his
The starry Galileo with his woes;
Here Machiavelli’s earth returned to whence it rose.”

The tomb of Galileo calls for a passing remark, as he dared to contravert the old world notions of a central earth fixed in space, immovable with planets curling round it. The church had stood by the old theory for ages. If now they adopt Galileo’s theory, where is their infallibility. And so ignorant monks shut him up in prison and burnt his books in the public market place, and led out this great philosopher in mockery before a gaping crowd, with a wax taper in his hand and a halter round his neck, and demanded he should recant his opinions. Amidst the jeers of his friends and the awful threats of his enemies, he was induced to go through a certain form of recantation, in which he was required to declare “With a sincere heart and faith unfeigned, I abjure, curse and detest the said errors—I swear for the future never to say anything verbally, or in writing, which may cause to any further suspicion against me.” Rising from his knees he whispered: “But it does move for all that.”