LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, ? JUNITBDSTATES OP AMERICA. | Neir Books BY JLnxxa, Cora Ritctiie (Mio^T^tt). Fairy Fingers . . . $1.75 The Mute Singer. . . . 1.75 The Clergyman s Wife. . . 1.75 Italian Life and Legends. . 1.50 mail, postage free, on receipt of price, BY Carleton* PubUslier) New York. /3 >f ^ ^ ITALIAN LIFE AND LEGENDS, BY ANNA CORA ("MOW ATT") RITCHIE, AUTHOR OP 'Fairy Fingers," "Mute Singer," "Clergyman's Wife," " Mimic Life," Twin ' Roses," autobiography of an Actress," etc. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. i I ^. NEW YORK; Carleton, Publisher^ Madison Square. LONDON : S. LOW, SON «fc CO. MDCCCLXX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by MAEY G. THOMPSON, In the OflBce of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. > Stereotyped at the WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSE, Corner Avenue A and Eighth Street, New York. PREFACE. In presenting to the public " Italian Life and Legends," I cannot but believe that the many friends of my sister, Mrs. Ritchie, will welcome with interest another volume from her pen — that pen which is now laid at rest, and never more can speak to us in tones of sympathy and love. The sketches were written during the author's residence in Italy, for the most part in Florence, in the years 1864 and 1865. A few appeared in periodicals at the time they were written ; others have never before been pub- lished. They are now offered to the public because it is believed that the historic incidents they contain, to- gether with the wild romance of Italian character, claim a decided interest. M. G. T. New York, Nov. i, 1870. CONTENTS. Page SAVONAHOLA . i 9 VrrTOBIA COLONNA ^ 53 Galileo's Villa 71 Convent op Vallombkosa 94 Bridges of Flohence 107 Dante .118 Florentine Feuds 133 Feuds between the Bianchi and Neri^ . . . 145 The Village Serravezza 157 The Protestant Cemetery at Florence . . 169 Mrs. Browning — Dr. Soutliwood Smith — Mrs. Frances Trollope, and other Celebrities. Overflow of Arno — Artist, and the Story op a Mad Singer 180 Fedithe Sculptor 191 Till CONTENTS. Page Adelaide Ristori, and Piccolomini .... 200 The Beauhful Horror. A Florentine Legend . 211 GiNEVRA . 237 La Belle Clementine 241 Caterina Sforza 268 Thrice Wedded, thrice Widowed. An Italian Chat- elaine. ITALIM LIFE A^ LEGEm)S. SAVONAEOLA The Piazza della Signoria is situated in the most central part of Florence, faced by tlie grand Pal- azzo Yecchio, and enriched by marvels of art fi'om tlie bands of Michel Angelo, John of Bologna, Ammanato, Orgagna, etc. ; but it is not on account of its felicitous locality, or its world-renowned sur- roundings alone, that this Piazza is celebrated. It is consecrated by historic associations which might well stir with enthusiasm the most sluggish and insensible natures. Among the heart-rending human tragedies that have been enacted upon that gayly beautiful Piazza, was the cruel martyrdom of the pure-minded, truth-devoted Savonarola and his two friends. For more than three centuries — that is, from the time of his death in 1498, until within about the last thirty years — this Piazza, on the an- niversary of that merciless sacrifice, was strewed with fresh violets, in grateful remembrance of the good he achieved and the wrong he endured. Mrs. 1* (9) 10 SAVOJS'AF.OLA, Browning thus alludes to this touching custom, and to the tardv recognition of his manifold benefac- tions to Florence : "AH the "Winters that have snowed, Cannot snow ont the scent from stone and air Of a sincere man's virtues. . . . . . , . It were foul To grudge Savonarola and the rest Their violets 1 rather pay them quick and fresh. The emphasis of death makes manifest The eloquence of action in our flesh, And men who, living, were but dimly guessed, When once free from their life's entangled mesh. Show their fuU length in graves." It is singular that no complete and satisfactory- biography of so remarkable a man as Savonarola existed, until Professor Yillari, of Florence, some four or five years ago, published his " Life and Times of Savonarola." This able author devoted ten years to incessant researches in the careful prep- aration of his work. Its \'igorously impressive style, its minute details, and the authenticity of the information given, cannot be too highly estimated. About a year after Signor Yillari's book was pub- lished, ''Homola" appeared. Savonarola is made one of the heroes of that brilliant novel. Girolamo Savonarola was born at Ferrara, on the 21st of September, 1452. His youth was meditative, studious, and uneventful, until he reached his twen- tieth year. At that time a member of the ancient Strozzi family, who had been banished fi'om Flor- SAVOITAEOLA. 11 eiice, resided at Ferrara, in the neighborhood of Sa- vonarola's paternal home. The illustrious Floren- tine had a beautiful but illegitimate daughter. The youthful Savonarola was kindly received by the Strozzi, and, being thrown in contact with the fair maiden, became deeply enamored. The cordiality of her greetings, and the pleasure she appeared to take in his ^dsits, led Savonarola into a serious error. 'Not for a moment doubting that she reciprocated his attachment, he confidently solicited her hand. Her haughty reply at once amazed and crushed him. She answered proudly that a Btrozzi could not wed a Savonarola ! Without remonstrance or reproach, Savonarola withdrew; but from that time he be- came subject to fits of deep melancholy. This was his first affection^ and we may judge of its strength by its constancy, for it was his last. While his mind was still in a very dejected state, he was strongly impressed by the preaching of a Dominican friar, who visited Ferrara. Savonarola's thoughts soon turned wholly away from the world. At the age of twenty-three, he visited Bologna, and entered the convent of St. Dominic. He stated that the gross corruption of the age was the cause of his retirement. His monastic life was characterized by great de- voutness, the rude simplicity of his habits, and the 12 SAVONAROLA, exalted state of his mind. He hardly ate enough to support nature. His bed was of wicker-work, with a sack of straw and a blanket. He had frequent trances, and often gave vent to his thoughts and emotions in poetry. When war threatened Ferrara, the superior of the convent sought a less uncertain shelter for some of the brotherhood. Savonarola was sent to Florence. There he entered that Convent of St. Mark in which he afterward effected reforms destined to become so important a feature in secular as well as ecclesiasti- cal history. At this period Lorenzo the Magnificent reigned in all his superb licentiousness over Florence. Its inhabitants, nobles and populace, rich and poor, were alike immersed in a sea of profligate gayety. Fetes j dances, tournaments, unchaste orgies, drunken revels, and lower depravities, wholly engrossed the public mind. Lorenzo was a patron of the fine arts, a man of letters, an author, and had no mean gift of poetry ; yet he could debase himself by composing obscene ballads, to be sung during carnivals by young noble- men, who, dressed as devils, ran shouting, yelhng, and sin^rinor, throu2:h the streets. Yillari declares that these ballads are so revoltingly indecent, that in the present day they would not be tolerated by the most depraved taste. SAVOI^ABOLA. 13 Savonarola was horror-stricken by the profane boldness of the nnscrupulous potentate, who only employed his rich mental attributes, and the power conferred by his princely office, to debase or oppress his subjects. Holy promptings clamored incessantly within the pious friar's sjDirit, and urged him to rise up and counteract Lorenzo's baneful influence. It was one of Savonarola's most striking charac- teristics, that whenever he saw there was a good work to be done, he always felt that he was the man called to do it ; and he had perfect faith in his own strength to accomplish any task to which he set his hand. This determination to wage war against the un- bridled license which ran riot in Florence, was con- firmed by a remarkable vision. The heavens seemed opened to him ; the future calamities of the Church were vividly represented, and he heard a voice which commanded him to declare to the people the misfor- tunes with which they were menaced. Up to this period, Savonarola's sermons had attracted little at- tention ; but he now electrified his hearers by boldly denouncing Lorenzo, and the depravities of which he was the unblushing instigator. This sermon caused five of the principal citizens of Florence to visit Savonarola, and bid him beware. Savonarola told them that he was the mouthpiece of the Lord, which man could not silence. They 14 SAVONABOLA. threatened liim with banishment. Stirred by a prophetic spirit, he answered, " I am a stranger, and Lorenzo is not only a citizen, bnt the first of citizens ; yet it is I who will remain, and he who shall leave the city." His visions now became more and more frequent, and more absorbing. They invariably formed the snbject of his sermons. At times he resolved not to preach what had been revealed to liim during these visions ; bnt when he entered the pulpit he found himself powerless to resist his spiritual promptings — his own volition had no command over his utter- ances. Sometimes, while preaching, he fell into a state of trance or ecstasy. Multitudes flocked to hear him, and were stirred to remorse by his bold denunciations of crime. Ilis voice had remarkable power, and historians dwell upon its tones of thunder ; but it had also a plead- ing pathos, and the softness which corresponded to his merciful nature. He exerted a magnetic influ- ence over his hearers, which melted to devotion even those who came to scoff. Yillari says : " It would be impossible to give an idea of the force of his expressions, of the vividness of his descriptions, of the works of his imagination, of the confidence of his faith that his visions came from heaven. He repeated the words he had heard 8AV0NAM0LA. 15 pronounced by invisible beings; his deep and solemn voice was re-echoed from the vaulted roofs of the Temple ; it descended like a divine manifes- tation on the people, who were roused to a state of ecstasy, and who trembled with terror, wonder, and delight." In 1490 he was chosen Prior of the Convent of St. Mark. It was customary for a Prior, upon his election, to pay homage to Lorenzo the Magnificent. Savonarola refused to comply with this observance. He said that his election came from God alone, and that to him alone he rendered obeisance. Lorenzo tried to conciliate him; he went to mass at St. Mark's, and then walked in the gardens of the con- vent. Savonarola quietly pursued his studies, and the Magnificent waited in vain to be joined by the humble friar. ^Yhen Lorenzo was stricken with a mortal illness, and his last hours approached, he desired to see Sa- vonarola, and to receive absolution at his hands. " I know no honest fi'iarbut liim ! " was the dying mag- nate's exclamation. Savonarola promply obeyed the summons. Lorenzo told him that there was three especial sins which he wished to confess : the sacking of Yolterra, the money pillaged at the Monte deUe FanciuUe which had caused so many deaths, and the bloodshed after the conspiracy of the 16 SAVOXAF.OLA. Pazzi. Savonarola bade him restore all he had un- justly taken, or order his sons to restore it, and told him that he must have a lively faith in the mercy of God- Lorenzo affirmed that he had that faith, and reluctantly promised to return yrhatever he had taken unlawfully. Then Savonarola impressively declared to him that there was one thing more to be done. '' You must restore liberty to the people of Florence I *' exclaimed the friar. Lorenzo, with one last efEort, raised himself in his bed, and scornfully turned his back, without speaking. Savonarola left him, and the Magnificent died a prey to the most cruel mental torture (Sth April, 1492). Mrs. Browning makes mention of this incident in her ** Casa Guidi Windows : " '•Who also by a prmcely deathbed cried, ' Loose Rorence, or God vriH not loose thy soul,' ~ While the ilagnincent f eU. back and died Benearh the star-looks, shooting from the cowl, Which turned to wormwood bitterness the wide Deep sea of his ambitions." In that year Savonarola had a dream which he believed to be a divine revelation. He saw in the sky a hand holding a drawn sword ; upon the sword was written, '• The sword of the Lord on the earth, and speedily.'' Suddenly the sword turned toward the earth, the air became dark, showers of swords and arrows and fire descended, and fearfid thunders were heard, while the whole earth became a prey to SAVONABOLA. 17 wars, famines, and pestilences. This vision was afterward represented by a large number of engrav- ings, and upon numerous medals. After Savonarola became Prior he commenced his reforms in the Convent of St. Mark. He fitted the monks to live by their own labor — formed schools in which they were taught pai»ting, sculp- ture, architecture, and the art of copying and illu- minating manuscripts. He made the three especial objects of study theology, morals, and the Holy Scriptures ; that the latter might be better compre- hended, the brethren were instructed in Greek, Hebrew, and the Oriental languages. Savonarola predicted the coming of the French army, " of a new Cyrus, who would traverse Italy as a conqueror, without meeting with any resistance or breaking a single lance." Italy was at that time wholly unprotected. When the news suddenly arrived that the French troops were crossing the Alps, she had no national armies and no friendly foreign forces. The terrified Florentines rushed to Savonarola, by whom the coming of the foe had been predicted, and implored his aid and counsel. Crowds thronged the streets in a state of wild disor- der. Soon the popular fury turned against Piero de' Medici (who had succeeded his father Lorenzo, and had surpassed him in the magnitude of his 18 SAVONAROLA. crimes), and against the nobles and wealthy citizens. iN'ot only were their houses in danger of being sacked and burned, but their lives were in jeopardy. At this crisis Savonarola mounted the pulpit of the Duomo. The church was crammed witli people, rudely armed to defend themselves against the in- vaders. Savonarola commenced his discourse wdth these words: "Behold, the sword has descended, the scourges have commenced, the prophecies are being fulfilled ! " So irresistible was his eloquence, that the passions of the multitude were calmed, and no violence was committed that day. Historians ascribe this fact entirely to the ascendancy which he had acquired over the minds of the people. At the meeting of the Signoria, who assembled to discuss the steps to be taken, Piero de' Medici was pronounced incapable of ruling the republic, and it was resolved that ambassadors should be sent to the French King Charles, and that Savonarola should accompany them. The chosen ambassadors set out, the next day, in their splendid equipages ; Savonarola followed on foot. The ambassadors were coldly received by the King, who refused to treat with them. Then Sav- onarola entered the French camp alone, and stood before the King, as he sat among his generals. The friar addressed the sovereiirn in a fearless tone. SAVONAROLA. 10 and told him tliat the Lord had sent him to deliver Italy from her afflictions, and that if he forgot the work of the Lord, another hand would be selected for its accomplishment. The King listened with pro- found respect, and gave Savonarola the assurance of his friendly intentions. Meantime, Piero de' Medeci, after a vain attempt to resist by force of arms, fled from Florence. After much difficulty and procrastination, King Charles signed a treaty with the Florentines, but delayed his departure from Florence. His soldiers filled the city, creating daily scenes of riot and con- fusion ; robberies and murders were frequent ; the citizens were defenceless and in despair — still the King could not be persuaded to leave. Once more Savonarola was called upon to appear before the King. The result of this interview was a speedy withdrawal of Charles and his army; but not until his retainers had sacked the splendid palace which had been appropriated to his use. Through this barefaced robbery a large portion of the valuable collections of the Medici passed into the hands of the French. The Florentines now turned more confidently than ever to Savonarola. They owed their freedom to him ; his counsels alone could be trusted ; his proph- ecies had been fulfilled ; he alone had been able to 20 SAVOIfABOLA. influence the King and relieve Florence from the heavy incubus of the royal presence. Yillari says : " The man, therefore, vrho was destined to save the people of -Florence was Friar Girolamo Savonarola ; the hour had struck when he was to enter into public life ; events had carried him forward irresist- ibly in that direction, notwithstanding the firmness with which he had hitherto held back." From the pulpit of the Duomo, Savonarola told his hearers boldly that the reform in Florence must begin with things spiritual ; that the people must purify their minds, renounce their evil courses, and abstain from all profligacy and profanity, and tlius they might fit themselves to construct a new govern- ment. He set forth that the groundwork of that government ought to be, " that no individual should have any benefit but what is general, and the people alone must have the power of choosing the magis- trates and of approving the laws." Speaking of the successful formation of this new government, planned by Savonarola, Yillari says: " And all this occurred in a brief space of time, without a sword having been drawn, without a drop of blood having been shed, without a single civil riot, and that^ too, in Florence, the city of tumults. But the greatest marvel of all was the powTir exer- cised by a single man, and he a simple friar, direct- SAVONAROLA. 21 ing the work from his pulpit, and bringing it to a happy conclusion ; an instance unexampled in his- tory of the omnipotence of the human will and of persuasive eloquence. He was never to he seen at meetings in the Piazza, nor at the sittings of the Signoria, but he became the very soul of the whole people, and the chief author of all the laws by which the new government was constituted." Villari thus describes th6 total change which took place in the whole city : " The women gave up their rich ornaments — dressed with simplicity and walked demurely ; the young men became, as if by enchantment, modest and religious ; instead of car- nival songs, religious hymns were chanted. During the hours of mid-day rest the tradesmen were seen seated in their shops reading the Bible or some work of the friar ; habits of prayers were resumed, the churches were well attended, and alms were freely given. But the most wonderful thing of all was to find bankers and merchants refunding, from scruples of conscience, sums of money, amounting sometimes to thousands of florins, which they had unrighteously acquired." But this state of unwonted and happy quietude was of brief duration. The unstable and unprinci- pled Charles the Eighth broke faith with the Flor- entines, and violated every promise he had given. 22 SAVOJ^ABOLA. The city was in great danger, for Piero de' Medici was making mighty efforts to return, and reassume his despotic sway. He had obtained the favor of the French Hing, and was even now approaching the city in his company. To rescue the republic from peril so imminent, Savonarola was, for the third time, sent to the King. The sovereign and friar met at Poggibonsi. Again Savonarola warned the King that his perfidy would draw down divine retribution. Awed by that me- nace, Charles once more gave solemn pledges — which, however, were never redeemed. Savonarola, with all the potency of his powerful rhetoric, opposed the return of the Medici, and the reestablishment of despotism. Piero de' Medici was eventually driven back, and took refuge in Home. On the death of Pope Innocent the Eighth, Car- dinal Kodrigo Borgia, father of the infamous Lucre- tia Borgia, became Pope Alexander the Sixth. Crime, in its lowest, widest, blackest form, sat un- veiled and triumphant on the Papal throne. Wlio can wonder that Pope Borgia was Savonarola's bit- terest enemy ? Savonarola had addressed him a respectful, yet daring letter of remonstrance, setting forth tlie injuries done to the Church by the im- moral lives of her Popes. A man like Borgia was SAVONAROLA. 23 not likely to pardon such, a rebuke. In 1495 the Pope invited Savonarola to Eome, but his friends, who had learned that Borgia favored a conspiracy against the upright friar, entreated him not to obey the summons. They assured him it was only a snare laid for his imprisonment or assassination. Fortunately, a severe internal malady, which ren- dered travelling impossible, afforded him a legiti- mate excuse for delay. Already his life had been several times attempted. Even in the city he could not venture forth without an armed escort. Savonarola's excuses were seemingly accepted by the Pope, but before long the friar was again com- manded, and more peremptorily tkan before, to hasten to Pome, and was suspended from preaching. Savonarola refused to leave Florence, but he was silenced. Fra Domenico, his zealous and devoted friend, preached in his stead and promulgated his doctrines ; but they lacked the influence of Savona- rola's personal presence and overwhelming elo- quence. Savonarola's active mind and his love of useful- ness compelled him to engage in good works which might be effected out of the pulpit. The carnival of 1496 was approaching, and the obscene orgies which the Medici had inaugurated were still in 24 SAVONAROLA. TOgue ; even the children took a prominent part in festivities at which all decency was ignored. One of the favorite amusements was to light bon- fires in the Piazza della Signoria, and dance around them, singing lascivious ballads, and then to conclude by a game of throwing stones. This brutal game invariably maimed, and often killed, people who were passing in the streets. Savonarola undertook what he modestly called " The Children's Keform.'' He gave a new direc- tion to their amusements, and endeavored to substi- tute religious, for carnival or bacchanalian cere- monies. The children were in the habit of forming them- selves into bands of extempore robbers, and taking possession of much-frequented localities, to bar the* passage of every one who walked that way, until the contents of his purse had been distributed among them. The money thus forcibly obtained was squandered in festivities and revelry. Savona- rola had small altars set up in the localities where the children were accustomed to congregate, and he told them they might collect alms to distribute among the poor, but they should take no money by force, and waste none in carousing. lie allowed them to sing, as before ; but he taught them hymns, some of his own composition, which they were tc SAVONAROLA. 25 substitute for their profane and disgusting Medici ballads. He instructed the good friar Domenico to collect the children, and allow them the pleasurable excitement of choosing from among themselves a leader, who was presented to the Signoria, and who made known to that body the object of the reform. The children were highly delighted at their own im- portance, and entered into the spirit of the good work with great zeal. The murderous game of stones was for the first time given up. The children collected three hundred ducats, which were given to the poor. Savonarola's friends now made such earnest ap- peals to Pope Borgia, that he granted the friar per- mission to preach during Lent. The Pope, either to conciHate Savonarola, or because he feared him, or to lay another snare, offered him a cardinal's hat, on condition that he would change the style of lan- guage he had been accustomed to use in his sermons. Savonarola quietly refused the conditions, and the new dignity. During his Lent preachings, the multitudes which flocked to hear him were so great, that a lofty am- phitheatre, rising to the first row of ^vindows, was erected in the inside of the Duomo. This amphi- theatre had seventeen small steps, on which the children were seated. Savonarola often addressed 2 26 SAVONAROLA, them, for to them he looked for the future regener- ation of Florence. The attempts upon his life became so open, that he had to be conducted to the Duomo bj armed friends. And they reescorted him to the convent, without venturing to leave him for a moment un- surrounded. These Lent discourses are chronicled as the most bold and the most impressive which he ever delivered. The historian says : " His sermons are to the Florentine history of this brief period, what the orations of Demosthenes are to that of Athens, of Cicero to that of Rome." It often happened that the princes of Italy wrote to Savonarola, to remonstrate with him, because they imagined that they were the persons alluded to in his sermons. Savonarola was again ordered by the Pope to al)- stain froni all preaching, in public or in private, and commanded to acknowledge the authority of the Yicar General of the Lombard congregation, and to proceed to whatever place he appointed. Pope Borgia knew that if Savonarola were to leave the Tuscan territory, he would immediately be in his power. Savonarola saw through the plot, and at once made up his mind not to obey ; but he sent a conciliatory answer to the Pope, giving his reasons. The Pope once more pretended to be satisfied, and SAVONAROLA. 27 resorted to cajolery; still, however, commanding Savonarola to abstain from preaching. At this period, Florence was in a state of great misery. She was threatened with famine, and the plague had broken out, and was making daily prog- ress. The people were almost starving, and in despair, without any prospect of succor. As usual, they turned to Savonarola for comfort and counsel. The Signoria implored him to break the silence wrong- fully imposed by the Pope. Savonarola, greatly moved by the deplorable state of the city, yielded to the solicitations of the chief magistrates, and re- turned without permission to the pulpit. So long as the Florentines could hear his voice, they gained courage to face any calamity. It was a singular coincidence, that Savonarola had hardly preached his sermon of consolation, con- juring his hearers to give up their vices, and lead good lives, that they might receive the blessings of Heaven, when the long hoped-for supply of men and of wheat arrived from Marseilles. All Flor- ence was frantic with joy, and the people's confi- dence in Savonarola was redoubled by this incident. The bells rang out a joyful peal,. artillery was dis- charged, and thanksgivings were offered up in all the churches. When the carnival season of another year, 1497, 28 SAVONAROLA. approached, the Arrabbiati, which was the party Tiolently opposed to Savonarola, again made prepa- rations for the " scandalous feast of the Medici," and for the game of stones, which Savonarola had prevented on the previous year. But Savona- rola, aided by his well-tried friend, Fra Domenico, invented a ceremony which would better occupy the hands and minds of the little people — this was the making of a bonfire of vanities. The children, under the direction of their young leader, were in- structed to march through the city in white robes, with olive crowns on their heads, and knock at every door to gather voluntary contributions for the bonfire. They were to ask for objects which came under the head of vanities or the Anathema. These were obscene pictures, portraits of females of bad repute, immodest and immoral books, carnival masks and dresses, artificial accessories of the toilet, tapestries with unchaste designs, cards, dice, gaming boards, etc. On receiving the Anathema, the children repeated a prayer taught them by Sav- onarola, and went on their way. On the last day of the Carnival, the articles collected were carried by tlie juvenile reformers to the Piazza della Sig- noria. The children marched in solemn procession, bear- ink place at ten o'clock in the morning, on the 23d of ^laj, 149S. At first a current of wind tnmed away the flames from the three bodies ; then the fickle popnlace, easily swayed by the most trifling incident, cried, ont, " A miracle I A miracle ! " Bnt the wind so<:)n fell, and the flames rose and enveloped the bodies. Still the morbidly excited imaginations of the people made them eager to discover S4:>me miracn- lons token ; and when the flames canght the cords by which the hands of Savonarola were pinioned, and the heat caused the hand to move, they de- clared that he had raised his right arm in the midst of the flames to bless his enemies, who were burn- ing hivn ! His disciples fell upon their knees, sob- bing wildly, and men and women lamented alond. The Arrabbiati coidd not endtire this sight ; they hired little children to make a noise, and dance, and throw stones at the burning bodies. The favorite, barbarons game of stone-throwing, which Savonarola had partially abolished, was thtis re-established in the presence of his corpse, and was entered into with so mnch zest, that large pieces of flesh were cnt from SAVONAROLA, 51 their bodies by tlie sbarp stones, and fell, hissing, into the flames beneath. Many ladies, disguised as servants, made their way through the crowd to the scaffold, to gather up relics ; but the soldiers of the Signoria drove them back. The Signoria, fearing that the very ashes of the martyrs might be made to work some miracle, had them collected and thrown over the Ponte Yecchio into the Arno. But even there those ashes did not prove inacces- sible. Yillari tells us that young " Pico della Mi- randola although an eminent scholar and learned in philosophy, believed that he had been able to pick up from the Arno a part of Savonarola's heart, and he asserted that he again and again had had experi- ence of its miraculous effects in curing many dis- eases, and exorcising malignant spirits." Henceforward the friars of the Convent of St. Mark were relentlessly persecuted by the^ Arrab- biati, who were now masters of the city ; they were robbed, under various pretexts, and deprived of their privileges and freedom. To show to what an absurd extent the Arrabbiati carried their animosity, we cannot forbear mentioning, that, after much de- liberation, they declared the great bell of the con- vent, which went by the name of Piagnona, guilty of having tolled on the day of the tumult, and they 52 SAVONAROLA, accordingly banished it from Florence. It was taken down and cari'ied without the city, in a cart, and publicly whipped by the hangman, with as much gravity as though all who witnessed the punishment actually believed that it was endowed with sensa- tion. Only a few years later, when the Spanish army had replaced the Medici in power over Florence ; when all Italy was scom-ged ; when Clement YII. became Pope, and Charles Y. sacked the Eternal City ; when chm-ches were converted into barracks for soldiers and stables for horses — the prophecies of Savonarola seemed fulfilled to the letter. Men never tired of pointing out how the events he had foretold literally came to pass : his sermons were in every one's hand, and the Convent of St. Mark be- came the powerful centre of the most faithful friends of liberty and lovers of their native land. Well might Mi's. Browning say of Savonarola : " ' Tis trae that when the dust of death has choked A great man's voice, the common words he said Turn oracles." VITTOEIA COLONNA Who ever walked through the Colonna Gallery at Home without pausing before the portrait of Yitto- ria Colonna, the great Italian poetess ? The face is one of surpassing beauty — singularly pure in out- line and perfect in regularity of feature ; the eyes are large, soft, contemplative ; the forehead grand ; the lips full and finely curved ; the hair of that mol- ten gold which haunted Titian's dreams, and be- came tresses of sunshine upon his canvas. Rarely has an angelic spirit, affluent in intellectual gifts, been enshrined in mortal mould of such absolute loveliness ; for Yittoria Colonna's " clayey part " ♦ was but a faint reflex of the gloriously beautiful shape within. In olden days, as in modern, poetesses seldom looked poetical ; true hearts and noble minds vvxre often disguised in earthly cerements of coarse and unshapely clay. That " something in this world amiss^"^ which, Tennyson tells us, " shall be unrid- dled by and by," creates a want of harmony between 53 54 VITTORIA COLONNA. the innei' and tlie outer development. Well may we contemplate with refreshing delight such an excep- tion to tliis perplexing rule of incongruity as the It- alian poetess presents. Yittoria Colonna was the daughter of Fabrizio Colonna, brother of that prothonotary Colonna, who was decapitated, after tortm-es of inconceivable cruelty, at the instigation of the hereditary enemies of his family, the Orsini,- and by the order of Pope Sixtus rV. Yittoria's mother was Agnes of Montefebe, daughter of Frederick, Duke of Ur- bino. At the time of Yittoria's birth (1190), the princely house of Colonna had reached its meridian splendor. Yittoria was born at Marino. The castle and town pictui-esquely nestle among the hills that surround the lovely lake of Albano, and of the many Hefs held by the Colonna in the neighbor- hood of Rome, this was considered the most beau- tifuL "\Yhen the Colonna took service under Frederick II. of Xaples, that king, to render more secure his hold over his new and powerful friends, betrothed the infant Yittoria, then five years of age, to Fer- dinand d'Avalos, a child of the same age, son of Alphonso, Marquis of Pescara. Costanza d'Avalos, Duchess of Francavilla, the VITTOBIA COLONNA. 55 elder sister of the hoj fiancee, was one of the most cultivated, pure, and highly refined women of her day. Shortly after the betrothal of the chil- dren, the Marquis of Pescara lost his life, through the treachery of a black slave. The young Ferdi- nand was his heir, and, on the death of Costanza's husband. King Ferdinand made her chatelaine of the picturesque little island of Iscliia. The infant Yittoria was then transferred to her charge, to re- ceive her education in company with her future bridegroom. A year later. King Ferdinand II. died, deeply lamented by every class of his people, and especially mourned at Ischia. When the children were eleven years old, the harmonious routine of their days of blended study and pastime was broken by the presence of dis- crowned royalty. The French had sacked Capua, and were advancing upon Naples; and Frederick, the last of the Aragonese kings, with his queen and children, sought refuge on the rock-bou.nd island of Ischia until he threw himself upon the generosity of the French king. Love seems to have been equally strong in the hearts of both affianced children. When the youth- ful couple had entered their nineteenth year, Cos- tanza deemed it time for their marriage to be cele- 56 YITTOBIA COLOSSA. brated- Yittooa made a farewell visit to her par- ents at Marino, and returned to IscMa, escorted by alaige eompany of Boman nobles^ idio came to be pi^sent at bar niqptidbw In beanfj of peison tbe joung Pe^ara. seems to hsve been a fitting mate for TiHom. His biogra- rapber, Giani, dms de^zibes hnm : " His beard was anbam, bk nose aquiliiie, bis eyes large and Sexy -wben exeiled^ bet mild and genOe at oliis' timesw" TTft bad many VwigbtTy aeeomplMbment^ but bis bearing was bangbty, Ms speedi brief and grave, and be kept akM]f from all famiEar inteieoiiise ; to Tittaria, however, be was all gentlene^ and ten- derness. After tKeir nuptial^ two jeais of tranquil and TEnintermpted joy, sodli as mortals seldom taste, weie granted tfie yondifal pair. Later in life, Tit- tcHia o^en and 0^01 leems to bsr blessed dbildbood, and to tho^ two yeais of milHOiken,ec;3taitie felicily, in ber ba^qpy i^bnd homeL Bat Pescara was a soldier ; not to fi^t as soon as be reaebed manhood, was to be didionoTed. At tbe close of those two idylHe year% when be was. twenty-one^ he acccxnpanied Yittoria's fatber, and joined ^le army in LcHnbardy. Severely as tbe yonng hnsband and wife snfEered frcffli this separation, even tbe gentle, clinging Tit- VITTOBIA COLONNA, 57 toria never souglit to be spared the pang of parting ; shp never forgot that she was the daughter and the wife of a soldier. When it was suggested that her liusband was the sole surviving scion of a noble house, and ought to be absolved from risking his life upon the battle-field, she repelled the counsel as indignantly as the young soldier himself. Cour- ageously she sent him forth with the olden motto on his shield, " With this, or on this." Yittoria remained at Ischia with Costanza. The dwellers on the little island were always surrounded by a brilliant circle of wits, and poets, and literary men, whose society both ladies thoroughly enjoyed. There was no fear of scandal, for even the foulest tongue would not have dared to sully Yittoria's name by the suggestion that she was consoled for the absence of her husband by the admiration of other men. In his very first battle, Pescara was made prisoner. Yittoria's father met the same fate. The united Spanish and Papal arms were defeated by the French, before Kavenna, 9th of April, 1512. Pes- cara was picked up on the field, where he had been left for dead, and carried captive to Milan. Dur- ing his imprisonment he composed a "Dialogo d'Amore," which he inscribed and sent to his wife. 3* 58 VITTOBIA COLONNA. ' The Bishop of Como asserts that this dialogue was full of grave and witty thoughts. Pangs of sorrow gave birth to Yittoria's muse. The first poetic production was a letter, in verse, of one hundred and twelve lines, addressed to her hus- band in his prison. One naturally smiles at the j^un which breaks in upon her lamentations, but when we remember the elegantly turned puns of Shakespeare's heroines, involuntarily uttered in the most agonizing situations, we must pardon the Ital- ian poetess for saying, — "Se Vittoria volevi, io t'era appresso, Ma tu, lasciandome, lasciavi lei. " " If victory was thy desire, I was by thy side ; but in leaving me, thou didst leave also her.^"^ Pescara's captivity was robbed of much of its dis- comfort through the influence of a general in the service of France, who had married the prisoner's aunt. As soon as his wounds were healed, he was permitted to ransom himself for six thousand duc- ats. Yittoria had the great joy of welcoming her husband once more to their island home. The maternal principle was strongly developed in her affectionate nature, and the holy presence of in- fancy soon became indispensable to her perfect fel- icity — but she remained childless. Her husband had a young cousin, Alfonso d'Ava- VITTORIA COLONNA. 59 los, Marchese del Yasto, whose disposition was so violent and ungovernable, that guardians, tutors, servants, alike shrank from him in terror. Every attempt to train or educate him had proved futile ; yet he was endowed with fine mental capacities, and with personal beauty of the highest order. This boy Yittoria fearlessly adopted, declaring that he only needed prudent and loving management to become a superior man. The boy was quickly in- spired with a sort of chivalric devotion for her ; his passionate nature, rightly moulded and dii*ected, proved to be full of strength and nobility. She magnetized to the surface every dormant good im- pulse, and cultivated his heart as well as his mind. He owed to her his love of literature and his schol- arly attainments. The turbulent youth became a refined, whole-souled man, and a soldier of renown. Yittoria had ample cause to rejoice over the frui- tion of her glorious work, and Alfonso's ever-endur- ing love brightened her life in its darkest hours. She used to say, with » exultation, that the reproach of being childless should be removed from her name, for she had given mental birth to a child in developing the mind and moral nature of a being whom no other hand had been able to master. After a few months of domestic happiness, Pes cara joined the army in Lombardy. 60 VITTORIA GOLONNA. Yittoria remained at Ischia, surrounded, as be- fore, by poets and men of letters. Some of the most celebrated writers in Europe visited her little island, and immortalized its beauties. Tasso was among their number ; he eloquently celebrates the brilliant Ischia reunions of choice spirits. Yittoria had herself become an enthusiastic votary of the muse, and her lyre was never more silent. Pescara's duties in camp only permitted him at long intervals to pay brief visits to Ischia. In Oc- tober, 1522, he remained with Yittoria three days, and then retuiTied to the army. Battle quickly succeeded battle, and she never saw him more. At the age of thirty-live, he was made general-in- chief to Charles Y., but, in spite of his undeniable valor and soldierly achievements, the proofs that he was false to his king are only too strong. Pope Clement YII. tempted him to turn traitor to Charles, and use the armies under his command to crush the Spanish power in Italy. The throne of ISTaples was promised him, as the price of liis treason. Pescara undoubtedly entertained the over- tures, but it chanced that a messenger, bearing letters which would have revealed the whole conspiracy, was robbed and murdered, by an innkeeper at Ber- gamo, and l^uried under a staircase. As time passed and no tidings were received, the conspir- VITTOBIA COLONNA. 61 ators concluded that the letters had been forcibly taken from their courier, and the blot would be made known to Charles. Pescara determined to save his own reputation by a clever stratagem. He wrote to Charles, and coupled with assurances of the greatest loyalty the information that certain conspirators had made him propositions to which he had listened for the sake of detecting and frustrat- ing their machinations. This complicity is too strongly proved by a letter from Yittoria, in which she vehemently urges her husband not to be lured from the path of honor by any temptations, and tells him that she has " no wish to be the wife of a hing, but only of a loyal and ttj[)right manr It is thought by some historians that this letter, and not the disappearance of the messenger, saved Pescara from becoming a traitor to his monarch. Charles credited Pescara's tale, and made him generalissimo of the imperial forces in Italy. In the same year he was taken ill, at Milan, and sent for Yittoria. She set out with all speed, but had only reached Yiterbo when she received the tidings of his death. He died on the 25th of IsTovember, 1525, was buried at Milan, but shortly afterward carried to Naples, and interred mth great pomp. Yittoria's love had been boundless, and her sorrow 62 VITTORIA COLONNA. had no limit. She gave herseK up to the most fran- tic bewailing, " not comforted to live," because Pes- cara was gone. And what manner of man w^s it who inspired love so large and grief so great ? Some paragon of virtue, doubtless ! Alas ! for the truth. The reader starts in amazement and shrinks in horror at learning what all history testifies. Tliis idol, raised for heart-wor- ship by one of the purest, loveliest, most gifted of God's creatures, was a man base and infamous, cruel as a savage, merciless as a heathen. Two virtues he had, and apparently only two — he was a brave sol- dier, and he loved Yittoria. " lie was reckless of human suffering," savs the historian, '' and eminent even among his fellow-cap- tains for the ferocity and often wantonness of the ravages and wide-spread misery he wrought." " The cruelty he committed was worse than Turks would have been guilty of." An anecdote illustrates his pitiless sternness as a disciplinarian. He had ordered the ears of a soldier to be cut off for entering a house for the purpose of plunder. The man implored that his ears miglit be spared, and he cried out in his anguish that deatli would be preferable to losing them. Pescara, with savage jocoseness, at once bade his soldiers, since the culprit ;pref erred death, to hang him to a neighbor- VITTOBIA COLONNA. 63 ing tree. In vain the wretch shrieked for mercy — ■ he was seized and hanged, while Pescara enjoyed the joke of having taken him at his word. Guicciardini states that he has often heard the Chancellor Morone declare " that there did not exist a worse or more faithless man in all Italy than Pes- cara." And this is the man whom Yittoria's love sur- rounds with such a radiant halo, that his character seems resplendent with the most glorious yirtues; this is the man whom she makes the theme of a long series of poems "in memoriam" — the man whom she calls her hel sole, for whose dear sake she is tor- mented to commit suicide, whom she longs for death to rejoin, and then chides herself for wishing to die, because haply her mrtue may not suffice to enable her to rejoin him. in the mansions of the blest ! Can love's power to idealize be more forci- bly and wondrously illustrated ? She had entered her tliirty-sixth year when she became a widow, and the wi-iters of that day pro- nounce her beauty in its meridian glory. The med- als struck at Milan, just Kefore her husband's death, bear witness to her supreme loveliness. She was, even then, styled the most celebrated woman in Italy, but her renown as a poetess became much greater at a later period. 64 - VITTOBIA CQLONNA. The fii-st stunning prostration of her grief caused Yittoria to attempt to shut herself out wholly and forever from that world which she had hitherto found so beautiful and so full of enjoyment. She hastened to Rome, and immured lierself in the con- vent of San Silvestro, resolved to take the veil. But the Bishop of Carpenti*as, a man of letters and a poet, Yittoria's personal friend, saw the fatal rash- ness of the act into which grief had hurried her, and induced Pope Clement to send a letter to the abbess and nuns of San Silvestro, charging them to shelter and console the Marchesa di Pescara, but absolutely f orbiddino; them to let her take the veil. She had resided at the convent neai4y a year when a new quarrel arose between the Colonna family and the Pope. Yittoria's brother, Ascanio, her sole pro- tector, now insisted upon her leaving the convent and hasteniug to Marino. A little later the Colonna faction sacked the Yatican and the houses of their mortal enemies, the Orsini. For this act of yiolence, Cardinal Colonna was deprived of his hat, and the estates of all the family were confiscated. Yittoria once more took up her abode in the little island which had borne the footprints of her hus- band's feet, from infancy to manhood — which had been the scene of such rich joys, and was now the gra^'e of so many hopes. Her first passionate burst YITTOBIA COLONNA. 65 of anguish had softened into a quiet moui-nf ulness, and from that time her true poetical career may be said to have begun. Writing poetry became the chief occupation of her life. One hundred and thirty-four of her sonnets were lamentations over her loss, or written in honor of her husband's mem- ory. The distinguished men and women of that day hailed with delight the appearance of each new poetical effusion, an(J. wrote in its praise to the sor- rowing songstress. Her works passed into three editions dm-ing her lifetime — which in that day was equivalent to thirty in this. It is a remarkable fact, that this beautiful and gifted woman, who had all her life been the centre of a crowd of worshippers, so thoroughly impressed every one who knew her with the sense of her per- fect purity, that she seems to have been the rare ex- ception to the rule which prevents the chastest from escaping calumny. Numerous suitors she, of course, had, but when she refused the hand which had been once be- stowed with her heart, and could never be given again, ardent lovers became devoted and life-long friends. Trollope says; " We find her uninfluenced by the bitter hereditary hatreds of her family, striving to act as peace-maker between hostile factions, and 66 VITTOBIA COLONNA. weeping over the miscliief occasioned by their struggles. Yv^e find her the constant correspondent and valued friend of almost every good and great man of her day." He adds : " The learned and ele- gant Bembo writes of her, that he considered her po- etical judgment as sound and authoritative as that of the greatest masters of the art of song." Guidic- cioni, the poetical Bishop of Fossombrone, and one of Paul III.'s ablest diplomats, declares that the an- cient glory of Tuscany had altogether passed into Latium in her person ; and sends her sonnets of his own, with earnest entreaties that she will point out the faults. Veronica Gambara, hei'self a poet- ess, of merit perhaps not inferior to that of Yitto- ria, professed herself her most ardent admirer, and engaged Hinaldo Corso to write the commentary on her poems, which he executed as we have seen. Bernardo Tasso made her the subject of several of his poems. Giovii dedicated to her his life of Pes- cara, and Cardinal Pompeo Colonna his book " On the Praises of Women," and Contarini paid her the far more remarkable compliment of dedicating to her his work on " Free Will." In 1530, the pestilence raged in Kaples, and even reached Ischia. Yittoria was compelled to fly to Rome. The Colonna family had made their peace with Pope Clement, and their fiefs had been re- VITTOBIA COLONNA, 67 stored to them. The Poetess resided with her bro- ther Ascanio and his beautifjil and accomplished wife, Donna Giovanna d'Aragona. Yittoria's adopted son and pupil, the Marchese del Yasto, was also at Rome, and his presence was always a joy to her. Yet she grew restless and ill at ease away from her island home, and hastened back, as soon as safety permitted. At the close of six years, she was again induced by her brother and adopted son to visit Rome. Her fame had increased with every year, and it is re- corded that her stay in Rome was one continued ovation. Her religious impulses were strong and pure, and she was prompted to the study of theology that she might know something of the God whom she worshipped. A year after this visit to the holy city she first evinced Protestant tendencies. Renee of France had married Hercules II., whose sympathies were avowedly with the Protestant party. These sym- pathies had rendered the Court of Ferrara the re- sort, and in some instances the refuge, of many professors of the new ideas which were beginning to agitate Italy. Yittoria visited Ferrara for the pur- pose of exchanging views upon this vexed question with some of the leading minds assembled there. Duke Hercules and his court paid her the highest 6S VITTOBIA COLO^IfA. honors, and invited the most distinguished poets and men of letters in Venice and Lombardy to meet her. At Ferrara, she conceived the idea of making a journey to the Holy Land, though she was then in failing health. Her adopted son went to Terrara to dissuade her, and after much entreaty, induced her to retui-n to Home instead. Her presence in the Papal capital was once more the signal for pub- lic rejoicings. That she was an advocate of religious reform, her poetry gives ample testimony, though her Italian bi- ographers make great efforts to maintain her ortho- doxy. TroUope declares that '• Vittoria Colonna has survived in men's minds as a poetess. But she is far more interesting to the historical student who would obtain a full understanding of that wonderful six- teenth centm-y, as a Protestant. Her highly gifted and richly cultivated intelhgence, her great social position, and above all her close intimacy with the eminent men who strove to set on foot an Italian reformation which should not be incompatible with the Papacy, made the illustration of her religious opinions a matter of no slight historical interest." It was shortly after her return to Eome fi-om Ferrara, in the year 1537, that a tender and durable friendship sprang up between the renowned poetess VITTOBIA COLONN'A. 69 and the great sculptor and painter, Michael Angelo. He was in his sixty-third year, and she in her forty- seventh. It was through his association with Yittoria Colonna, that the rugged, stern, self -intelligent old man became a devout Christian. In the poems which he addresses to her, he attributes that change wholly to her influence. The letters of Yittoria to Michael Angelo are pre- served as the most treasured possessions of his de- scendants. The last was written after the sculptor became architect of St. Peters, and she tells him playfully that her duties to the youthful inmates of the Convent of St. Catherine, at Yiterbo, and his du- ties as architect at St. Peter's, must prevent a fre- quent correspondence. In this same year, 1544, she returned from Yit- erbo to Kome, and took up her residence in the. Con- vent of the Benedictines of St. Anne. Her health, long delicate, now began to fail rapidly. When she became seriously worse, she v/as removed from the convent to the house (which chanced to be near) of the only one of her kindred then left in Pome — Giuliano Cesarini, the husband of Giulia Co- lonna. Her brother and son were both at a distance, but Michael Angelo, her ever true and devotedly at- tached friend, sat beside her couch as her pure and 70 YITTOBIA COLONNA, lovely spirit gained its freedom. It is said that he often mourned in remembering that he had not dared to press his lips for the only time, upon the noble but clay-cold forehead. She died in February, 1554, in the fifty-seventh year of her age. Yittoria well knew that her works were a more lasting monument than could be carved out of stone, and she ordered that her funeral should closely re- semble that given to the nuns in the convent where she had resided ; and like theirs her place of sepul- ture remains unmarked. GALILEO'S VILLA. Chief among the memorable villas which girdle Florence, and have been consecrated by the foot- prints of the illustrious dead, are the villas in which the renowned Galileo resided — the villa where he lived and hoped and rejoiced! the villa where he suffered, despaired, and died ! The villa del Gioiello, usually called Galileo's villa, is situated beyond the hill Arcetri. It is an ivy-di*aped, gloomy, desolate-looking abode, and the heavy atmosphere of the place is rendered more oppressive by the melancholy inscription on the outer wall, which records that in this villa the great astron- omer and philosopher passed the closing years of his life, afflicted with blindness, the victim of Papal persecution, abandoned by his powerful Medicean patrons ; but still surrounded by a few faithful friends, who reverently received the last inspira- tions of his towering genius. Xot far from this villa is the rude tower called Galileo's observatory. (71) 72 GALILEO'S VILLA. But it is in the quaint old villa which crowns the lovely height of Bellosquardo, and is also celebrated as the residence of Gtdcardini^ the historian, Galileo's contemporary and friend, that Galileo passed fourteen years before bigotry's iron heel crushed out of his heart every buoyant and ex- pectant throb, and before the hand of affliction had drawn the pall of blindness between him and that glorious firmament whose luminaries, watched by his speculative eyes, had filled the world with the new light of science. There is a bust of Galileo near the northern en- trance of the villa, with a tablet chronicling his res- idence within those walls. Upon what is now called the Piazza di JBello- squardo, opens the somewhat imposing gateway which leads to the front entrance of the villa, through a brief carriage-path, lined on either side with lau- rustinus, arbutus, yellow jessamine, cluster roses, with a few fine trees shooting far above the flowering shrubbery. The grounds are by no means extensive, but they are so dexterously laid out in winding walks, dotted by tiny gardens, with here and there sudden openings among the trees, disclosing the most enchanting views, that they produce the effect of both space and variety. It is said that Galileo had a passion for flowers/ GALILEO'S VILLA. 73 and delighted in cultivating his garden with his own hands. What aspect these limited pleasure-grounds must have presented nearly two centuries and a half ago, it is not difficult to conjecture; for Galileo, who trod them for fourteen years, could not have cherished his floral tastes in such a suggestive local- ity, without causing that teeming earth to bloom out into even fuller, richer beauty than it boasts at the present day. This ^dlla was formerly called villa Albizzi, but it now bears the name of Villa delV Ombrellino — Villa of the Little Umbrella. It received this desig- nation from a rudely shaped species of wooden um- brella, with a circular bench running round the stem. This unpoetical-looking substitute for a sum- mer-house stands in the northwest corner of the grounds, which juts out over a green valley, and overlooks a charming prospect. The Italians have so decided a passion for nicknames, that after this extraordinary umbrella bower once made its ap- pearance, they, doubtless, could not be induced to call the villa by any high-sounding title. The little umbrella can be seen far down the road towards Florence before the villa itself is visible — it is consequently the Villa delV Ombrellino to every Italian. And a most delightful retreat the unpic- turesque Umhrella affords. To one perched upon 4 74: GALILEO'S VILLA, the circular seat, in days we could tell of, it was a never-failing enjoyment to watch, the changing as- pect of the surrounding scenery ; for with every al- ternation of light the landscape varies, some new charm is evoked by the play of the sunshine, and some loveliness, very palpable before, has disap- peared in the shadow. But the prospect revealed from this clumsy, yet cosy resting-place is far surpassed by that which the terrace commands. The centre of the roof of the villa, a square of about twenty feet, is flat, and surrounded by an iron railing. Furnished with sofas, table, and chairs, it makes a most fascinating terrace drawing-room. There before you lies the whole city of Florence, with its stately palaces, and ancient churches, and striking towers, standing out clearly against the blue sky, or only dimly suggest- ed by shadowy, dreamy outlines, through the golden- grey mist • of morning or evening ; and there is the vine and olive clad valley of the Arno ; and there is the Cascine^ the favorite promenade or drive, the Hyde Park of Florence ; and there is the Poggio Imjpericde^ and, leading to it, that " abrupt, black line of cypresses Whicli sign the way to Florence ;" 2i\\^Fie8ole, the ever beautiful; and San IIi?iiafo, with Michel Angela^ 8 fortifications ; and the en- GALILEO'S VILLA. 77 circling Appennines ; the hills of Yallombrosa and Carrara; and on every side countless villas gem- ming the landscape, and teeming with romantic his- tories; and all down the undulating slopes of the Bellosquardo liill, the greenly fertile farms display- ing their treasures of grapes and olives and figs. But who could venture to describe the glorious and ever-varying sunsets watched from that terrace, or the marvels conjured to heighten the landscape when the molten moonlight lent its own mysterious beauty to the scene % But when the moon was ab- sent, and even when the stars were obscured, Florence was still visible, outlined by her myriad lights ; and on the evenings of her illuminations, those outlines were clothed with a fl.ickering garment of fire, won- derful to behold. In 1863 and 1864, the writer was a member of the little circle that occupied this villa, and that terrace, where Galileo once gazed upon the stars, was the favorite place of gathering in the summer evenings. Here tea was served, and guests were re- ceived. Often from this terrace the melodious voice of the songstress has floated over the hills, and enrap- tured the ears of listeners in the neighboring villas. And, strange to relate, this terrace now and then witnessed rehearsals of the little dramas, afterwards performed at the English Dramatic Drawing Boom, 78 GALILEO'S VILLA. by the company of amateurs who in the winter of 1864 and 1865 devoted their talents to charities. Once, during om' sojourn in the Galileo villa, its spacious old entrance liall was the scene of a dram- atic representation, peculiarly appropriate to a Flor- entine locality. The play was entitled " The Un- known Masterpiece" (a free translation of the Chef d^o&uvre de V Inconnu). The great Florentine sculptor and painter, Michel Angelo, w^as one of the heroes (personated by an American sculptor of tal- ent). The Grand Duke of Florence, Casino de' Me- dici, was represented by a descendant of the Buon- naroti family, fi*om which Michel Angelo sprang. The heroine was embodied by a lovely golden-haired American maiden, whose delicious voice has given her a foremost rank among the nightingales of Flor- ence. A youthful page Avas played by the marvel- lously gifted little daughter of T. A. Trollope, who enchanted the audience by her wonderful vocaliza- tion. The young girl, who afterwards evinced so much talent at the Dramatic Drawing Room, made her debut on the occasion, as the bewitching boy- student, brother of the young sculptor who was the hero of the drama. The latter character was admira- bly personated by a rising young artist, also a lead- ing member of the Dramatic Drawing Hoom com- pany. GALILEO'S VILLA. 79 Such a festival seemed particularly appropriate within walls which the presence of Galileo had con- secrated, for he was himself a great lover of the drama, and declaimed with much effect. He de- lighted in mnsic, and performed v^^ith so much skill upon several instruments, especially the lute, that he had been counselled in his ^^outh to become a pro- fessional musician. In truth, Galileo was rich in accomplishments, for he was also a proficient in drawing, and evinced a taste for all the arts ; besides possessing very wide information, a fondness for literature, and great command of his pen. Galileo Galilei was born at Pisa in 1564. His family was noble. His father designed him for a physician. He entered the University of Pisa at an early age, and quickly distinguished himself. He had not completed his twenty-fifth year when he filled the chair of Professor of Mathematics. In the cathedral of Pisa the stranger is still pointed out the lamp which suggested to Galileo, by its slow and uniform swinging, the possibility of a pendulum as the motive power of clocks. He was then only eighteen j^ears of age. He wrote son;ie remarkable essays based upon the motion of this lamp, but it was not until nearly half a century 80 GALILEaS VILLA. later tliat he actually succeeded in making a pendu- lum clock. It seems almost incredible, that the man who in- vented the thermometer, improved the compas?, consti-ucted the telescope, wliich disclosed to him the irregular surface of the moon, caused by her valleys and mountains ; the spots upon the smi. and showed that the !jlilky Way, was a lengthened cluster of countless stai-s — that the man who revealed to the world these miimagined facts, and who confirmed and promulgated the trutli abeady made known by Copernicus, that the planets revolved about the sun, which is the centre of our system — that this man should have been all his life surrounded by enemies and detractors, should have lived through a series of relentless persecutions, to die their victim. A frank but incautious criticism sowed the rapid-springing seed of Galileo's fij^st disgrace. G-iovanni de Medici, natural son of Casimo I., had invented a machine, wliich he submitted to the youug Galileo. Giovanni was a poor engineer, and a woi*se architect, as the tomb of St. Lawrence, for which he furnished the design, testifies. Gahleo, who had not yet learned the humiliating lesson, that policy is expediency, when princes and potentates are to be dealt with, publicly criticised the invention. Sentence of bauislimcnt was the result of this te- GALILEO'S VILLA, 81 merity. He took refuge in Yenice, and remained in exile for eighteen years. He rapidly achieved celebrity. Yery soon he was elected professor of mathematics at Padua. Thei-e he published a trea- tise on fortifications, one on mechanics, and an ad- mirable work on proportions. But Galileo yearned for Florence ; and his biog- raphers relate, with somewhat severe comments, that he availed himself of an occasion to be restored to the good graces of the Medici, by a delicate piece of flattery. One of his most important telescopic revelations was the discovery of the satellites of Jupiter. He gave them the name of satellites of the Medici, and published in Padua his treatise on these satellites. This compliment threw open the closed gates of his country ; he received permission to return to Florence, and joyfully availed himself of the longed-for privilege. His honest ingenuousness had banished him — a stroke of policy effected his recall. He bowed to the exigencies of the times. It was his nature to conciliate, rather than to combat, his opponents. All through his life, either from timidity or from an instinctive shrinking from strife, he tried to avoid contest. He strove to win, to convince, to influence — not to oppose. Thus we too often find him ap- 4* 82 GALILEO'S VILLA. parentlj yielding to those who are too obviously in the wrong, instead of combating their errors. In that age, any deviation from accepted dogmas was called heresy ; and nothing ruined a man more quickly and more certainly than the accusation of heresy. Galileo was at heart a sincere Catholic. He loved and had perfect faith in the doctrines of the Church, and he believed in the Scriptures. When the clergy declared to him that the discoveries he had made, if veritable, contradicted revealed religion, and were wholly at variance with Scriptural statements, it did not shake his faith in the religion of revelation. lie knew that the facts which he had proclaimed were unquestionable ; but he had an internal conviction that scientific truths could be reconciled with Scrip- tui-al, even though his own spiritual insight might not be deep enough to show their accord. One of the chief arguments of liis priestly accusers seems to have been, that Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, and it obeyed him ; and that if the sun had not 'been in motion., it could not have heeii commanded to stand still ! Galileo replied that in the Bible we read that the heavens are solid, and polished like a mirror of brass, and that a man had only to raise his eyes to see that this language could not be interpreted literally. These and similar arguments GALILEO'S VILLA. 83 and quotations from sacred writ were silenced by the cry of " blasphemy ! " Guicardini says of him, that he wanted to rec- oncile what was irreconcilable, and adds, " The phil- osopher could not listen to advice. In vain all his friends bade him remain quiet; told him that it was impossible for him to combat so many enemies, and to triumph over so many rivals ; that in the end he would only draw upon himself a thousand new unpleasantries. He listened to no one. He com- plained of being received coldly, and did not see that he himself tried the patience of the Cardinals by his importunities." The French Chasles, one of his most recent biog- raphers, writing in 1862, remarks : " A man of the world would not have attempted to wage war against calumny — like a child, to seize the lightning, and fight against the thunder. Galileo did not know that calumny is more terrible than thunder, the stratagems of envy more subtle than lighting — a thousand times more rapid, more impalpable, more destructive." After Galileo's return to Florence, having pub- lished a work on hydrostatics, and another upon the spots on the sun, he resolved to go to Rome. This mission was a singular one, and betrays the self-re- liant simplicity of his character. He was confident 84 GALILEO'S VILLA. that his own eloquence, the precision of his calcu- lations, the authority of his name, the weight of his genius, would win over the incredulous, would per- suade the Pope, and convince all the members of the Sacred College. In 1616, he obtained letters from the Grand Duke to the Cardinal Orsini. Although the Cardinal re- ceived him warmly, the result of his mission proved his ignorance of the priesthood, aud the fallacy of his hopes. Far from making a convert of the Pope, Galileo was ordered to renounce the doctrine of the immovability of the sun, and the rotation of the earth ; not to teach it, and not to defend it, by w^ord of mouth or in writing — except, indeed, as an hy- pothesis, and without affirming it. He submitted, and left Pome. For fifteen years, during the reign of the two Popes who preceded Urban YIIL, he preserved the silence thus arbitra- rily imposed upon him. Such was his dread of being thought a heretic, that he said he preferred death, and induced Car- dinal Bellarmin to publish a* certificate of his (Gali- leo's) belief. In 1623, Cardinal Maffeo Barberini was made Pope Urban YIII. lie had a great affection for the illustrious astronomer, and Galileo revelled in the hope that this new Pope would be in favor of the GALILEO'S VILLA. 85 doctrine of Copernicus, and that through him the truth might be established. He dedicated to him his work on the comets, and, depending upon the Pope's protection, wrote his celebrated dialogue on the systems of Ptolemy and Copernicus. This book, when it was published in Florence in 1632, contained a very remarkable engraving. A vast sea is represented, bearing vessels ready to sail. Three philosophers standing on the sea-shore are discussing the movement of the world, and the rev- olutions of the spheres. One is Sagredo, the Span- iard. One wears the Venetian costume — it is Sal- viati of Yenice. These were two real personages, whom Galileo knew and loved, and who had openly accepted his doctrines. Sagredo proves by his philosophical arguments, and Salviati by mathe- matical deductions, the principles of Coperni- cus. The antagonist they are endeavoring to con- vince stands between the two philosophers. He is robed in Oriental draperies, and wears an Eastern turban. It is Simplicio, a man of past ages — the partisan of Ptolemy, and the advocate of ideas ren- dered respectable by the sanction of one's forefath- ers — a man who defends tradition, who declares that received doctrines and axioms content him, that appearances are all-sufficient for him, that 86 GALILEO'S VILLA. the abyss into which new thinkers and discoverers are plunging, terrify him. As confident as though he had met with no rebuff, Galileo once more set out for Rome. His chief object was to obtain permission to publish this work. After a delay of two months, during which the manuscript had been abundantly pruned by Fra Niccolo Riccardi, and by Pere Yisconti the math- ematician, Galileo was allowed to return to Florence, to publish his book. But his implacable enemies seized upon this very work for his destruction. They represented to Pope Urban YIII. that it was a personal attack upon himself — that Simplicio was intended for a portrait, or rather a caricature, of His Holiness. The Pope was highly incensed at the bare suggestion that his protege dared to turn him into ridicule. Galileo was at once summoned to Home. At first he was allowed to reside wdth the Tuscan ambassador, but not to leave the house ; afterwards, he was impris- oned for several days, by order of the Inquisition. He was examined on the subject of his book, and proved that he had received permission for its pub- lication. It is said that he fell upon his knees be- fore the tribunal of Cardinals, imploring them not to pronounce him a heretic ; for he was a good Cath- olic, and would remain one in spite of the w^hole GALILEO'S VILLA. 87 world. He added that, if the book was condemned to be burned, he himself would cast it in the flames, on condition that he was informed upon what ground such a sentence was passed. Then he read aloud the adjuration which had been prepared for him by the fi'iar Frenzuola, his bitter enemy, and the fav- orite of the Pope. This Frenzuola, who aspired to be the best military architect of that age, hated Galileo for not having ranked him above Michel Angelo, and, in spite of Galileo's denial, so thor- oughly persuaded the Pope that Simplicio was de- signed as his portrait, that he never forgave the astronomer. The sale of the book was suspended, but Galileo was allowed to return to Florence. On the 23d of September, 1632, Galileo was again cited to appear in Pome before the Inquisi- tion. In vain the ambassador ^N^iccolini showed the certificates of Galileo's physicians, affirming that he was suffering from a malady which prevented his travelling — in vain the cardinals Antonio Barberini and Ginetti appealed to the Pope in Galileo's be- half : the answer was that Galileo's presence could not be dispensed with, and that a litter would be prepared for his removal. On the 11th of January, 1633, he received a final summons. Tie was seventy years of age, and was 88 GALILEO'S VILLA. becoming very infirm ; he dreaded the fatigues of the journey in his suffering and feeble condition ; the plague was raging in cities through which he was forced to pass, and he had an unconquerable horror of infection ; but there was no alternative, and he was compelled to set out on a journey which then occupied twenty-five days, though it is now ac- complished in almost as many hours. On reaching Rome he was lodged, as before, in the palace of the Tuscan ambassador, but soon transferred to the prisons of the Inquisition. His trial commenced on the 12th of April. There is no proof that he was put to the torture, tliough it has often been asserted. It is recorded that wdth tears he implored the mercy of his judges ; he was, nevertheless, condemned to the stake. The terrible alternative of Death, or a solemn, final recantation of assertions w^hich he knew to be unquestionable truths, was left him. The struggle in his spirit must have been bitter, and the injustice of his judges could hardly have galled him more than their per- verse ignorance. But life was sweet, even to the great philosopher, who could hardly have been sup- posed to fear death, and who must have felt within himself the consciousness that existence had been bestowed upon him that Science might make gigan- tic strides through his agency. He decided to go GALILEO'S VILLA. 89 tlirongli the form of recantation. This ceremony required him to kneel and place one hand npon the Bible, and to ntter these words, which were dictated to him bj a priest: "I abjure, curse, and detest the error and heresy of the motion of the earth, and promise that I will never more teach, verbally or in writing, that the sun is the centre of the universe and immovable, and that the earth is not the centre of the universe and movable." It is, however, related that after the compulsory utterance of this gross falsehood, rising from his knees he muttered, with a look of fierce defiance, " The earth moveSj notwithstanding f " It was deemed wise by those who overheard this declara- tion to ignore it, for the time being. After his recantation, Galileo v/as for several months imprisoned in his dwelling at Rome. He wrote to the Pope, begging that he might be re- leased, or assigned some other place of confinement. The Pope commanded him to go to Sienna, and take up his abode with the Archbishop Piccolomini. The archbishop had a great affection for Galileo, but was obliged to obey the order received from Eomo, and to keep him under close surveillance ; he was not even permitted to accompany the archbishop to his summer villa. Galileo pined for Florence, and again and again 00 . GALILEaS VILLA. prayed to be allowed to return to Lis villa on rlie bill D'Arcetri. Jnst as be bad lost all hope, be re- ceived tbe Pope's permission, conpled witb a com- mand wbicb made bini Yirtnally a prisoner witbin his own walls, and forbade tbe entrance of visitors. His two dangbters were nuns in tbe adja- cent Convent of San Matteo — a Franciscan con- vent founded in 1269, now abolisbed. He was devotedly attacbed to tbem, especially to tbe elder, and in former times visited tbem frequently. Dar- ing Ids trial at Home, bis favorite daugbter fell into a profound melancbol j, brought on by her f eai-s for ber father, and shortly after his return she died. Her illness bad only lasted six days, and Galileo was overwhelmed by tbe suddenness of tbe blow. Tbe second daughter now became her father's companion, and too soon his nurse ; for his health was seriously impaired, and bis sight failed more and more, until be became totally blind. After bis return to tbe villa be lived nine years. Though his captivity was irksome, he could not have been very rigidly guarded, for we hear of his being surrounded by pupils, who listened with ea- gerness to his instructions, and it is recorded that Milton visited bim. Milton, say Galileo's biogra- phers, gained access to liim either by eluding the vigilance of his jailors, or by forcing his way into GALILEO'S VILLA. 91 his presence. Chasles thus sketches the memorable meeting : "Picture those two noble forms — I know of nothing more touching than their contrast. Galileo is blind ; the nun, his (laughter, the sole child left to him, sustains his faltering steps, while with his stick in his hand he tries to find his w^ay in the garden which he planted and loved. His finely shaped Italian head encircled by a crown of silvery locks ; the grandeur of his forehead ; the purity of his profile ; the classic harmony of all his features, testify to his race and his mental powers ; while the winning smile, the delicacy of coloring, the bland softness of his countenance, reveal the man not in- sensible to worldly pleasures and the charms of social life. " The young Englishman is more grave. A severe simplicity characterizes his appearance. His cos- tume is more recherche j his long gold en- brown hair falls in curls upon his shoulders, and harmonizes with his great, blue, contemplative eyes, his melan- choly and thoughtful smile, and the freshness of his complexion, Tvhich neither sensuality nor violent passions have robbed of its youthful brilliancy. "As the tv/ain seat themselves together upon the summit of that hill, where Milton can view the entire range of Florence, her marble palaces, her 92 GALILEO'S VILLA. cupolas, her steeple clocks, her bridges, beneath "^hich glides the Arno, Trhat were his thoughts ? Had he any pre-vision of his future destiny, and of that of England? Did some inner voice tell him that he would one day be celebrated like Galileo, blind like him, like liim condemned to spend his last days in solitude, and like him misundei-stood or calumniated by his contemporaries ? And yet hap- pier than he is, for ]Milton was destined to leave be hind him the picture of a green and proud old age." It is not laiown to a certainty at what precise period these two celebrities met, but Chasles thinks that it was probably in 163S. Towards the close of Galileo's life his persecutions were redoubled. Every conceivable obstacle was thrown in the way of the circulation of his works, and his relations with the outer world, already so limited, were narrowed more and more. The In- Cjuisitor of Florence was ordered by the Pope to visit the captive from time to time, and assm*e him- self that he was humble and very melancholy. And his cruel sufierino^ were heic^htened, savs Chasles, '•' by the consciousness of his own moral feebleness, by remorse for his vain artifices and useless conces- sions, and the barren result of his long hmuility." For, he adds, '* This Italian, half a Greek, sublime revealer of the mvsteries of the starrv firmament : GALILEO'S VILLA. 93 genius which preceded Xewton, followed Bacon, proclaimed Descartes — was not a hero of moral courage : he was an illuminated genius ! " Men wrote and printed what they pleased against Galileo ; he was forbidden to deny their assertions, to reply at all. And yet, during this period of blindness and captivity, he wrote and confided to the hands of a faithful friend the treatise which at a later period enabled Sir Isaac ]N"ewton to deduce the attraction of gravitation from the fall of an apple. Tenderly watched over by his daughter, Galileo died on the 9th of January, 1642, in his seventy- ninth year. ISTewton was born at the close of the same year. The celebrated Church of Santa Croce, the Florentine "Westminster, is graced by an imposing monument raised to the memory of the great and persecuted astronomer. When the body of Galileo was conveyed to this sepulchre, the forefiuger and thumb of one of his hands were severed from the corpse, to be -kept as a memento. CONVENT OF VALLOMBEOSA. King Yigtor Eivimanuel has recently made a law to protect the hospitable monks of Yallombrosa, or, rather, to prevent their compulsory hospitality from being too largely abused. The founders of the ancient monastery of Yal- lombrosa decreed that all travellers should be wel- comed, lodged, and fed, free of charge, for three days. The object of this charitable provision was, doubtless, to secure rest and shelter to weary pil- grims bent on holy missions. The monastery soon became celebrated, and yearly increasing crowds thronged its ever-open doors. Though no remuner- ation, for most bounteous cheer, can be demanded, a compensation, dictated by the generosity of the guest, is always exj^eoted — not, however, always received. Holiday people, from the neighboring towns have trespassed, in such large numbers, upon the liberal hospitality of the monks, tliat in the summer of 1865 they prayed the king to devise some method which would ojuard them as-ainst im- CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. 95 position, without A'iolating the rules of their Order. The king's ingenuity must have been severely taxed. Finally he announced that no visitor could be re- ceived at Yallombrosa, unless he presented himself, furnished with a passport. Regular tourists and strangers, who form that portion of the community from whom the monks are certain of remuneration, are still welcomed ; while the Italian pleasure- seekers of the neighborhood, who have no need of passports (and carry no purses), are excluded by the royal edict. This law inevitably created discontent. On sev- eral occasions excursionists have only been informed of its existence at the doors of the convent, and have wrathfully demanded admission, and caused such a disturbance, that the monks were compelled to summon military aid for their protection. Yallombrosa is a corruption of the original name, Valle Ambrosa — Shaded Valley. In 1060 this lovely locality took the name of Aqita Bella — Beautiful Water. ^ Some of the most renowned poets have commem- orated their visits to Yallombrosa. Ariosto and Milton have left their footprints in the " Shaded Yalley " and by the " Beautiful Water." Aurora Leigh, looking with disappointed eyes upon the peaceful, cultivated landscapes of Eng- 96 CONVENT OF VALLOMBBOSA. land, and contrasting tliem with the wildly pictur- esque scenery of her beloved Italy, says : "Not my chestnut woods Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the spurs To the precipices. Not my headlong leaps Of water, that cry out for joy, or fear, In leaping through the palpitating pines, Like a white soul, tossed out to eternity With thrills of time upon it. Not, indeed. My multitudinous mountains, sitting in The magic circle, with the mutual touch Electric, panting from their fuU, deep hearts Beneath the influent heavens, and waiting for Communion and commission.'" According to San Giovanni da Ghitigliano, who writes from the solitary cell he had made for him- self at Yallombrosa, towards the close of the fourth century, the " Shaded Yalley " was, at that period, a wild forest, infested by noxious serpents and beasts of prey. It has now bloomed into an Eden. Yallombrosa is twenty English miles from Flor- ence. After reaching the village of Pelago, which lies four or five miles below the monastery, the rest of the journey must be made on foot, m the saddle, or in a sort of rude wicker basket, placed on sledges, and drawn by oxen. Ladies are usually consigned to this extraordinary conveyance, and learn, to their amazement, what an amonnf of jolting and bouncing feminine humanity can endure un- fractured. The road follows the course of the mountain tor- CONVENT OF YALLOMBROSA. 97 rent, but has no particular interest until it reaches a grove of superb pine-trees, whose sombre branches meet in irregular arches overhead. Further on, the traveller is suddenly charmed by what appears to be a noble English park — verdant lawns and fertile meadows, pasture grounds, alive with herds of cat- tle, small lakes, used as trout preserves, and the whole girdled in by magnificent forests of chestnut, beech, and oak. The herbage is remarkable for its unfolding verdure, and even in winter retains the vernal freshness imparted by the moisture of the mountain streams. The convent is of massive structure, and forms a quadrangle, with vast paved courts and high towers. It covers as much ground as a small village. In times of war the gates are closed, and the hospit- able monastery is transformed into a redoubtable fortress. The refectory accommodates two hundred per- sons. The extensive library contains many valuable manuscripts and rare volumes. The chapels and spacious halls are embellished by fine paintings. The front windows of the convent command the whole valley of the Arno, to Florence — the hills above Lucca and the Carrara mountains rising grandly in the distance. Male visitors only are received into the convent. 5 98 CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. About a hundred yards from its principal entrance stands a rude, dilapidated Albergo. This is styled the Foresteria^ and here the gentler sex are lodged. A monk, who is selected for this especial duty, su- perintends their entertainment. The holy Brother who holds the office at this moment is remarkably handsome and conversable, and not particularly^ monastic in his deportment ; but he could not occu- py so agreeable a position until his fitness and reli- ability had been well tested. The doors of the convent are every morning sur- rounded by a crowd of needy peasants, women and children, who come to receive their breakfast from the charitable hands of the monks. Half way up the steep declivity which rises in the rear of the monastery, upon a projecting cliff, stands a small white building, with an untended and weed-grown garden, oddly styled the Para- disino. This " little Paradise " is used as a herm- itage by the most holy of the monks ; and their soli- tary meditations not unfrequently induce the state of semi-trance called ecstasy. The Monastery of Yallombrogk was founded .in the eleventh century, by Giovanni Gualberto. He was the son of the Lord Petroio, in Yal-di-pesa. His family was one of the noblest, the richest, the CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. 99 most powerful in Florence. His history is very remarkable. At eighteen years of age he was a gay cavalier, wholly absorbed in worldly and sensual pleasures. At this period his beloved brother Hubert was killed in a quarrel by a young nobleman. " A life for a life " was the cruel creed of the cavaliers of those days. Not alone Giovanni's rage and grief, but his code of honor, impelled him to vengeance, and he resolved to take the life of the assassin. One Good-Friday morning he went forth, clad in armor, and followed by his retainers, to attend mass at San Miniato al Monte. Passing through the narrow road that leads to the Basilica of San Min- iato, he unexpectedly encountered the murderer of his brother 1 The latter was unarmed and alone. The adversaries stood face to face. The fiery Gio- vanni drew his sword, and at this signal the swords of his followei-s flashed from their scabbards. Gio- vanni was in the act of rushing upon his foe, when the culprit threw himself at the avenger's feet, ex- tended his arms in the form of a cross, and, in the name of that merciful Saviour who, upon the day which they were both celebrating, died upon the cross, and pardoned sinners in dying, supplicated Giovanni to spare his live and pardon his crime. Giovanni paused — in his soul there was a fierce, brief strug- 100 coy VEST OF VALLOMBBOSA. gle between inercv and revenge ; but compassion prevailed. "With a grand impnlse of pardoning generc>sity, he sheathed his sword, stretched out his arms, and said, " Thou hast slain my brother : be thou a brother to me, in his stead, if thou canst ! *' Filled with contrition, his adversary flung him- self, weeping, into Giovanni's arms, bewailing his deed of blood, and again and again declaring his unworthiness to receive that forgiveness which had been so nobly and promptly granted. This incident is commemorated by a fresco, placed in a tabernacle on the wall, by the roadside, upon the very spot where it occurred. Giovanni, after embracing and comforting his foe, led him to the Ghurch of San ^Tiniato^ whither he was bending his steps. The legend says that when the reconciled cavaliers knelt before the crucifix, the lips of the Saviour smiled upon Giov- anni, and the head bowed in approbation, Giovanni was so much overcome by this miracu- lous manifestation, that he forthwith renounced the world and joiaed the Fraternity of San Miniato. Here he led so exemplary a life, that when the Ab1x>t died the monks pro]X)sed, although he was only twenty-three years of age, to elect him as their head ; but he declined the distinction, upon the plea of liis youth. CONVENT OF VALL0MBR08A. 101 At a later period lie retired to tlie solitude of Vallombrosa, and there built himself a small cell beside those of the two hermit monks who had made that wild forest their abode. This trio formed the nucleus from which sprang the Holy Order of Vallombrosa. The miraculous token vouchsafed Giovanni be- came widely known, and crowds flocked to see him, to receive his pious counsels and his blessing. Some even assumed his rude garb, and bore him company. Emperors and nobles poured in their treasures, to establish a community which boasted a founder so saintlike. The monastery became very wealthy through these endowments. The Countess Matilda was one of the most lavish in her benefactions. Victor the Second conferred on San Giovanni Gualberto the title of Abbot General of the Order. Tie was then seventy-two years of age, but his hu- mility prevented his ever assuming the robes of his office. He waged uncompromising war against the corruptions of the age, and succeeded in abolishing many abuses. He died in 1073, eighty-eight years of age, after having passed seventy years in religious seclusion. The present extensive buildings of the monastery- were erected in 1637. 102 C02^^VENT OF VALL02IBR0SA. For a long period the monks of Yallombrosa strove in vain to obtain possession of the crucifix from which Giovanni affirmed that the Saviour had bowed his head, in token of heavenly approbation. The monks of San Miniato clamored against this demand of the brethren of Yallombrosa. This crucifix had become one of the most valuable pos- sessions of San Miniato, and drew crowds to the church. Finally, Cosimo III., over whom the monks of Yallombrosa possessed great influence, prevailed upon the Fraternity of San Miniato to consent to the temporarj^ removal of the cross to the Eighth Chapel of the Church of Santa Trinita, and to wait until the proper authorities could decide to which fraternity it ought to belong. Xo satisfac- tory decision was ever given, for the crucifix, to this day, remains at Santa Trinita. Tradition declares that Giovanni Gualberto per- foraied numerous miracles, and there is a famous well, near the sacristy of the Church of San Giov- anni, in the Piazza Santa Trinita^ the waters of which, having been blessed by the relics of this saint, are said to have effected wonderful cures when a malignant fever ravaged Florence in 1580. In the Fifteenth Chapel of this Church there is a painting by Francisco Corsi, representing San CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA, 103 Giovaimi Gnalberto in the act of pardoning the murderer of his brother. Banquets are given in the Monastery of Yallom- brosa npon certain festivals, and at the same time a sort of rural fair is held. The peasants assemble on the green sward before the convent, and sing improvised verses to popular airs. On the Festa of the Assunta the monks present several poor young girls, whose blameless conduct has entitled them to reward, with a small dowry, which enables them to marry. The celebrated Monastery of Camaldoli is about ten miles distant from Yallombrosa. It is situated on a rocky slope of the Apennines; the adjacent mountains are bleak and barren; but the region about Camaldoli is an oasis of fertile and pictur- esque loveliness. The brethren of Camaldoli are a branch of the great Carthusian Order, and own a vast and produc- tive territory — well-stocked dairy farms, extensive meadows, highly cultivated fields, and forests which produce, it is said, the finest timber in the world. There is a sort of penal branch attached to this Institution, called the Sagro Eremo, or Holy Her- initage ! This convent is located amid pine forests^ on the very topmost height of the Apennines. From this altitude both the Adriatic and Mediterranean 104 CONVENT OF VALL0MBR08A. seas are visible. The climate is one endless winter. The church is encompassed by small, rude, isolated huts, and their inmates are essentially hermits. The discipline is very rigid. The monks hold no communion with each other ; speech is forbidden ! they have no life in common. His scanty allowance of bread and vegetables is passed to each monk through a trap-door, which opens from the wall into his -cell. Twice only, in the year, animal food is supplied. The soimd of the human voice is never heard, except in religious exercises in the chapel. The monks are summoned to prayers seven times in every twenty-four hours. Two luxuries alone are permitted them, but it is said they rarely avail themselves of either. One is access to a large library of historical and theolog- ical v/orks, from w^hich they are allowed to select books ; the other is a small garden, attached to each hut, which they are at liberty to cultivate. But the books remain unopened, and weeds possess the neglected earth, which might be embellished by hardy flowers. Tiie community of the Holy Hermitage is com posed of three classes of monks — novices, who must prove their fitness for the monastic life by two years' residence at the Sagro Eremo, before they are permitted to take tjieir place in the more agree- CONVENT OF VALL0MBR08A. 105 able mouastery of Camaldoli ; monks, who are sent to tlie Eremo from Camaldoli, for a certain period, as a punishment for the transgression of some of the rules of their Order; and men who come voluntarily to this place of penance, hoping to atone for great crimes, or to deserve great future happiness, by the joyless rigor of their lives upon earth. It is in the chapel alone that the members of the community meet, and there the visitor may see one of their commonest penances. It consists in pros- tration at the foot of the alter, the arms extended to form the figure of a cross, and the forehead struck violently against the marble steps. This act is often performed several times by the same penitent dur- ing a single service. There are two or three high festivals in the yea]*, upon which the monks are permitted to converse and eat together, and some slight addition is made to their bread and vegetables ; but there are monks who never avail themselves of this indulgence — who never change their diet, and whose voices have never been heard in those walls, except in the offices of the choir. This rio^id fastina: and meditation is said to produce the most seraphic ^asions, the records of which are preserved in the archives of the Sagro Eremo. 106 CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. I^Tot to so ascetic an Order belonged the jolly monks who invented the game by us known as that of " Domino.^'' M. Amedeo de Ponthien gives ns its origin. He says that in the sixth century, in a Convent of Benedictine Brothers, two monks, Fra Oremo and Fra Giacomo, were condemned to do penance in the same cell. To wile away the tedions honrs, they contrived a game, to be played with small square stones, upon which they had ingen- iously made certain black marks, representing vari- ous combinations. But, as they were aware that the Abbot was in the habit of making his round, at stated times, in the corridor of the cells, they hit upon the plan of chanting at short intervals, in a loud voice, " Dixit, Dcnninus Domino^'' to make the Abbot believe that they were engaged in their orisons. This game, we are told, was the game of Domino^) which took its name from the last, and upon which they paused to play. td FLORENTINE BRIDGES. Among tlie most remarkable and the most pic- turesque features of Florence are its old historic bridges, arching themselves over the Arno, as it noiselessly steals through the city — bridges that have mtnessed many memorable scenes, and have been again and again swept away, when the moun- tain torrents swelled the quiet-looking stream to overflowing, and again and again rebuilt, with ever- increasing strength and beauty. The bridge farthest to the east is called the Ponte alle Grazie^ or di Rubaconte. This last name it received in honor of the Milanese Podestd Rubaconte^ who laid the foundation stone, and to whom the city of Florence was in various ways in- debted. The first appellation it derives from a lit- tle chapel at the foot of the bridge, dedicated to Santa Maria delle Grazie. The bridge was built by Lapo, father of the cele- brated Arnolf o. It was at the foot of this bridge, that in 12Y3 the two (107) 108 FLORENTINE BRIDGES. discordant factions styled Ghihellines and Guelphs, tlirough the mediation of Gregory X., met, and with great solemnity concluded a peace, which was to last until death. Pope Gregory X., in company with the French King, Charles, and with Baldwin of Flanders, chanced to pass through Florence, on their way from Eome to Lyons, where they were to hold a council. They were highly delighted with the fair city of Florence, and resolved to pass the summer there. The Pope greatly lamented the bitter feud which existed between the proud Ghihellines and the fiery Guelplis, and noticed the constant injuries which the beautiful city sustained through the strife. (The Ghihellines are the party in favor of the Em- pire as opposed to the Church, and the Guelphs in favor of the Church as opposed to the Empire.) Pope Gregory, not questioning his power, made up his mind to put a sudden end to these unseemly dis- sensions. The Ghibelline leaders were then in exile, and he ordered that they should return, and make peace with the Guelphs. The Pontiff had a huge scaffolding of wood erected at the foot of the Ponte alle Grazie, and here, on the second day of July, 1273, all the dignitaries were seated, witli the Pope in the centre. The Florentine people congre- gated in the dry bed of the Arno. The Pope sol FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 109 emnly addressed the assembled multitude, and de- creed that the Ghibellines and the Guelphs should become fi-iends forevermore, under pain of excom- munication to whoever should not obey the order. He made the Syndics of each party, who were doubt- less more inclined to tear each other to pieces than to embrace, publicly kiss one another on the mouth, and give bail and hostages. The ceremony was performed with all due sol- emnity; but the forevermore during which the peace thus forcibly concluded was to last, represent- ed a period of four days ! After this brief respite the feud broke out with fresh fury, and raged more violently than ever. The incensed Pope retired immediately from Florence, and kept his word by excommunicating the whole city. Under this interdict Florence re- mained, with the exception of a short interval, for three years. The only removal of the excommuni- cation was owing to a somewhat singular circum- stance. The Pope, in returning from Lyons to Pome, intended to cross the Arno above the city of Florence, but the river was so much swollen that the passage of a ferry-boat was impossible. The Pope could not place his holy foot in a city that was excommunicated — for his presence was sup- posed to be synonymous with blessings. There was 110 FLORENTINE BRIDGES. no alternative but to take off tlie interdict before lie entered the gates. As he traversed the streets he dispensed his blessings according to established custom, but when he passed out of the opposite gate he immediately tooh hach all the hlessings, so pro- fusely showered, and fulminated the excommunica- tion anew. In one of the small houses, standing on a pier of the bridge, the poet Menzini was born, and in anoth- er the Franciscan monk, Beato Tommaso dei Bellaci. The Ponte Yecchio (or jewellers' bridge, as it is often called) is lined by shops of jewellers, gold- smiths, and other workers in metal. This bridge is said to be built on Etruscan piers. It was carried away by a flood in 1177 — rebuilt, and again swept away in 1333. It was rebuilt by Taddeo Gaddi in 1335. An inscription beneath one of the arches commemorates the fact. The officers of the Torre, or Towers, presided at its reconstruction, and the arms of the Torre, sculptured under the Loggia, or open part of the bridge, are mingled with those of the Eepublic. Upon this bridge, in 1420, was signed the treaty of peace between Pope Martin Y., and Fortebraccio, Lord of Pisa. It was this Pope Martin who, on the year pre- vious, had evinced his gratitude to the city of Flor- FLORENTINE BRIDGES. Ill ence for its liospitality, by presenting the Signoria with a golden E-ose — a very signal honor. The pres- entation of a Hose of gold upon Easter Sunday, by the Eoman Pontiff, to a prince or potentate who has won his favor, is a very ancient custom. Cambri describes the Hose as " a golden bough, with leaves of gold, very fine, and on it nine roses, and one bud above the nine ; and inside there was musk, and myrrh, and balsam." Upon Easter Sunday, second of April, 1419, when Pope Martin presented Florence with his Pose, the Gonf aloniere _ (Mayor), Bernardo di Costello, was prevented by a serious illness from receiving the much-prized offering. Taddeo Gherardini, chairman of the Signoria, for that day occupied Bernardds place; and fi'om that time his family was called Gherardini della Posa. After the Pope had placed the Pose in the hands of Messer Taddeo Gherardini, the Pontiff came out on the Piazza Santa Maria Novella with thirteen cardinals, and the members of the Signoria. They all, the Pope excepted, mounted their horses, and eleven cardinals led the way; then came Messer Taddeo, with his Pose; two cardinals followed him, and the Signoria closed the procession ; the horsemen passed through all the principal streets, and then returned to the Pal- azzo Yecchio. The Pose was ceremoniously placed 112 FLORENTINE BRIDGES. in the chapel of the palace, where it remains to the present day. In one of the honses npon the Yonte Vecchio, the poet Ariosto was entertained, for six months, by Cavaliere Kiccolo Yespncci, on the occasion of the feast of St. John and the election of Leo X. ; and here the poet first saw Alessandra Bennucci^ widow of Tito Strozzi, and fell in love with her. The cor- respondence between this lady and the poet lasted uninterrupted until her death in 1532, and slie ap- pears to have reciprocated his attachment. Above the shops w^hich line the bridge w^as a gal- lery ingeniously uniting Palazzct Pitti to the gal- leria degli Uffizi, and the Palazzo Yecchio, built by Cosimo I. It was at the foot of this bridge that the gallant young bridegroom, Buondelmonte^ coming from his nuptials, was waylaid by the outraged relatives of a fair lady he had deserted. lie was slain at the base of the statue of Mars. This statue was afterwards removed from its place near the bridge, on account, it is said, of the sad associations to which it was for- ever linked. The Ponte a Santa Trinitd is by far the most beautiful of tlie bridges. The former bridges, w^hich occupied the site of the present one, have frequently been swept away. The last bridge was constructed FLOBENTINE BRIDGES. 113 by Bartoloinmeo Ammanati, architect to the Grand Dnke, Cosimo I. It was finished in 1569. From its incomparable lightness and elegance, it was thought too fragile to sustain great weights ; and lieaTily laden wagons were prohibited by the author- ities from crossing. Ammanati, highly indignant at being supposed so unskilful as to build a bridge which was insecure, ordered an immense car to be filled with stones. The car was so ponderous, that it could with difficulty be drawn by six strong horses. Upon these stones the architect himself mounted, and was drawn to the centre of the bridge. Here he remained for several hours, discoursing with the peo- ple from his throne of stones, and practically con- vincing the Florentines of their error, and of the in- justice they had done him. Yet one hundred and fifty years passed, ere carriages were allowed by the Grand Duke to pass over it. An inscription cut in the stone of this bridge re- cords the name of a brave Frenchman, who, when the Arno was swollen, and rushing onward with a fierce current, threw himself into the river to save a poor Florentine artisan, and though the unfor- tunate man's leg was broken, rescued him, at the imminent risk of his own life, and restored him to his family. The angles of the bridge are adorned by statues 114 FLOBEJ^TINE BEIDGES. of tlie four seasons. The one representing winter, bj Taddeo Landini^ is considered the iinest. The Ponte alia Carrajd is said to have been the second that was built, and it was called Nuovo Ponte^ in contradistinction to the Ponte Yecchio. The architect was Lapo. It was first erected in 1218, and swept away by a flood in 1269. A most appalling catastrophe imparts great inter- est to this bridge. It was an ancient custom in Florence to celebrate the first weeks in May by' superb pageants. This Ponto alia Carrajd was the favorite bridge for the exhibition of spectacles to the people. The different parties and companies of Florence vied with each other to gain the j)alm for grandeur and originality of display. In the year 1304, the company San Frcdiano re- solved to offer a magnificent May-day fete to the Cardinal J^iccolo da Prato^ who was then visiting Florence. T. A. TroUope, in his " Commonwealth of Florence," quaintly remarks that they wished to in- vent 2ifetG "which should be magnificent, and at the same time esjpecially ada.j?ted to the sacred character of the guest whom they wished to lionor. So it was determined to regale the dignified Dominican Car- dinal with a representation of Ilell, and the tor- ments of the damned, depicted to the llfe^ The company sent around the city a band of FLORENTINE BBIDGE8. 115 musicians and a lierald, to announce that whoever wanted to have news of the other world, must come to the Ponte alia Carrajd. The bridge was at that time constructed of wood. The painter Buffal'- macco directed the spectacle. A quantity of artifi- cial fire, of various colors,' was employed to lend splendor and reality to the performance. The infer- nal regions were represented upon the Arno. The river was covered with rafts and barges, peopled with demons, rushing about, amidst flames, groan- ing, shrieking, yelling, and inflicting torment upon "naked souls;" these "naked souls" of the con- demned being made manifest by " naked bodies." We quote Trollope's description of what ensued : " The scene was at its height, and the interest and satisfaction of the beholders proportionably intense, when all at once the bridge, burthened beyond its strength by the vast crowd of spectators, fell with a crash into the hell beneath, overwhelming the devils and their victims and the crowd of gazers in one common ruin, of an indescribable mass of inex- tricable confusion ! What with the fall, and the in- juries by the timbers of the ruined bridge, and drown- ing in the water, and crushing one another, few either of the actors or spectators of the scene escaped with their lives." It is said that there was hardly a family in Flor- 116 FLOEESTINE BBIDGES. ence which did not lose a relative by this catas- trophe. The historian Yillani coolly observes that " they saio hell ranch nearer than they intended^ The painter Bnffalmacco happily escaped. He had left the bridore a few moments before the acci- dent, to procure something needful to the show. It is related that Dante was present at this specta- cle, and that he there first conceited his idea of the Inferno. Xot far from the Ponte alia Car raj a stands the house where Amerigo Vespucci was born. A tablet over the front of the dwelling bears an inscription recording the fact. In 1304: the Ponte alia Carrajd was first built throuo:hout with stone. In 1333 it was as^ain en- tirelv destroyed by the ovei-flow of the Amo. It was then rebuilt by the architect Fra Giovanni di Campi in its present form, except that Ammanati, in 1557, rebuilt two of the arches, which had been carried away. Every year, on the festival of San Giovanni, pat- ron saint of Florence, the most splendid fireworks are exhibited fi-om this bridge, and the Arno is cov- ered with barges containius^ bands of music. The fii-eworks which we witnessed there in 1S65 were superb beyond description ; they were literally pic- tures painted in flashes of colored fire. FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 117 Florence has now added to her old historic bridges two modern suspension bridges, the Ponte San Fer- nando and the Ponte San Leopoldo. They were constructed by a French engineer, and completed in 1837, but the furious little Arno proved too strong to be resisted by one of them. The bridge above the Ponte alle Grazie was swept away in November, 1844, and rebuilt in 1853. As we stand upon any one of these bridges, and watch the slender stream, gliding through the street, and winding through richl}^ green valleys, and we lift up our eyes to palaces, towers, and churches singularly imposing in their individuality, and then to San Miniato, to Fiesole, and Bellosguardo, to the background formed by the stately Yallombrosan hills and the purple peaks of the Carrara mountains, we are forced to admit that it is the position of those "bridges, and the landscape, replete with rare and varied loveliness which they command, that redeems the narrow little Arno from insignificance, and im- parts to it the pictorial aspect for which it is cele- brated. DANTE. July 3, 1865. Is Dante to be allowed to rest at last ? Are we to have any rest from Dante? Italy lias been Dante mad for a couple of months. Dante's glorifi- cation has been the signal for the most brilliant extravagance and superb festivity. After a lapse of six centuries, a frantic desire to pay homage to their great poet has suddenly stirred the pulses of the Italian people into jubilant enthusiasm. We do not venture upon the suggestion on this side of the ocean, but w^e are almost brave enough to whisper to our friends on the other, that although it is just possible a genuine and intense appreciation of the writings and character and political services of Dante may have made the nation seize with such wild avidity -upon the opportunity to do him honor, it is even more probable that the Italian holiday- loving heart was simply overjoyed to snatch at any excuse for a series of fetes. The three days' solemnities at Ravenna have just (118) DANTR ♦ 119 terminated. Dante's recovered bones have been finally sepulchred with impressive pomp and cere- mony. Their discovery, made a little more than a month ago, is somewhat singular. The exiled Dante died at Ravenna, September 14th, 1321. Hi§ unquiet bones seem to have passed through extraordinary vicissitudes. A few years after Dante's death, when Cardinal Bertrando del Pogetto, moved by pious wrath, determined that the poet's remains should be burned as those of a heretic, they were stolen by some Franciscan friars. Tradition says they were restored to their original resting-place when the danger was over. In 1519 the Florentines supplicated Pope Leo X. to have the poet's venerated bones brought to Florence, Dante's birth-place, as Michael Angelo had offered to sculp- ture a sepulchre worthy to be their last receptacle. The people of Havenna cried out against this demand, and the bones once more mysteriously disappeared. It is not definitely stated when or how they were re- stored, but since they were destined to vanish again, they must have been replaced. 'Wlien Cardinal Corsi, in 1692, attempted to repair the chapel of Dante, the friars suspected that his object was to obtain possession of these valued relics, and once more they became invisible. Their repository was not again discovered until the 27th of May, 1865 — 120 • DANTE, just after the great Dante festival celebrated In Florence. The municipality of Eavenna having approved of the programme for that festival, and wishing to do further lionor to the poet, ordered that the chapel of Dante should be opened and repaired. The masons employed on the work found embedded in a wall, from which they had removed a few stones to fasten a pipe, a badly made fir wood box. It was opened by them. An inscription within testified that the bones it contained were those of Dante, placed there by Friar Antonio Santi, 18th of Octo- ber, 1677. The archives of the Franciscan College were examined, and a record of this act, made by Friar Antonio Santi, was found. Here was a glorious' occasion for another ^'festa^'^ and the 24th, 25th, and 26th of June were set apart for Dante's final obsequies. Military salutes, proces- sions, bands of music, orations, and banquetings formed part of the ceremony. The bones were carried to the temple of Braccia- forte, upon a white satin cushion, in a crystal urn covered with a white veil. "When the veil was lifted, the Syndic of Ravenna made a touching address, and then placed a wreath upon the urn. A second wreath was offered by the Syndic of Florence. No priests were permitted to officiate. Their ire was DANTE. 121 very naturally excited, and they pronounced the whole proceeding sacrilegious. The three days' national Dante festival in com- memoration of the six hundredth anniversary of his birth, took place in Florence on the 14:th, 15th, and 16th of May, 1865, and has never, it is said, been surpassed in magnificence — at least in Italy. It will seem strange to our American readers that Sunday was the day upon which the festival commenced, but that sacred day is usually chosen by Italians as the fittest for a jubilee. A colossal statue of Diante was to be inaugurated on the Piazza Santa Croce. The piazza was richly adorned with decorative paintings, illustrative of in- cidents in the life of the poet, garlands. of laurel and flowers, trophies, banners, emblematical devices, and rich hangings. Indeed, the whole city was hung with flags, and upon those houses in which great ce- lebrities have lived, or died, or were born, their names were inscribed, surrounded with garlands and trophies. The procession was formed in the Piazza Santo Spirito at ten o'clock in the morning. Men and women marched bareheaded in the broad sunshine. Conspicuous among the most renowned moved the great Pistori, the most distinguished actress of Italy. She was arrayed in a flowing robe of gold 6 122 BANTE, colored silk, which swept the streets, and wore a crown of gold upon her stately head, with a long, rich white A'eil. Her noble carriage, her graceful, regal gait, and her handsome features, won general admiration. Salvini and Eossi, the two greatest of Italian actors, walked by her side. A superb ban- ner, representative of the dramatic art, of which they each* held a ribbon, was borne before them. When the procession had assembled in the Piazza Santa Croce, the solemn bell of the Palazza Yecchio sounded ; then followed superb music by the band of the J^ational Guard. King Victor Emmanuel gave the signal for the unveiling of Pazzi's statue of Dante, and an oration was pronounced. The statue is severely criticised on the one hand and highly praised on the other ; but it is sufficient that Pazzi, the sculptor, is a native of Pavenna for him to excite the jealousy of the Florentines. It is said he has made Dante frowning upon ungrate- ful Florence. The King knighted Pazzi for his work. In the evening, the whole city was illuminated with a dazzling brilliancy, of which no language can give an adeqnate conception. A triple row of lights gleamed along the whole length of the Arno, and reflected a blaze in the water. The bridges, the Pitti Palace, the Palazzo Yecchio, the Duomo, DANTE. 123 Baptistry, Giotto's Campanila, were literally, in the language of Aurora Leigh, "Dra\vn in fire." All Florence, from its princes and potentates down to the lowest contadiiii, poured into the streets. The order and quiet preserved were wonderful. Great as was the crowd, there was no jostling, no pushing, no rudeness, no loud talking ; the hum of low voices and the sound of music alone broke the stillness. The finest band and choir were to be heard in the Piazza Santa Croce. Upon the second day, the celebration was con- tinued in the Academy of Fine Arts. Several original poems on Dante were delivered, and Ristori read, with great effect, Victor Hugo's letter to the Mayor of Florence. A Dante concert was given in the evening at the Pagliano Theatre. On the third and last day, the festivity began mth a distribution of prizes to women of good conduct, on the Piazza Santa Croce. During the day there was a festa for the popu- lace, and mock tournament on the Cascine, and a boat-race on the Arno. At night a ball for the people in the open air, under the Uffizi. TiiQ festa closed with the most gorgeous tahleaux vivanteSy accompanied by music and recitation, at 1-24: DAXTE. • the Pagliano theatre. The magnificeiice and artistic beauty of these tableaux were imrivalled- Thev represented scenes from the vrorks of Dante — chiefly from liis Divina Corrtedia. The Tnfenio, Tvdth all its horrors and tortnres, as Dante has fan- tastically described them, was illustrated by a series of pictures exhibited by a fiery red, electric light. Purgatory, with its milder suffering, was shown by a cold blue, electric light. But the electric light phed a srolden blaze of ^lorv when Heaven, with Dante led by Beatrice, amidst groups of angels and apostles, with the blue vault and bright stars, and fleecy clouds above them, were revealed. The tableau of Francesca di Bimini was preceded by a recitation, powerfully given, by the great Bistori, Declamations by Salvini and Bossi pre- ceded several of the tableaux. It was a great source of pride and congratulation by the American visitors in Florence, that an exqui- site translation of the Divina Comedia, by our own Longfellow, richly bound, was sent by the poet him- self, through the Minister, Air. Marsh, to the Mayor. It is also gratifying to remember, that the full- length portrait of Dante, by Giotto, in the chapel of the palace of the Podesta, which, on an occasion of this kind, when the city swarmed with strangers. DANTE. ' 125 was an object of especial interest, miglit have still remained hidden by the coat of whitewash which had concealed it for generations, but for the energy of our countryman, Mr. R. II. Yv^ilde, assisted by a f ew^ English and American gentlemen. The white- wash was, in some places, an inch thick, and it is not definitely known how long the portrait had worn this unseemly white veil. The day before the festival instituted by the authorities commenced, it may be said to have been inaugurated at the " English Dramatic Drawing Hoom," by an admirable lecture delivered by Mr. Montgomery Stuart, correspondent of the London Morning Post. The national ovation has caused Italy, we might almost say Europe, to be flooded with pamphlets, poems, sonnets, discourses, and books on Dante, his life and times. Certainly no poet ever won a more bounteous tribute of venerating admiration. We quote an illustrative passage from a highly interest- ing volume written by a Greek lady, noted for her beauty and talents, Madame Albana Mignaty. She says : " "When we have granted to Dante his full share of wealaiess, passion, inconsistency, and even bitterness, enough remains of heroic strength, and of nnqnenchable ardor in the pursuit of virtue, to ensure Dante, our Tuscan father, the admiration of 126 DANTE. all ages, as tlie Prince of Christian Poets, and the foremost of all those who have sought to guide man- kind through suffering and through faith to their eternal home." Having given this quotation, we are bound to con- fess that we do belong to the number of Dante's worshippers. Wliile we admit that he has claims to high rank as a poet ; that he gave to Italy her language ; that he united wonderful imagination to vast scientific knowledge and political wisdom; that, although he was a dreamer, he showed an acquaintance with scientific {acts then supposed to be unknown, and which seemed prophecies as they were recorded by his pen ; and while our deep- est sympathy is excited by his misfortunes, and the harsh inwatitude which he received at the hands of those whom he had so largely benefited ; while we grieve over his sad exile, his lonely wanderings — his poverty, which, he declares, caused him almost to live on alms ; while we are moved by his yearn- ings for his native city, and his sad death at Havenna — in short, while we admit his mighty genius and his heavy sorrows, we cannot feel that his character commands that amount of veneration which it so lavishly receives. lie is called the most Christian of poets, the most high-minded and noble, and large-hearted of men, etc., etc. But this Chris- DANTE. 127 tiaii poet cherished inveterate and deadly hatreds, wholly inconsistent with the teachings of Christian- ity, incompatible with the character of a Christian. And when he describes the Inferno, the Christian poet takes care to give all of his enemies a conspicu- ous place there, and to depict their tortures with savage triumph. His egotism has scarcely a parallel in biography. lie himself, his emotions, his aspirations, his adven- tures, his self-laudation, are constantly the themes of his muse. He is called the trite lover Poet, who has deified the passion of love in the style of his Beatrice. But what is the matter-of-fact history of that same passion ? He had very little beyond a howing acquaintance with his idolized Beatrice ; indeed, her ceasing to salute him at one time affords the opportunity for a frantic burst of poetic agony. He was nine years old when he first met Beatrice. She had just entered her ninth year. During the next nine years he only saw her by chance glimpses. In his "Yita J^uova" he thus describes their first meeting : '' Nine times from the hour of my birth had the heaven of light returned, as it were, to the same point in the orbit, when the glorious lady of my thoughts appeared for the first time before my eyes. By many she was called Beatrice, by some 128 DANTE. she was known by another name. She was then of such an age that the starry heavens had mo\'ed the twelfth part of a degree towards the earth during her life time, so that she appeared to me about the begiiming of her ninth year, and I saw her about the end of my ninth year. She appeared to me in a dress of noble color, a subdued and becoming blood-red, with a sash and ornaments suited to her very youthful years. At that moment (I speak the truth) the spirit of life, which dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently as to be frightfully visible in the smallest pulses of my body, and with faltering voice said these words : ' Behold a God stronger than I, whose coming will subdue me.' " Of his second meeting he says, " When exactly so many days had elapsed after the above described apparition of this most noble lady as were neces- sary to complete nine wliole years, it chanced that on the last of those days this most admirable person appeared to me in a dress of the purest white, be- tween two noble ladies older than herself, and pass- ing along the street she turned her eyes to the spot where, trembling with fear, I stood, and with an in- effable courtesy (which now has its reward in eter- nity) saluted me in so striking a manner, that I seemed to reach the very extreme of happiness. BANTE. 129 The hour at which I received this most bewitching salutation was precisely the noon of the day, and as this was the first time that her words had reached my ears, the pleasure which I received was such that I quitted the company, as it were, in a state of intox- ication, and, retiring to my solitary chamber, I sat down to meditate on this most courteous lady. Dur- ing my meditation a sweet sleep came over me, in which appeared a wonderful vision." The vision is minutely described, and is followed by his first love sonnet. When the father of Beat- rice died, Dante's sympathy for her sorrow was so great that he fell ill, and on the ninth day of his indisposition he saw a vision of the death of ,Beat- rice herself. Mne was to him the most sacred of numbers, and when Beatrice dies he says, "According to the mode of reckoning in Italy, her blessed soul departed in the first hour of the ninth day of the month, and according to the computation in Syria, she died in the ninth month of the year, for the first month is their Tismin (Tizri), which is our October. And according to our calculations, she departed in that year of our calendar, that is, in the year of our Lord in which the perfect number has been nine times completed in the century in which she was born in the world, and she was a Christian of the thirteenth 130 DANTE. century. The following may be a reason why this number was. so propitious to her : since, according to Ptolemy, and the belief thi'oughout Christendom, there are nine stars which move, and according to the common belief, these stars have an influence on things here below, according to their positions — this number was propitious to her in giving it to be un- derstood, that at the time of her generation all the nine morning stars w^ere in the most perfect con- junction." At Beatrice's death, his vehement anguish was so overpowering, that he addressed an extravagant let- ter to the " potentates of the earth," informing them that " the whole city of Florence was widowed by her loss." But this is the embroidered side of the tapestry of his love history. The reverse does not altogether correspond- Strange to say, w^e hear nothing of his ever having sought Beatrice in marriage, nor of his sufferings when, at the age of twenty, a bridal ring was placed upon her delicate finger by another hand. After her death, which he so violently laments, he declares that he consecrates his whole life to her memory, and that he " hopes to speak of her as no woman was ever spoken of before ; " and somewhat later he bitterly reproaches himself (in " The Con- DANTE. 131 vinto") because he is attracted to a certain lady by her compassionate looks and earnest sympathy for his grief. When he finds his thoughts turning too often to " the gentle stranger," he upbraids himself for the temporary solace, as though the pleasurable emotion were a crime. Yet, in 1293, only three years after the death of Beatrice, he marries Gremma Donati, and in the course of time becomes the father of seven children. Surely this Gemma must have been one of the most patient, forbearing, and un jealous of womankind, for Dante continues to rave of his beloved Beatrice, and his writings continue to be full of his personal expe- riences ; he continues to admit the reader into the inner sanctuary of his soul ; he continues to " Throw out acclamations of self-thinking, self -adoring," though poor Gemma and his qtdver with the seven arrows are ignored. In the Purgatorio alone, one passing allusion is made to his family. All that was real and tangible had not the same actual exist- ence to him as that which was ideal or visionary. The uncomplaining woman who sat by his hearth and cradled his children in her arms, had a less j96>5- itive existence than the departed Beatrice, whom he could scarcely be said to have known — a pro- ceeding which a prosaic friend of ours quaintly pro- nounces, '^^oetic^ not proper.^'' 132 DANTE, Besides this, Boccaccio tells us that Beatrice -was by no means the poet's only flame. One of the ob- jects of his admiration has come down to us as Gen- tucca of Lucca, sometimes called Porgoletta ; an- other is said to have dwelt among the green hills of the Casentino, and seems to have been beloved in spite of a goitre / and to each of these fair ones the " true lover " poet wrote impassioned sonnets. He gave to his daughter the name of Beatrice, perhaps in remembrance of his first love, whom he wished the world to believe his only love. Of this daughter little is known. She was a nun in the convent at Bavenna at the time of her father's death. His wife he never saw after his exile. After calling to mind these rather startling little biographical facts, are we not justified in saying, that, although Dante was a great genius, he was by no means the most Christian of poets, the noblest of men and the truest of lovers ? Heaven defend the young maidens of the present generation from such a love! or the destined wives from such a husband ! FLORENTINE FEUDS. Sebbavbzza, Valley of the Apennines, Near Florence, Aug. 22, 1865. Some of the most thrilling episodes in Florentine history are those which record the deadly fends that separated illustrions families, or existed between the nobles and the people — feuds which lasted for cen- turies, and supplied the chronicler with an abundant treasury of romantic incidents. The Ghibellines were the ancient nobility of Florence, and were opposed to the Guelphs, v/ho were the representatives of the people. Their furi- ous dissensions involved the Florentine republic in numerous sanguinary wars, threw the Government into confusion, and entailed on all classes a perplex- ing series of misfortimes. The feud, which originated in a private quarrel between Buondelmonti and Tifonti, culminated in a fearfully tragic catastrophe, and was most fatal and enduring in its conseqaences. In 1215, the Order of Knighthood was conferred upon Mazzingno of the IVLaz'zinghi. He gave a . (133) 13^ FLOBEXTiyE FEUDS. feast to celebrate an event which, did him so mnch honor. Buondehnonte Buondehnonti, a yonng and gallant cavalier, noted for the attractions of his per- son and the fascination of his manners, was invited. An altercation arose between two of the guests, Uberti Infangati and Oddo Tifonti. The fiery Buondelmonti, ever ready to plunge into a quarrel, started up, and took sides with Infangati. His manner was so violent and his language so vehem- ent, that Tifonti seized a plate from the convivial board and dashed it in his face. At this indignity all the guests sprang from their seats. The fi'iends of Buondelmonti drew their dao^^ers and rnshed upon Tifonti. He must inevitably have lost his life had he not been defended and rescued by the cooler portion of the company. The host made an elo- quent appeal to the excited young men, and finally succeeded in calming their ire and reconciling Tif- onti and Buondelmonti to each other. They shook hands, and the guests reseated themselves at the banqnet table. But it was feared that the reconcili- ation thns forced upon the cavaliers would not be permanent. To ensure its duration, a marriage was proposed between young Buondelmonti and the niece of Oddo Tifonti, of the noble family of Am- edei. Buondelmonti was too courteous to refuse the proposition, although he had no preference for FLGBENTINE FEUDS. 135 the young lady thus suddenly offered to him as a bride; to have declined her hand would have added a fresh insult to the one he had already given Tifonti. Preparations were forthwith made for a magnificent wedding. When these tidings reached the ears of Madonna Aldruda, of the noble Donati family, she was filled with dismay. She had watched the young Buon- delmonti from his childhood, and in her heart had selected him for the bridegroom of her beautiful daughter, just budding into womanhood. She could not resign hei*self to this sudden awakening from her brilliant dreams. At the hour when she knew Buondelmonti would pass her liouse, she stood in her doorway to salute him. The young cavalier reined in his steed when he saw her, and after she had greeted him with even more than wonted cour- tesy, she drew forward her lovely daughter, and presenting her to him, said, " This have I he^tfor theer' The impressionable youth was charmed by the modesty and beauty of the young maiden, and touched by the words of the mother. Prompted by an unreflecting impulse, he sprang from his horse, and taking the young girl by the hand, replied, " 7 should he ungratefid to refuse your gift, lady^"^ and entered the house. During this, his first inter- 136 FLOHENTINE FEUDS. view witli the fair damsel, be became so much en- amored, that he resolved to break his faith with the niece of Tifonti. He at once betrothed himself to the daughter of Madonna Aldruda Donati, and their nuptials took place without delay. When Oddo Tifonti learned that the affianced husband of his niece had wedded a Donati, he vowed a terrible vengeance. The enraged family of the forsaken lady met in council, and decided that Buondelmonti should be severely wounded and maimed, as the penalty of his inconstancy. But Mosca Lamberti deemed each punishment insufficient. '^ This King has got a head!^'' he ejaculated as he wrathfuUy arose to demand a sterner retribution. Then it was decided that Buondelmonti should suffer death. Easter Sunday is celebrated by the Catholic Church as one of its holiest and grandest festivals. That was the day selected for the execution of Buondelmonti's sentence. He had been married one Aveek. lie rode gayly forth on that bright Easter Sunday, attired in a suit of pure white, and upon a white steed ; his young bride herself had buckled on his sword. It may well be imagined with what loving pride the innocent girl watched the noble and handsome cavalier as he mounted his FLOBENTINE FEUDS. 137 horse in his bridal garb. She was never more to look upon his living face ! He rode rapidly over the Ponte Vecchio (now the ^veil-known Jeweller's bridge), but at the foot of the bridge received a blow upon his head, which hurled Mm from his horse. Oddo Tifonti then fell upon him, and with his own hands opened his enemy's veins, and savagely watched him bleed to death. The tradition further says that his young bride was seized and placed in an open car, which held the bleeding body of her husband, and with his head laid upon her lap, the car was drawn through the streets of Florence to exliibit the vengeance which a noble and insulted family had taken upon a faithless cavalier. The whole city took part in this quarrel. Of sixty-two Florentine noble families, thirty-nine be- came Guelphs or fi-iends of the Buondelmonti, and the rest Ghibellines or partisans of the Amedei; and the two parties were ever after the most invet- erate foes. Constant contentions, bloody frays, and even desperate wars sprang out of this unhappy di- vision. At a little later period, 1258, a most romantic in- cident gave an important place in history to another member of the Bnondehnonti family — like his predecessor, a young and gallant cavalier. 138 FLOBEKTINE FEUDS, Between the illustrioiis family of the Bardi (whose ancient mansion is still yisible in the street of that name), and the family of the Buondelmonti a most implacable hereditary hatred had existed for generations. Ippolito Buondelmonti, in his twenty-first year, is described as a golden-haired, blue-eyed, symmetric- ally proportioned yonth, of noble presence. He had an enthusiastic temperament, a warm heart, and a character richly endowed with generous and manly attributes. Unfortunately, he fell in love with Dianora dei Bardi, the daughter of the bitter- est enemy of his house. He had beheld he]' in church, and from that time haunted the street in which she lived. It is said that the apparent hope- lessness of his passion caused him a dangerous ill- ness. During this period his devoted mother suc- ceeded in obtaining his confidence. Instead of re- proaching her son for his weakness, and bidding him forget the young maiden to whom he had given his heart, she gave him most tender and womanly sympathy, and even bade him hope that the breach between the two contending families might be healed, and Dianora become his bride. Her words of consolation possessed a restorative power that acted like magic, and Ippolito recovered with a ra- ^ FLORENTINE FEUDS. 139 pidity which astonished and perplexed his physi- cians. Meantime the mother formed a plan which ena- bled the lovers to meet, upon the occasion of a great festival, given at Monticelli, the villa of one of her ancient fi-iends. The hostess and mother even al- lowed the youthful couple an opportunity of con- versing without witnesses. During that single interview Dianora was wooed and won by the enemy of her house. The happy pair were not only affianced, but the day of their marriage was fixed, and the manner in which Dianora was to be stolen from her father's house concerted. In ten days a priest and proper witnesses were to assemble in the chapel of the Servite convent of the Holy Trinity, at an altar belonging to the Buondelmonti. Ippo- lito was to let his lady love know that all was in readiness, by giving her a signal as he passed be- neath her balcony on that day, at a certain hour ; and in the dead of the night he was to climb to her chamber window, by means of the silken ladder, then greatly in vogue, and return with his bride. At the hour agreed upon, the signal was duly given, and Dianora, very joyful at heart, withdrew, to wait for the coming night. Ippolito had made all his preparations, and having concealed his silken ladder within his cap, set out, soon after midnight^ liO FLOBENTINE FEUDS. for the house of his betrothed. Just as he had passed the Poute Yecchio, and entered the Yia dei Bardi, he heard behmd him the tramping feet of the Bargello and his men, the patrol, and seized with a sudden panic, imagined they were in pursuit of him. Instead of attempting to hide himself, which he could easily have done by slipping into some of the narrow streets, he fled down the Yia dei Bardi, and thus attracted the attention of the patrol, who at once gave chase. His swift feet* might still have given him a chance of escape, but his cap, with its betraying contents, fell off, and he stopped to recover the lost treasure, upon which his future happiness depended. That brief pause gave the patrol time to reach and capture him. He v\^as instantly thrown into prison. ^Vhen he was questioned, instead of avowing the truth, which he thought might tarnish the fair name of his bride, he accused himself of being engaged in a liouse- breaking expedition, and confirmed his story by de- tails which seemed to leave no doubt of its truth. Outrages were very frequent in those days, and it was necessary that justice should be dealt out summarily. The Guelph magistrate, if he would conciliate the good-will of the people, must, per- force, exert the authority of the law as unhesitat- ingly over a patrician offender as over the meanest FLOBENTINE FEUDS. 141 citizen. On the very morning after his capture, Ippolito Buondehnonti, proved guilty by his own confession, was condemned to be beheaded. His courage, and his determination to preserve his secret, . remained unshaken by this sentence. His mother was admitted to his prison, and by her prayers and tears strove to induce him to let her reveal the truth and declare the part she had her- self taken in aiding his fatal expedition; but he withstood all her entreaties. He said he had but one vrish, and that was to behold Dianora once more. He therefore charged his mother to go to the Bargello, and petition him to allow the pro- cession which would conduct him to the place of execution to pass through the Yia dei Bardi. This petition was readily granted. Soon after dawn on the morrow the procession issued from the prison doors. It was composed of the Bargello and his pikemen ; then a couple of priests walking on either side of the prisoner, and chanting the Penitential Fsalms; then the headsman, with his bared axe on his shoulder ; then more pikemen ; and then a crowd of people, who volunteered their at- tendance, and joined in the chants as they walked. Dianora, when she arose that day, to the great surprise of her maidens, arrayed herself in her most superb attire. The members of her family had all 1^2 FLOREJyTiyE FEUDS. assembled on the balcony to see the pr<5cession pass, and to glory over tbe humiliation and punishment of a detested Bnondelmonti. Dianora did not join them nntil she heard that the procession was witl^in sight. Just as it passed in fi-ont of the balcony, and her lover raised his eyes to her face, to look the fare- well he conld not speak,- Dianora, with pale cheeks and flashing eyes, suddenly stepped forward, and in a firm, clear voice, addressed the Bargello and the citizens of Florence. She bade them pause to listen to the testimony she had to give concerning their prisoner, Ippolito dei Bnondelmonti. Her proud relatives were too much amazed, too completely stimned by the suddenness of her action, to silence her. The procession halted at her command. The crowd expressed the deepest emotion. TThen she again prepared to speak, some of the cavaliers of her family pressed forward to interfere, but she waved them back with a regal gesture, and turned to the Bargello and the citizens. Then in rapid, but elorpient language, she told them that she would have been guilty of murder had she not spoken ; she declared that Ippolito was her affianced husband, in spite of the deadly feud which separated their families ; that he had gener- FLORENTINE FEUDS. 143 ously allowed himself to be condemned as a mid- night robber to preserve her fair name unsullied ; that on the night he was seized, in accordance with a plan they had laid, he w^as to have climbed to her chamber window to carry his betrothed to the altar ; that she had hoped their union would end the wicked and senseless feud which existed between their houses ; and she concluded by saying that she stood there an expectant bride, waiting for the ful- filment of her bridegroom's promise. The crowd enthusiastically cheered the noble and courageous maiden, and would have yielded her Ippolito by force, if force had been needed. But he, fearing that she would only ruin herself and not save him, addressed her as one whom generous pity for his misfortune had caused to use this stratagem. With a woman's ready wit, she interrupted his words, and reminded the crowd that a priest must have been engaged to perform the marriage cere- mony, and added that, as the testimony of that priest would prove her assertion, she demanded that a proclamation be made ordering him to appear. It chanced that this very priest was one among the crowd. With great difficulty, he forced his way beneath the balcony, and testified that he had waited six hours in the Chapel of St. Agnes, liaving been ordered by Ippolito to be there for the cele- IM ' FLORENTINE FEUDS. . ' bration of the holy sacrament of marriage between himself and the noble lady, Dianora dei Bardi. Then the delighted j)opulace shouted tumultu- ously, '^ The prisoner is innocent ! Long live the Buondelmonti ! Long live the Bardi ! A Buon- delmonti and a Bardi ! Ippolito and Dianora ! Peace and union in Florence ! To the palace ! To the palace ! " The seat of the Bepublican Government was still called " Palazzo Yecchio " — on the Piazza Grand Duca. The Bardi could not — dared not — gainsay the popular request. The rival families were forced together by a cm-rent too strong to be resisted. Ip- polito was conducted by his guard to the palace. Dianora was escorted by her amazed but powerless relatives, and joined him there. Before an im- mense crowd, not made up of the people alone, but also composed of the principal families of Florence, Ippolito dei Buondelmonti and Dianora dei Bardi were united, and the feud between the rival houses was at an end. ^^^i?^: FEUDS BETWEEN THE AND NEEL BIANCHI There is nothing more remarkable in Florentine history than the endless fends between the nobles and the people, or the nobles and one another, which for centuries distracted the Commonwealth, and occasioned not merely loss of individual life and property, and the demolition of so many stately pal- aces and other superb buildings, but culminated in fierce and protracted wars. And there is, perhaps, nothing in Florentine history more singular than the trivial first causes which gave rise to those bat- tle-generating feuds. T. A. Trollope, whose indefatigable researches have enabled him to produce the most complete his- tory of the Florentine Commonwealth which has ever been written, says these divisions "must be attributed to some underlying cause, of longer and deeper significance than any to which they are at- tributed. A match falling into a powder barrel is in one sense the cause of all the wide-spread ruin 7 (145) 1-iG FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCRI AND NEPJ. that follows. But the destriictive force which has been put into activity, had been previously prepared and stored up, without which the accidental match would have been harmless." Yet it is of interest to trace the often trivial circumstances which liirhted the ready match and caused the explosion. One of the most bloody encounters between the Florentines and their rivals, the Pisans, owed its origin to a lap-dog. The story runs thus : When the Emperor Frederick II. was crowned in Eome, 22d of March, 1220, all the Italian cities sent am- bassadors to do honor to his Majesty. Between Florence and Pisa there always existed a bitter jealousy. As a matter of course, the rival cities selected men of the highest position in their commu- nity, and the ones most fitted to grace a royal festi- val. A Itoman Cardinal gave a dinner to the Floren- tine ambassadors and another to the Pisans. The banquet to the Florentines took place first. The Cardinal had a lap-dog of rare beauty, which gam- bolled around the feet of the ambassadors and won great adim' ration. One of the Florentine represen- tatives was so much chai-med that his Eminence presented him the little favorite, and begged that he would send for it whenever he pleased. Tlic next day, the Pisan ambassadors dined with FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NERI. 147 the Cardinal. The clog had not yet been claimed by the Florentine ambassador, and again he sported about the guests, and was caressed and admired as before. It was an odd coincidence, that one of the Pisan ambassadors conceived snch a fancy for the dog that he begged the Cardinal to bestow it upon him. The Cardinal, qidte forgetting his imjpromptu gift to the noble Florentine, very courteously told the Pisan to consider the dog his own. A little later, a messenger came from the Florentine ambas- sador to claim the dog, and it was promptly deliv- ered. Yv^hen the Pisan ambassador's messenger arrived for the same pm'pose, the dog was gone. The Pisan was greatly enraged, and insisted that the dog was his by right, and should be yielded up to him. The Florentine refused to relinquish his highly valued pet. The ambassadors met in the streets of Pome, and an angry argument ensued. They did not hesitate to insult one another grossly, and furious words were followed by furious blows. A regular street fray was the sequence. The Pisans' came off the victors, for the Pisan ambassadors were accompanied by fifty Pisan soldiers. All the Flor- entines in Pome at once assembled and attacked the Pisans, and in this second contest, the battle appears to have ended in favor of the Florentines. "When the news of this dissension reached Pisa, 148 FEUDS BETYiEEN BIANCHI AND NERI. the Government of that city immediately took pos- session of all the merchandise in Pisa which be- longed to Florentine citizens. The Florentines made every effort to have their property restored, without extending the qnarrel farther; but the Pisans were deaf to all offers of reconciliation, and refused to give up the goods, of which there was a very large quantity, waiting to be imported in Pisan ships. The patience of the Florentines be- came exhausted, and they marched out and gave battle to the obstinate Pisans. The encounter lasted the whole day — many lives were lost — the Pisans were wholly defeated, and the Florentines marched back with thirteen hundred prisoners, among whom were numerous members of the first families in Pisa. Query — Had the Cardinal's pretty lap-dog never existed, or had it been less at- tractive, or had the Cardinal been less liberally careless in his donations, would that terrible day's fighting ever have occurred ? Would those heaps of dead have been left on the plains of Castel del Bosco^ and would those thirteen hundred prisoners have been carried in triumph to Florence % In the " Florentine Feuds " we narrated the thril- ling story of the handsome but inconsequent young Buondelnionte^ and the origin of the terrible Gueljph and Ghihelline feud. That protracted and bloody FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NEBL 149 strife had nominally ended, when it was succeeded by the fend between the Bianchi (White Party) and the J^eri (Black Party), which, in the com- mencement of the fourteenth century, grew out of the gambols of two children. The children were cousins. Their mothers were daughters of the same father, though by different wives. They belonged to the most wealthy and powerful family of Pistora — the Cancelliere. Each sister boasted of more than a hundred retainers. The name of one sister was Bicinca^ hence her descendants were called Cancelliere Bianchi / the offsprings of the other sister, for dis- tinction's sake, were called Cancelliere Neri. [In Italy the maiden name is always retained, and that of the husband is often made to precede, instead of following, the lady's family name.] Young Lore the son of Guglielrno de Cancelliere {Neri)^ while playing with his cousin, the son of Bertioca de Cancelliere {Bianchi), accidentally in- flicted a serious wound. The father of Lore was much distressed when he heard of this chance injury, and at once sent Lore to the father of the Y/ounded boy to express his contrition, and to beg forgiveness both of father and son. Lore's apologies and explanations were fiercely interrupted by his inhmnan uncle, who cried out : 150 FEUDS BETWEEX BIAXCHI ASD XERL " Boy, TOn ^ere ii<:.t prudent in showing yonr face here ; neither was vonr father wiie in sending yon! " He then turned to a servant, and bade him sum- n::i the cook, and order him to bring his cleaver. "^Viieii the latter appeared, his master pc»inted to the affrighted Lore, and then to a horse-trough near, and commanded the servants to hold the child while the cook struck off his right hand (the hand which had injured his c-ousin) upon the horse-trough. The cook and the servants did not dare to disobey. the child's hand was quickly severed. His uncle savagely seized the fallen member, and, placing it in the bor s other hand, said : ^ Take that to thy father from me.*' The Xeri, maddened by a deed so cowardly and so cruel, summoned retainers and friends, flew to arms, and attacked :le Bianchi. The citizens joined in the fray, some taking sides with one party, some with the other. The chiefs of the two parties were exiled from Pistora, and sent to Florence. There the Bianchi were received by the Cerchi, and the XeH by the Donaii and Frescobaldi families. The more aristocratic portion of the community sided with the Xeri^ the Guelph populace sup- ported the Bianchi J and a most bloody warfare, in which all the distinguished men of that age took part, broke out, and gave birth to numberless acts FEUD8 BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NEBL 151 of inconceivable barbarity. The great Dante up- held the Bianchi. Between the Cerchi and Donati families, who had ranged themselves, the one on the side of the Bianchi, the other of the N'eri, a most irreconcila- ble feud existed. The Cerchi w^ere very opnlent merchants, the Donati impoverished nobles.' Unfortunately they were neighbors. The Cerchi had purchased one of the magnificent old palaces which had belonged to the Guidi, E'ear by resided the Donati in a more humble mansion. The Cerchi made a prodigal dis- play of their wealth ; they kept many servants, horses and equipages, and the young men, av/kward and plebeian, though handsome and intelligent, dressed with surpassing splendor. Corso, the head of the Donati family, openly ridiculed the manners, bearing, and low-bred osten- tation of his jparvenu neighbor. He nicknamed Yieri de Cerchi the donkey of the ward, and, when Yiei'i w^as to speak in council, would ask " if the donkey had brayed that day I " The historian, Dino Compagni, says of Cor so Donati : " He was of noble race, liandsome in person, a good speaker, of elegant manners, and of a subtle intelligence, allied to a heart always intent on evil. lie and his band committed many deeds 152 FEUBS BETWEEN BIANCHI ANB NERI. of arson and robbery in the city. On account of his arrogance he was nicknamed " the haronP Dante married Gemma, a member of this Donati family, and in his youth, strange to say, was much attached to the fierce, unscrupulous "Baron." In after years they became deadly foes, and Carso Donati was one of the most powerful instruments in promoting Dante's banishment fi'om Florence, in procuring a decree for the confiscation of his property, and in sentencing him to be burned at the stake if lie ever fell into the hands of the Florentine Government. It was almost impossible for the members of the Donati and Cerchi families to meet without fio^ht- iug. One day they were both at the funeral of a lady of the Frescohaldi family. The nobles had the privi- lege of sitting upon benches ; all others sat on reed mats. The Ceroid and Donati found themselves placed opposite to each other — the treasureless Donati upon their seats of honor, and the opulent Cerchi on the ground, almost at their feet. This position galled the one party, and rendered the other insolently exultant. They watched each other's movements with angry eyes. During the ceremony, one of the Cerchi rose from his seat, it is said, merely to adjust the folds of his dress be- FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NEBl. 153 neath him. The Donati imagined that he had started up to commit some violence. They all rose in haste, drew their swords, and regardless of the sacred place, which w^as over the corpse lying before the altar, and the priest performing the funeral rites, the two parties rushed furiously upon each other, and were with difficulty separated. In that same year (1300) they had another encounter, which ended more disastrously. On the evening of the first day of the annual May festivi- ties, a party of ladies were dancing on the Piazza di Santa Trinita, surroimded by an admiring crowd. Among the lookers-on w^ere a group of the young Cerchi and their friends, mounted on their horses. Soon the Donati, also mounted, joined the crowd, and pressed forward to obtain a view of the dancers. Accidentally the two parties pushed each other. In a moment swords flashed from their scabbards ; the dance was broken up ; the terrified ladies fled, shrieking, to their homes — the Piazza, w^hich a moment: before had echoed to gay music, now re- sounded with the clash of arms, the trampling of horses' hoofs, and the cries of the charging foes. Furious combatants met v/here the feet of fair women had so lately glided through the graceful measure ; riot and confusion usurped the place of gayety and gallantry. One of the CercJii had his 154 FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NERL nose cut off by a Donati sabre. AYhen the fight ended, a new element of hatred, and a stronger thirst for revenge, had been infused into the minds of these adversaries. On Christmas Day of the same year, two mem- bers of the opposing families came again into collis- ion. A holy fi-iar was preaching on the Piazza, in front of the Chm-ch Santa Croce. Bimone Donati formed one of the listening crowd. Nicola de Cerchi came riding by alone, on his way to a villa without the cit}^ Shnone, at the sight of a Cerchi unprotected, turned from the pious exhortation of the good friar, spurred his horse, and came up with his unguarded foe outside of the city walls, attacked him unexpectedly, and murdered him on the spot ! But Niccola^ as he fell from his horse, struck at Simone, and inflicted a wound with his dagger, from which Simone died the next day. This Simone was the son of Messer Cor so Donati J " the Baron,'' who became very celebrated in Florentine history ; we constantly see him at the head of the party disturbing the public peace, and committing all manner of outrages. Ilis cruelty seems to have extended itself alike to men and women, as his treatment of his beautiful sister, Piccarda, illustrates. In spite of her opposition, he promised her hand to Hossellino delta Tosca. To FEUDS BETWEEN BIANOHI AND NEUI 155 avoid this hateful union, she fled, during her brother's absence, to the Convent of St. Clare, and took the vows of a nun. When Corso Donati heard this nevrs he hastened to Florence, assembled twelve ruiSans, and with them scaled the walls of the con- vent, seized his sister, and, regardless of the holy vows she had made, gave her to Rossellino della Tosca. But she was soon rescued from a merciless brother and a pitiless husband. The horror of her situation and the terrible scenes through wliich she had passed, snapped the cord which bound her to a life of despair. She only survived her union a few days. Oorso Donates end was a fitting termination to his turbulent and lawless career. In 1308, he was sus- pected of conspiring to become despotic master of the Commonwealth. He was declared guilty by the Podestd^ and condemned to death. But he and his allies strongly barricaded the streets adjacent to his house, and gave battle to the party who came to seize him. While defending the barricade in front, he was attacked in the rear ; but he succeeded in cutting his way through the enemy, and with a few trusty friends reached llovezzano^ a villa three miles from the city. There he was overtaken, dis- armed, and finally captured. lie was resolved not to be carried into the city alive, to be subjected to the 156 FEUDS BETWEEX BIAXCRI ASD SEPJ. scoffs of tlie rabble, and be consigned to the hands of the execntioner. He tried to bribe his captors to kill him. but in vain. There was no means of self- destrnction within his reach, and his bodily exertions had brought on a sudden and violent attack of gout in the feet and hands. He was now within one mile of the city, and desperate. Suddenly, he threw himself from his horse to the ground. The soldier who was guarding him imagined that he was making an attempt to escape, and pioned him to the earth with his lance. Thus Donati's stratagem suc- ceeded, and he never more entered the walls of Florence. The soldiers left his body in the road. The monks of St. Salvi found it the next day, and bm'ied it in their cemetery. SEEEAVEZZA. * Sereavbzza, Aug. 15, 1865. In one of tlie valleys of the marble district of the Apennines lies the little village of Serravezza. The rivers Serra and Yezza, threading their way between the mountains, suddenly bend and unite, and the village built upon their banks, at the point of union, takes the combined name of both rivers. The mills belonging to the marble quarries are worked by the waters of these rivers. They are narrow streams, that gracefully wind in and out, now gliding smoothly, and now leaping over rocks and forming unexpected cascades. The banks are richly wooded, and here and there the trees dip into the stream. The verdant mountains start up, almost perpendicularly, on either side, the green of their chestnut, fig, and olive trees often suddenly interrupted by '^ slides '^'^ (as they are called) of gleaming white marble. The little village of Serravezza is quaint and primitive, but picturesque in a high degree. It is (157) 158 SFFJUVEZZA. composed of a mere cluster of houses planted to- gether in a narrow strip along the banks of the river, and girdled in bv the mountains. Yet it has a some- what imposing little church, with the Duomo and Campanile, adorned within by pictures and statues of no small merit. Beside the church stands a hos- pital, a large commodious building, endowed by Cavaliere Campana. The constant accidents in the mountains and in the quarries render this admira- bly conducted hospital a most important institution. Every day its doors admit some poor sufferer whose limbs have been crushed by a fall of marble, or who has met with some other disaster inseparable fi'om his vocation. At the head of the valley, commanding a superb prospect, stands the villa of the Medici — a favor- ite resort of the late Grand Duke. Situated in this small, secluded, peacefid-looking village, one cannot help wondering to see this unpretending looking villa well provided with po7't holes for cannon, as if the attacks of an enemy were at all times antici- pated. A subterranean passage runs for a mile be- neath the mountain, and leads from the villa to the sea-shore. Here the AEedici always kept a vessel prepared for their escape. The villa has spacious stables, with accommodations for thirty-six horses ; also, a chapel, and a large garden surrounded by SEBBAVEZZA. 169 massive stone walls. Close by is a marble quarry, which belonged to this noble family. The property of the Medici is now held by the Government of Victor Emmanuel. The town authorities of Seria- vezza express great discontent because no title-deed proves that the gromid upon which the Medician villa stands has ever been paid for. Victor Enmianuel offers the villa for sale, that the authorities may re- ceive the price they demand for the land. The villa, it is said, cost between thirty and forty thous- and dollars to build — it is offered for sale for eight thousand ! In the centre of the village stands a stone col- umn, out of w^hich rises an iron spike, placed there to receive the gory head of the decapitated traitor. Doubtless, before the Tuscan law forbade capital punishment, it has often been capped by this ghast- ly adorning. The little village, small and obscure as it is, boasts of its men of genius — or, rather, of emh^yo genius. It may be the close proximity to the mar- ble, or that the vocation of stone earth is one low step in the ascent to high art, but among these stone- cutters there is a small band aspiring to become sculptors — making uncouth attempts to cut figures in stone, hideous apes, wild beasts, and other un- graceful forms ; but from among these rude essays, 160 8ERRAVEZZA. some beautiful creation will no doiibt one day spring beneath the hand of genius yet undeveloped. And Serravezza boasts of a musical genius — a young man of twenty years, occupied in the iron foundry, who composes and improvises music in the most wonderful manner. He is self-taught. The only instrument he could afford to purchase is an accordeon, but listening to him, as he played beneath our window the other evening, it seemed absolutely incredible that the instrument from which he was drawing such touching strains — now so strong and full, now so meltingly sweet and echoing, so deli- cate and varied — coidd have been a simple accor- deon. Then Serravezza has her decayed actor, once the representative of Eoman Emperors and Greek Kings, but who now, in the " sere and yellow leaf " of his life, condescends to keep an alhergo, or inn — we could hardly venture to designate the humble locality as a hotel. This dramatic satellite amuses his patrons, not merely by reciting passages from celebrated plays, but often by going through whole tragedies, admirably personating each character in turn. Ilis declamation is remarkable for its power and pathos, and though he is quite an old man, his gestures have an eloquent grace peculiar to the Italian. sehmavezza. iGl The native poet, or improvisatorej we learn, is often to be met with here. And surely, if there is one spark of poetic fire in the breast, it must be fanned into life by the grandeur and beauty of these glorious mountains. Albeit the scenery of the Apennines, in these re- gions though different in character, is as grandly beautiful as that of the finest portions of Switzer- land, strange to say, the latter is flooded with tourists, while these picturesque Apennine peaks, only three hours' journey by railroad from Florence, are scarcely visited . The Pania, the highest of the range, is reached after six hours' climbing, starting from Serravezza. From its summit the whole coast of the Mediterran- ean, from Spezzia to Leghorn, is visible, via Eeggio, Leghorn, Pisa, and even Florence can be distinctly seen : the latter is sixty miles distant. A natural bridge connects two of the mountains at their very peaks, 5000 feet above the level of the sea. This bridge is a narrovv^ stone ledge, its arch 160 feet high. It is called the " Madonna's Bridge," and the contadini implicitly believe the tradition, that the Madonna, in passing over these mountains, de- sired to step from one mountain peak to the peak adjoining, when immediately the stone formed itseli 162 SERRAVEZZA. into a bridge, barely Tride enongb to permit lier dainty feet to walk over in safety. Some of the marble quarries are several thousand feet above the level of the river ; a few of them are near the very topmost peaks of the mountains. The marble is blasted in the mountains, then cut into square blocks, then hurled over the side of a mountain, upon a marble '' slide^^ down which it makes its way with tremendous bounds, the whole mountain echoing the roar, while smaller j)ieces of marble, with which it comes in contact in its fi-antic descent, leap into the air, sometimes to the height of sixty feet, enveloped in a cloud of snow-white marble dust. The '' slide " of marble leads fi'om the quarry to the valley. Across this " slide^^ at various distances, are erected walls of marble, which give the block the direction required, and cause it to fall upon the ground in the valley, upon the exact place prepared, and where it can be reached by ox carts. Xear each quarry are the marble works of the proprietors, large, handsome buildings, looking like railway stations, where all the process of sawing the marble and polishing is accomplished by water- power. The marble is taken in ox-carts to the Forte di Marma, four miles from Serravezza. In calm SERRAVEZZA. 163 weather, tlie oxen are driven, most unwillingly, into the sea to the boats. When the weather is too bois- terous for them to be forced into the water, the small vessels in which the marble is to be conveyed to Leghorn are drawn upon the beach, and there loaded. The ox-carts are then fastened to the boats and the oxen (sometimes fourteen pairs at a time) urged into the sea. The marble-laden boat is thus launched. At the Foi'te di Ifarma the whole beach, for a quarter of a mile, is white with blocks of marble — marble columns, pedestals, slabs, flooring — look- ing, at the first glance, like an endless city of mon- nments. At this moment are to be seen upon the beach the columns, steps, flower vases, and various decorations in colored marble, destined for the new opera house now being erected at Paris. This beach is one of the most beautiful we have ever had the great enjoyment of walking npon. When the tide is low, the sand is smooth and firm to the foot. On one side stretches the " blue Med- iterranean," far as the eye can reach; and, parallel with the shore, on the other side, rises the Apennine chain, in all its majestic beauty. And if the pictur- esque charm of the scene can be heightened, we have seen it brought to perfection beneath the su- 1G4: SEBEAVBZZA. perb Italian siinset, flooding tlie heavens with inde- scribable glory, while a crowd of lovely, laughing girls and merry children sported, npon the beach, and dived, and danced, and gambolled in the shin- inoj water. But to return to the marble quarries. The smaller blocks of marble are split at the quarries into slabs, and these slabs are carried to the beach upon the heads of vjomen. Some women are able to carry four marble slabs upon their heads at a time, and this over the roughest, steepest, and most difiicult mountain paths ! This severe and unfeminine labor earns these poor toilers for bread rarely as much as a franc (about twenty-two cents) per day, and never more. The habit of holding the head erect, and poising the body as they step, causes these women to move with a iii-m and graceful grandeur of step and motion, which would throw into despair the representatives of our stage queens (the genuine queens are too seldom queenly in gait to be men- tioned), if they could behold and then study tlie regal carriage of these poor carrier peasants. One of the favorite pastimes of the little children is to imitate their mothers — pile cakes of mud or stones, supposed to be marble slabs, upon their heads, then holding themselves erect and steady, fold their arms upon their breasts, and step from 8EBBAVEZZA. 165 stone to stone in the bed of the river, balanc- ing themselves dexterously, and moving with that grand step of the mother as she descends the moun- tain paths. At Serravezza there are quarries of variously col- ored marbles, and the scientific agriculturist may interest himself by investigating a fact which has excited the curiosity and surprise of ^dsitors. The peculiar coloring of the different marbles appears to be repeated in the beans that grow in the valley. There is a pink marble with black veins, and there are pink beans Avith the same veihing. T]iere is bluish marble with spots, and there are beans to match. Greenish marble, and beans of precisely the same hue of green — by no means the ordinary green of a bean. The yellow marble has its yellow bean. There is a cream-colored mar- ble with blue veins, and there are cream-colored beans with veins of blue. The causes which have produced these resemblances may doubtless be ex- plained, but the singular resemblance itself cannot be explained away. We mentioned in the early portion of this letter the villa of the Medici, which was a favorite resort of the late Grand Duke. We have only just learned, in conversing about this villa, a circum- stance which does him great honor. We were not 100 SERRAVEZZA. aware that he belonged to the celebrated society of the Misericordia — the Brothers of Mercy. The members of the Misirecordia are the Good Samaritans of Tuscany, who give their own personal services to aid the suffering. Many of them belong to noble families. At the somid of the deep, sonor- ous summoning bell of the Duomo, however these members may be employed, whether at marriage feast, or taking rest, or occupied in the most grave and important duties of life, if it is their week to serve, they must leave all and hasten to the Piazza del Duomo, to present themselves at the oratory of the Misericordia. Ilere the brethren pass iuto the robing room, and issue fi'om it, into the chapel, clothed in long black robes, with peaked hoods over their heads and faces, leaving theii* eyes alone visi- ble through two holes cut in the cowl. A large, broad-leafed hat hangs at the back, over the shoul- ders. They form themselves into pairs, according to their height, and raising the black-covered litter prepared to receive the sufferer, walk forth with even, rapid steps, and in perfect silence. The member present who happens to be the highest in rank in the hierarchy of the Order, acts as captain, walks at the head of the procession, and directs all its movements. It is his duty to prepare the appar- atus required for the last hurried shrift (should such w p g3 ^^ky/'"" SEBEAVEZZA. 167 be needed) of the dying — the crucifix, the candle, the breviary, the holy oil. These are deposited in a box and attached to the litter. The brethren are not permitted by their laws to partake of any refreshment at the house where they receive their human burden, save a glass of cold water. They carry with them a pair of large, clean sheets and a counterpane, and with these they enter the house of the sick. The sheets are dexterously placed beneath the patient — one so as to perfectly envelop him, the other to form a sort of hammock, in which, covered with the counterpane, he is gently borne to the litter. The delicacy and care with which the brethren shield their charge from the public's curious gaze, while placing him (or her) in the litter, has often been a subject of comment. The sick person carefully deposited, the litter is raised, and the black-muffled cortege proceeds on its way to the hospital. It is the duty of one brother, if the sick person is supposed to be near his last moments, to keep a vigilant watch, and from time to time lift the front part of the covering. If he sees any alarming symptoms, he strikes three little blows on one of the poles. At this signal the bear- ers immediately set do^vn the litter, the great black covering is thrown aside, the brethren gather round 16S 8ERRAVEZZA, to shield the dying, as much as possible, fi'om the gaze of the passer-by, and the sacrament is hurriedly administered. The Grand Dnke, it is said, was most pimctiial, earnest, and efficient in discharging all his duties as a member of this Holy Brotherhood. THE PKOTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLOEENCE. MES. BROWNING— DR. SOUTHWOOD S]\nTH— MRS. FRANCES TROLLOPE, AND OTHER CELEBRITIES. Florence, Nov. — , 1865. There are few localities in Florence so replete with solemn interest to the English and American travel- ler as the Protestant Cemetery. It is situated a short distance beyond the Porta a PintL The ground rises in gentle undulations from the entrance gate to an eminence w^hich commands a prospect of va- ried and picturesque loveliness, — a gradual ascent, which seems to typify those upward steps which the spirit takes after it has thrown off the mortal clog interred in that earth. There are not many imposing, or even pretentious monuments. The one which first attracts the eye is that of Pouth Fairleigh, surmounted by a statue of Faith, by Fantachiotti. 8 (169) 110 PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLOREKCE. This cemetery holds the ashes of not a few who have won renown in Great Britain and America, but the one about whose odorous memory there clings the deepest, tenderest, most widely-spread in- terest, is Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She loved Italy with a deep, passionate, prayerful love and longing for its resurrection fi'om the grave of sloth and inertia — with a prophetic foreseeing of its restored libeiiy and glory. Floi^nce was so entirely the home of her heart, that she seems to be- long to Italy rather than to England. In Florence the very air is redolent of her presence : go where you will, you trace her footsteps — fi-om the heights of beautiful Bellosguardo^ lovely Flesole, or sol- emnly grand San Mi/iiato, down to the banks of the Arno ; through the narrow palace-lined and legend-consecrated streets, on the gay CasGine^ in the memorable squares, on the picturesque old bridges, in the churches, in the galleries, stand- ing in rapt admiration before the works of old mas- ters — every^where the rhythmic echo of her in- spired words ring in the ears. She has sung of them all, has linked herself to all by her glorious verse. Most readers are familiar with her poem entitled '• Casa Guidi Windows " — that Casa Guidi which now bears a tablet with the inscription — PE0TE8TANT CEMETEUY AT FLOUEKCK 171 " Here lived and died Elizabeth Baekett Bkown- ING, wlio united in her heart the knowledge of the Learned and the genius of the Poet, and with her verses made a golden link between Italy and Ensrland. Grateful Florence offers her this me- morial, 1861." In Casa Guidi her son — the only babe which ever rejoiced her yearning heart, and rendered perfect her womanhood — first drew breath. In Casa Guidi she said to him : " The sun strikes, through the windows, up the floor ; Out on it, my own young Florentine ; Not two years old, and let me see thee more ! It grows along thy amber curls, to shiae Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look straight before, And fix thy brave, blue, English eyes on mine, And from thy soul, which fronts the future so, With unabashed and unabated gaze, Teach me to hope for what the angels know. When they smile clear as thou dost ! Stand out. my blue-eyed prophet ! — thou to whom The earliest world dayhght that ever flowed Through Casa Gicidl windows chanced to come ! " In Casa Guidi her cold lips for the last time pressed those of her ''blue eyed-prophet." From Casa Guidi her holy spirit took its heavenward flight, before the sorrowing watchers knew that there was one angel less on earth. It is related that in answer to the inquiry how she felt, she murmured her last words, and they were " so lovely ! " A fit- ting utterance to fall from those dying lips — and how suggestive of her life ! Her eyes were ever 1 i 2 PBOTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. fixed upon the beautiful ; or thev beautified, through their own hallowing medium, what they had looked upon. It is said we are most apt to recognize in others what exists in oui'selves ; and hence sprang her quick recognition of all that is lovely, noble, and good. The evil that glared before eyes less merci- ful was ignored by hers ; her spirit, wherever it moved, threw a halo of luminous holiness and beauty around even commonplace objects and na- tures, and lifted them up out of their dull insignifi- cance, and converted the prosaic round of daily life into poetry. • Thousands of feet have visited her grave ; thou- sands of hands have plucked the ivy leaves from the sod, yet uncovered by the elaborate monument which is being sculptured to adorn the spot. The Italians, even those who are well educated, take but little interest in Ens^lish literature. We think it is not too much to say they are better ac- quainted with Mrs. Browning's writings than with those of any other English author. A few steps onward, past the grave of Mrs. Brown- inor, we come to that of the celebrated Dr. South- wood Smith, a man whom England reveres as largely the benefactor of his race. Ilis monument, of pure white Serravezza marble, bears this inscription, from the pen of Leigh Hunt : PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. 173 " Ages shall lienor, in their heart enshrined thee, SoTJTHWOOD Smith, physician of mankind, bringer of air, light, health, in the homes of the sick poor, of happier years to come." A bas-relief, beautifully executed by the Ameri- can sculptor, Mr. Hart, calls vividly to mind the features of the philanthropist — features almost per- fect in their benign and holy beauty. The ample brov/, the finely shaped eyes, the exquisitely soft and benignant mouth, the whole contour of the face, manife^ the soul of the man as few souls reveal themselves through their covering of clay. Mr. Hart has invented an ingenious instrument, which enables him to repeat, by exact measurement, the features of his sitter. He used this instrument in sculpturing the bas-relief of Dr. Southwood Smith. Thus there can be no question of the cor- rectness of the proportions and the faithfulness of the likeness. We are aware that Mr. Hart's inven- tion has been ridiculed by some of his brother artists, who prefer to exercise their j^owers of idealizing upon a portrait, and to improve upon defective na- ture ; but the public, who desire to know precisely how a great man looked, is Mr. Hart's debtor. We learn that, of late, some of the best artists in Flor- ence have not disdained, now and then, to ask per- 174 PROTESTANT CEMETEBT AT FLORENCE. mission to use this " nieclianical inventioUj" to test the exactness of their own delineations. The life of Dr. Southwood Smith is rich in inci- dent. One of the most touching is that to which his noble work on the Divine Government and his valuable and instructive volume on the Physiology of Health owe their origin. Yerj early in life he became a Cahinist clergy- man. One beautiful Saturday afternoon he was passing through a field in a little village where he had j ust arrived, and where he was to preach on the morrow. Suddenly he heard behind him the sound of musical voices, and of merry laughter. He turned and saw five young girls. A moment after they passed him, still laughing and talking. With the face of one he was powerfully impressed, and her voice thrilled him as though it had been a loved and familiar tone. It may seem strangely romantic to the wdde range of commonplace people, but the young clergyman, who w^as only nineteen years of age, watched the merry maidens until tliey reached a stile and climbed over. The young girl who had so singularly attracted him came last, and when she had stepped over and gone on her way, the already enamored boy rushed to the spot, and kneeling down, kissed the ground which he had seen pressed by her feet. The lovely face and melodious voice haunted PB0TE8TANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. 175 him all that night. The next morning, when he en- tered the pulpit, his eyes fell upon the same coun- tenance looking up to his. The five young ladies, with an elderly gentleman, were sitting directly be- fore him. "When the service concluded, several of the parish- ioners were presented, and among them the father of the five sisters. This gentleman invited the young clergyman to his house. From that hour an intimacy commenced, which resulted in Southwood Smith's winning the heart of the fair girl whom he had literally loved at the first glance. Before the close of the year the father died, leaving his ^yq motherless daughters to the guardianship of the youthful clergyman. Southwood Smith was only twenty when he be- came a bridegroom, and, although his bride was a few years his senior, their union is said to have been one of unmitigated happiness. In less than four years he was the father of two daughters — and they were motherless. When her last infant was only a few months old, his wife took a severe cold, while visiting the poor, and, after a brief illness, expired. The grief of the widower amounted to despair — almost to frenzy. For a season he could find no consolation ; but, pondering upon the decrees of that 176 PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLOREXCE. Divine Providence wliicli could permit sucli a ca- lamity, the light of truth pierced through the clouds of rebellion that enyeloped his mind, and he vrrote his eloquent hook upon the Divine Government — truly the healing offspring of his mounded spirit. He, however, entertained the . conviction that his wife might have been spared to him, had she not been unskilfully and ignorantlj treated ; and he was so impressed with this idea, that, in the compassion- ate hope of saving others from needlessly enduring the terrible blow which had crushed his life, he left the ministry and studied medicine. This erudite and instructive work upon the Physiology of Health was the result of his laborious investigations and deductions. He not only became an eminent physician, but to him England is indebted for her sanitary improve- ments, and to him the science of medicine owes much of its progress, and the revelation of various facts until then unsuspected. The last year of his life was passed in Florence, the home of liis youno^est daus^hter. In another part of the cemetery is the grave of the celebrated Mrs. Frances Trollope, the mother of the distinguished authoi-s, Anthony Trollope and T. Adolphus Trollope. Mrs. Trollope's name is famil- iar to all Americans, and it has been difficult for them PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE, 177 to pardon lier first literary effort — a volume in which she so savagely, and with snch one-sided pertinacity ridiculed their foibles and peculiarities, without do- ing justice to what is grand and noble in the na- tional character. But her experiences in America were confined to a very limited sphere — chiefiy "Western — and no one can read her book without perceiving how little opportunity she Imd of judg- ing Americans out of that narrow circle. Mrs. Trollope had reached her fortieth year be- fore she aspired to become an authoress ; but her pen proved wonderfully fruitful, and her numerous works of fiction won her not merely fame, but for- tune. We remember her well in Paris, when her drawing-room was the centre of attraction to artists and men of letters. She was a vivacious, agreeable, and amiable lady, who possessed the enviable talent not merely of shining herself, but of making others shine. It was her delight to stretch out a helping hand to struggling talent. She was never weary of encouraging the faint-hearted, and of giving the full meed of appreciation to modest worth. During the latter portion of her life she made her home in Florence. Her mental poAvers had been so largely and incessantly taxed, that they gave way beneath the strain, and for some years before her 178 PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. death she entirely lost her memory — not precisely her reason — but certainly her intelligence. She resided at the time of her death with her son, T. Adolphus Trollope. In spite of her deplorable condition, she was far from unhappy. She always fancied herself surrounded by books, even when there was not a volume within reach, and when asked if she needed anything, replied, ^' Xo. You see I have plenty of books. 1 can always amuse myself." She died at an advanced age, in 1864. Xot far from her grave is that of the wife of T. Adolphus Trollope, Theodosia Trollope, who died in 1865. She also was a successful writer, and was endowed with a richly cultivated mind, great fasci- nation of manner, cliarms of person, and remark- able musical talent, doubtless iiilierited from her mother, Madame Garrow, a prima donna well known to fame. In accordance with the Florentine custom, the municipality has decided to place a tablet upon her residence, commemorative of her genius. On the otlier side of the cemetery is the grave of Theodore Parker, well beloved on both sides of the ocean. Recently another distinguished American name is added to those inscribed upon the tombstones of this Florentine cemetery — that of Hildretli, tlie PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE, 179 historian, and author of the " White Slave." He died in Florence in 1865. Mental labors, too long pro- tracted, occasioned softening of the brain, and re- duced him to a state of childish dependence. He left a wife to fight life's hard battle single-handed, and in the field of art ; also a son of promising tal- ents, who looks forward to making a name in his own land as an architect and landscape gardener. But our article would extend itself to a volume if we made even passing mention of all the illustrious dead whose ashes repose in this beautiful cemetery, and of whose lives a record full of interest might be given. ^ OYEEFLOW OF THE AEXO— AET- 1ST, A^D THE MAD SIXGEK Florence, July, 1865. Ix another article we make a brief allusion to the last occasion in which Piccolomini was con- jiu'ed out of her retirement, to delight the ears of Florence, and aid the sufferers from the inunda- tion. It was in November, 1864, that the capricious little Arno, which is always playing "fantastic tricks before high Heaven," spread dismay through the startled city, by one of its maddest pranks. The beauty of this slender stream, which pierces the heart of Florence, has been sung by poets and lauded by travellers. Mrs. Browning, as she views it from the lovely heights of Bellosguardo, speaks of — " Tlie river trailing like a silver cord."' Again, looking from her Casa Guidi windows, she says : (180) OVERFLOW OF THE ARNO. 181 ' I can but muse in hope upon the shore Of golden Arno as it shoots away Thro' Florence's heart, beneath her bridges four ; Bent bridges, seeming to strain ofE like bows, And tremble while the arrowing undertide Shoots on and cleaves the marble as it goes, And strikes up palace walls on either side." Bjron, too, speaks of the " Arno's silver sheen." "We have seen the Arno justify the poetic simile of a " silver cord^'^ when its waters were clear, and the full moon seemed melted in the gently flowing stream ; and we have seen the chameleon-like Arno look like a " golden cord " in the noonday sun, or when it reflected the countless lights flashing along its banks during the city's illumination for some grand festa ; and we have often seen this same changeful Arno degraded into a narrow, reddish, and decidedly muddy current, the very opposite of ^^ silver ^"^ " golden^'' or ^^ jpicturesqiie ;'''' and not un- f requently we have beheld its waters almost entirely vanish, and bright-eyed Italian gamins gambol in its shallow bed. Twice within three years the Arno has suddenly swelled and overflowed its banks. The last inunda- tion, that of November, 1864, was the most serious that has occurred during the last twenty years. The little circle, of which we formed a part, was residing at the time in the Yia Dei Bardi — a street which Miss Evans has rendered famous by 182 OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. making it the home of her noble Romola. We chanced to be located very near where Romola is supposed to have lived, and within view of the hill where Tessa tended her hidden babes and watched for her false-hearted Tito. This Via Dei JBardi w^as one of the streets metamorphosed into a river by the inundation. It was on a quiet Sunday morning that we were startled by the tidings that the river had suddenly risen, and was overflowing its banks. An artist friend, who had crossed the nearest bridge an hour before, without anticipating any danger, was paying us a visit. lie started up in dismay, fearing that he might be cut off from his home, seized his hat, and hastily departed. We could well imagine there was some cause for his alarm when we saw him car- ried across the garden upon the back of a man who waded knee- deep through the water. Half an hour after, in rushed another friend, who had seen, from his villa on the Bellosguardo heights, the swollen river and our perilous situation, should the overflow be serious. He came with characteristic hospitality to urge us to take flight to his Bellosguardo home before we became prisoners. We could none believe that the tiny, harmless look- ing stream which we were accustomed to regard as a " silver^'' or " golden^'' or muddy " cord^'' could OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 183 work any decided mischief, and refused the kind offer. Our. friend hurried away, and, as we watched- his departure, we found that the water had risen too high for him to be borne out upon a man's back. He was compelled to call in the assistance of a donkey, and made his way through the garden, seated in a rude harroccio, drawn by a donkey, whose legs were completely hidden by the reddit^h current. Our situation began to look a little threatening. The wisdom of following the undignified example of our friend, and making our escape seated on the floor of a furniture wagon, and dragged by an igno- ble donkey, was discussed. We concluded to wait a few hours longer. Before the time appointed for our final decision arrived, the power to choose was taken from us. The kitchen and billiard room were under water ; the concierge had locked the massive entrance por- tals of the palace, and fled ; the water had risen above their bolts and locks, above the windows of ikiQ piano terrena (ground floor) and was approach- ing those of the entresol. We had watched it ascend the whole first flight of stairs leading to our apartments, and it had gained the first step of the last flight. The street had been suddenly trans- formed into a river. Boats, sent by the authorities 184 OVEBFLOW OF THE AUNO. for tlie relief of the poor, were passing rapidly up and down ; articles of furniture, beds, women and children, were being lifted out of the windows of the lower stories and carried awav. As for us, the windows of our entresol were strongly grated, and those of the apartments we occupied, on the floor above, were too distant fi-om the boats for escape to be possible ; we were liter- ally water-bound prisoners. Soon came a report that the authorities feared the parapets of the river would give way ; the destruc- tion must then be terrible, incalculable, many houses must inevitably be swept away, and numer- ous lives sacrificed. The excitement throughout the streets in peril may be better conceived than described. Though the month was Xovember, every window was open, the whole length of the Via Dei Bardi, and pale, anxious faces, peered out, watching the rising of the water ; and now and then a frightened voice cried to the gens d'o/nnes in the boats, and in piteous tones asked how great was the danger. Thus passed the day. About midnight the waters ceased to rise. During the night, to our inexpress- ible relief, they gradually subsided. The next day, however, boats still made their way along many of the flooded streets. OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 185 As may be imaginedj the losses and sufferings of of the poor were very great. Florence displayed a charitable munificence, and contributions for their aid flowed in almost as rapidly and abundantly as the waters of the Arno when they caused the calam- ity. Charity, according to her custom in the pres- ent day, assumed the pleasant form of public enter- tainments, as a lure. At some of these, " stars that had set" rose again; among them Piccolomini shone forth with undiminished radiance: We were residing, at the time of the inundation in the Palazzo Sabatier — tlie home of Madame Ungker Sabatier, one of the greatest celebrities in Florence, the distinguished German jprima donna, the contemporary and rival of Malibran. This palace was built in 1400, and belonged at one time to the Bonaparte family. It was the resi- dence of the present Emperor I^apoleon Bonaparte. It passed from the hands of the Bonapartes into those of the Alamanni, thence to the Pitti family, and from the latter was purchased by Monsieur Sabatier. The principal drawing-room of this palace is certainly one of the most remarkable salons in Flor- ence. Its decorations are singularly beautiful and original. The entire wall is coyered with a. canvas overlaid with gold. Upon this golden ground life- 186 OVEBFLOW OF TEE ARNO. sized pictures have been skilfully painted by the eminent French artists Bonquet and Papety. On one side we have Shakespeare — Shakespeare in his youth, by Papety ; beyond, Mozart standing before his piano ; and further on, Don Giovanni, with the fair deluded ones, and the ghost in the background. These paintings were all executed by Papety. Xext we see Dante, led by the spirit of Virgil, and above, Francesca di Rimini boi-ne to heaven. This group is by Bonquet. Farther on, we behold Paphael, standing between Mephistopheles and Faust, who is embracing Mar- garet. Then comes Eaphael, leaning against an easel which holds the unfinished picture of the Madonna delta Seggiola ; above, a half -nude female figure, either representing Fame or La Foniarina, holds a crown over the head of Eaphael. One cannot help being struck by the ^ose of Raphael, which is sin- gularly French / and even his face, though the re- semblance to his portrait has been preserved, is Frenchified in a wonderful manner. ISText appears Michael Angelo, standing between two of his most celebrated statues, conspicuous for their muscular development. Moliere, unfinished, completes the distinguished OVERFLOW OF TEE ARNO. 187 assemblage. The four last-mentioned groups are by Bonqnet, who died while he was painting the Mol- iere. It is a singular coincidence, that Papety also died before his work was completed. Bonqnet left a young daughter, who has been lovingly adopted by Madame Sabatier, an enthusias- tic admirer of genius. This gifted girl, at an early age, testified that the rich inheritance of her father's talents had descended to her. She has now become a highly accomplished artiste, and is at this moment completing a painting which will fill the one space on the golden ground left vacant by her father's death. Thus the hand of the daughter replaces, and it is said most ably, the death-stricken hand of the father. The mantelpiece of this artistic drawing room is particularly :worthy of mention. It may better be called a monument to Fourier than a mantelpiece — a monument of white marble, executed by the French sculptor Ottin. A bust of the great phil- anthropist Fourier looks down upon hasso rilieve illustrative of his peculiar views, explained by in- scriptions in golden letters. On either side, beneath the mantel-shelf, a couple of lovely children, life size, delight the eyes with their innocent and elo- quent beauty. M. Sabatier is a St. Simonian and a Fourierist — » 188 OVERFLOW OF THE ARXO. an erudite scholar, an able writer, a painter of ac- knowledged talent, and a most eloquent conversa- tionalist. Madame Sabatier retired from her profession some twenty years ago. An undying passion for her glorious art daily evinces itself in her quick ap- preciation of youthful talent, and her laAdsh gene- rosity in its cultivation. She devotes the larger portion of her time to training pupils gratis, for the opera or concert room — especially pupils whose limited means would have forbidden the culture of their gifts, save for her unmeasured liberality. TVlien she has the good fortune to be thrown into contact with genius of a liigh order, her exertious to promote its development have no bounds; she will take the pupil to her own home, treat her as a daughter, train her ^vith unwearied patience, scarcely eat, scarcely sleep, because of her great deliojht in her work of love. And when she has fitted the neophyte to encounter her public ordeal, the loving hands of the noble instructress spare no pains in smoothing the rough paths which even the most successful artist must tread, and in plucking awav the thorns which ever srrow amons: the roses with whicli the world crowns its favorites. Several of Madame Sabatier's pupils have OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 189 achieved great triumphs, and hold positions of jprime donne of the first rank. This generous, large-hearted, highly cultivated artiste, at sixty, is full of enthusiasm, vigor, anima- tion, and energy, and retains much of the freshness and buoyancy of her youth. She has not the faint- est comprehension of that vanity which tempts women of lesser renown to conceal their ages. The year of her birth is inscribed beneath her portrait. That of her husband is written beneath his, though he is twenty years her junior. In spite of this dis- parity their tastes are so well adapted, their minds so thoroughly congenial, and their lives so full of active goodness, that their union seems to have been one of rare felicity. The subject of musicians calls to mind a very singular instance of natural musical capacity that has recently awakened our interest. Tobia Sernesi was a granatajo, or vender of berries, about the streets of Florence. His superb voice attracted the attention of some lovers of music, who, after having afforded him a rather hurried and impromptu prep- aration, procured his appearance, in opera, at one of the minor theatres in Florence. In spite of his lack of culture and musical skill, his voice, a pure haritone, was so magnificent, that he became very popular, and after a few seasons was engaged at the 190 OVERFLOW OF TEE ABNO. Pagliano. For some time lie has completely lost Lis mind. AYe have never been able to learn to what cause his mental derangement is attributed. He may often be seen wandering about the streets, fantastically dressed, in Zouave trousers and jacket, witli a red fez upon his head, singing snatches of opera music, looking wildly about him, and making the most extraordinary gesticulations. His sad-looking wife invariably f ollow^s him, at a short distance, always keeping him in sight, and hasten- ing to the rescue whenever he gets into 2cn.j diffi- culty. Strange to say, when he enters the theatre he be- comes perfectly reasonable — that is, in regard to all that concerns his vocation. He goes through re- hearsals with precision, enacts his role at night re- spectably (his talents as an actor are not remark- able), sings the music correctly, and makes the proper entrances and exits without betraying any eccentricity. He is even capable of studying new characters, and of personating them, quite as well as before his misfortune ; and yet out of the theatre he is absolutely insane. Here is a singular study open to the psychologist — one which we hope will attract attention and re- ceive investigation. FEDI THE SCULPTOE. Flokencb, July, 1865. " Have yon seen Fedi's gronp ? " is one of the first questions the lover of art asks of a stranger now visiting Floren ce. Fedi's group is the new marvel of this beautiful city. Indeed, Fedi himself excites in us no measured amount of wonder. lie presents the rare instance of a man who springs suddenly, with one gigantic bound, from absolute obscurity to the topmost round of the ladder of fame. A few years ago Pio Fedi, the Florentine sculptor, was comparatively unknown. He had conceived, studied, and worked — had executed numerous stat- ues, but none of them compelled recognition by the unmistakable impress of genius. Fedi commenced life as an engraver. A disease of theeyesrendered.it necessary for him to abandon this profession. He had reached his twenty-fourth year before he first took clay in his uncertain hands, and received his delightful conviction that the powers X191) 192 FEDI THE SCULPTOR, of the sculptor lay dormant Trithin his soul. Earnest, yet unexpansive in his nature ; quiet, even shrink- ing in his manners, he worked almost in seclusion, unaided, unregarded. The conception of his group, representing the enlevement of Polyxena by Pyrrhus, appears to have been an inspiration as sudden as it was genuine. Fedi shut himself in his studio and toiled incessantly to create in clay the superb ideal that existed Tvdthin his mind. Models, and the best that could be found, were indispensable. He was poor, and to hoard up his narrow means that he might obtain these models he was often forced to deprive himself of the neces- saries of life — sometimes his only food was bread and cheese and salads ; but no privation which the prosecution of his work demanded was too severe. At the end of fourteen months the clay was com- pleted. Pyrrhus has slain Polites, one of the sons of Hecuba, and bears away her youngest daughter, Polyxena, to immolate her upon the tomb of Achilles. The majestic masterpiece won almost instantane- ous recognition from the ablest judges. Crowds flocked to the studio, whose doors until then had so seldom unclosed to admit the stranger. Some raved about the grandeur of the conception, some were enchanted with the finished beauty of the execution, some were amazed at the wonderful anatomy ; but FEDI THE SCULPTOR. 193 all united in declaring that the entire group was a sublime triumph of art. So grand a work must at once be perpetuated in marble; that was the public verdict. A com- mittee was formed to raise a subscription for the purchase of the marble and the payment of work- men. Prince Ferdinand Strozzi was the president of this committee, and Peruzzi its secretary. Thir- teen thousand dollars was the sum required. Only eleven thousand were raised and Fedi himself sub- scribed the two remaining thousands. The cost of a pedestal was furnished by the muni- cipality. Thus the gifted artist, far from profiting by his work, was compelled to advance a large sum from his own slender means to ensure its execution in marble. Our readers are doubtless aware that the sculptor moulds his design in clay, and there his labor ordin- arily ends. After the clay has been cast in plaster, skilful workmen chisel the marble by measurement, and it is seldom touched by the sculptor. But Fedi worked constantly upon the marble himself, leading his workmen, and finishing all the delicate details. He was in love with his glorious creation, and ex- perienced the most enthusiastic delight in beholding, and feeling it grow beneath his own hands. 9 194 FEDI THE SCULPTOR, At the expiration of eight years the stiipendoiia group stood in marble. It has been beautifully said, that clay is the hirth, jplaster the death, and raarhle the resurrection of sculpture. No one can watch the three phases through which a statue passes, without being forcibly struck by the truth of the comparison. The design in clay gives us a strong sense of its intrinsic beauty and ex- pression ; we see it in plaster and it looks dull, pro- saic, lifeless; but in marble it re-awakens into higher, more imposing, more spiritual beauty. The committee which Prince Strozzi headed stipu- lated that Fedi should not repeat his group, in order that Florence might be assured the sole honor of its possession. The Duke of Manchester offered to purchase it from the sculptor for five thousand pounds sterling, but his offer was declined. An ex-mayor of ]^ew York, recently visited Fedi's studio, and was so much struck by the mag- nificence of the colossal group, that he offered twen- ty-five thousand dollars to have it repeated, to adorn the New York Central Park. Only a few days later, a most enterprising gentle- man from Eoston, on beholding the group, offered to pay Fedi fifty thousand dollars if he would repeat it for this same Central Park. Our Boston friend FEDI THE SCULPTOR. 195 proposed to build a pavilion over the group in the Park, and charge a small price for admission, which would soon repay the original cost. Fedi's calm, pleasant face glowed with gratifica- tion when the last munificent offer was communi- cated to him, and he said with animation, " I will make an appeal to the Committee, and see if it will grant me permission — it may — I cannot tell." We urged him to make the appeal without delay, and if it be not rejected, America will be enriched by a work of art which Florentine judges have pro- nounced the most superb of modern times. The subject of the group is taken both from the ^neid of Yirgil and the Hecuba of Euripides. The sculptor has concentrated into one separate actions of the poem and drama. This is the story : Achilles having slain Troilus, one of the beloved sons of Priam and Hecuba, the mother becomes frantic with grief, and determines to revenge herself by means of stratagem. She makes known to Paris that Achilles has solicited the hand of her daughter Polyxena, and that they are to be united in the temple of Apollo, and plans with Paris the capture and death of the invincible hero. Paris chooses the bravest of his Phrygian soldiers, and consults with them in the temple. When Achilles enters to receive the hand of 196 FEDI THE SCULPTOR Polyxena, they rush forth, surround, and slay him. As soon as Troy was taken, Pyrrhus, the son of Achil- les, entered the palace of Priam, to take vengeance upon the murderer of his father. He slew Polites in the presence of his parents, and completed the sacrifice by killing Priam upon the dead body of his son. Thus says Yirgil. The tradition further declares that Pyrrhus, after slaying Priam and Polites, immolated upon the tomb of Achilles the beautiful Polyxena, innocent cause of the great hero's death. The sculptor has supposed that the seizure of Pol- yxena took place immediately after the murder of her father and brother. Thus the situation (if we may use a theatrical expression) is stronger and more thrilling than described by Yirgil or Euripides. The action of the different figures composing the group conveys the idea that Polyxena has been defended by Polites and by Hecuba, and that Pyr- rhus has snatched her first from the hands of her brother and then from those of her mother. Polites lies at the feet of Pyrrhus in death agony, yet vainly endeavoring to rise. Hecuba kneels, almost pros- trate, with her arms lifted despairingly towards her child, as though making a last frantic effort to save her. The delicate, maidenly form of the terrified Polyxena is encircled by the strong arms of the inex- FEDI THE 80ULPTOR. 197 orable Pyrrhus, wlio is bearing her off to the sacri- fice. Luigi Delatre, in his pamphlet upon the most de- sirable locality for the group, says, " the style of Fedi is one entirely new to us, and does not resemble the somewhat material style of Giambologna, nor the conventional style of Canova, nor the rather hard style of Bartolini, but proceeds directly from the study of the works of Phidias, and is the immediate fruit of the progress we have recently made in the recognition of the early Greek statues. This group is the first evidence of a new era in sculpture, and as such will form an epoch in the history of art." The exact locality which the group is destined to adorn has not yet been decided. Facing the Palazzo Yecchio are three noble arcades, tastefully decorated. They were erected by Orcagna, in 1375. At one period they served for the town hall or exchange; now they shelter an imposing assemblage of celebra- ted statues. It is the earnest desire of Fedi that his group should be admitted to one of these arcades — ■ the Loggia dei Lanzi. The choice of this conspicuous and most desirable situation has excited the jealousy, and we may add the decided opposition, of other Florentine sculptors. If this felicitous locality, enriched by the works of the most distinguished ancient and modern sculptors, 198 FEDI TEE SCULPTOR should be selected, Fedi's group will be seen in com- pany with works thoroughly in harmony. Ajax dying recalls Homer's Iliad. Hercules and Xestor bring to mind the "Fnries" of Sophocles, eyen as the rape of Polyxena recalls the ^neid of Virgil and the Hecuba of Euripides. Xear, we haye the rape of the Sabines, by John of Bologna ; the world-re- nowned Perseus, of Cellini ; Judith slaying Holof er- nes, by Donatelli, etc., etc. The Piazza Grand Duca, or Piazza della Signoria, npon which these arcades stand, is an open air mu- seum of art. One of the most striking statues by which it is adorned is the equestrian statue of Cosimo I. by John of Bologna. Xear the palace is the fountain of Xeptune, by Anmianato — a co- lossal Xeptune in a car drawn by horses, with nymphs, satyrs^ and tritons sporting around. On one side of the palace is Hercules slaying Cacus, by Banchinelli ; on the other, the celebrated colossal figure of Dayid, by Michael Angelo. To return to the group of Fedi. It was stipu- lated in his contract with the committee that his group should be cut out of one entire block of white marble, and that the marble should be brought either from Carrara or Serravezza. The block has proyed wonderfully free from all imperfection — a fact which cannot be ascertained until after the FEDI THE SCULPTOR. 199 work of chiselling has made considerable prog- ress. The marble was brought from Carrara. Carrara and Serravezza are the two principal vil- lages of the Apennines. I have already given a description of this most intetesting, picturesque, as well as quaint little vil- lage — Serravezza. ADELAIDE EISTOEI, AXD PICCO- LOMIXI. " August, 1865. Amoxg the many celebrities who have made their homes in Florence is the renowned Italian actress, Adelaide Historij Marchioness del Grillo. The golden harvest reaped by her genius has reared, np- on the picturesque banks of the Arno, close to the beautiful Cascine, one of the most magnificent of mo- dern palaces. It is built of brown stone, and bears her name. The interior is lavishly decorated with su- perb frescoes by Agnani, who holds a prominent rank^ among Italian painters. The subjects repre- sented are scenes from celebrated plays — several from Shakespeare. She has erected another palace in Paris. Ristori has thrown double lustre upon the stage, by her resplendent talents and the shining example of her pure life. Ennobled by marriage, though less than bv nature, she moves amonor Italy's uobilitv, a (200) ADELAIDE RISTOBI AND PIGCOLOMINL 201 proud matron, reverenced by her husband and chil- dren, and worshipped by the crowd. Her striking beauty needs no heightening at the hands of art; it is as remarkable in the drawing- room as upon the stage. Her figure is imposing ; her eyes are large, and brilliantly dark ; her hair is abundant, and of Oriental blackness ; her brow is queenly; her mouth flexible and expressive. Her bearing is chacacterized by native grace and dignity, .and, perhaps, by a slight touch of hauteur. Though she has amassed a large fortune, we learn that she does not propose abandoning her profes- sion, and converting the laurels she has not ceased to gather, during twenty-five or thirty years, into a couch of repose. Her last performance in Florence took place on the 12th of May, 1865, the evening before the great Dante Sex-centenary Festival. Eossf and Salvini, the most eminent of Italian actors, the Italian re- presentatives of Shahesj)eare, were compelled, by the imperative demands of the public, to interrupt their engagements in JSTaples and Milan, to meet Eistori in Florence. For the first time, the three brilliant luminaries shone upon the same stage. The play selected was Sihdo Pellico's tragedy of Francesca da Rimini. The performance took place 202 ADELAIDE RI8T0BI AND PICCOLOMINL at the Kicolini Theatre, and elicited boundless enthusiasm. Histori perilled her popularity in Italy, when she acted in French to gratify a Parisian audience. It is said that the Italians openly avowed their jealous disapproval. We had the gratification of seeing her personate her first role in the French language — that of " Beatrix " in " The Madonna of Art," writ- ten expressly for her by Messrs. '•'Scribe and Se- gouveP The rendition was full of pathos and gran- deur, full of archness, fascination, and reality. The heroine is an actress, a Madonna of purity, who sacrifices all the selfish impulses of her loving heart to the glory of her profession. It is said that the authors purposely depicted Ristori's own character. Her success was triumphant. What command of the French language she has obtained, may be judged from the fact that her hypercritical, and by no means indulgent, Parisian audience applauded her to the echo, and even found a charm in the slight accent which she liad not wholly conquered. The illusion of her acting has since been in some measure destroyed to us personally, by our learning that she belongs to a school of art which we were never able to comprehend. We were told that it is not necessary for her to feel in order to personate feelingly ; it is not necessary that her own heart ADELAIDE BISTOBI AND PIGCOLOMINL 203 and eyes should be full, for her to wring the hearts, and draw tears from the eyes of others. It is said that sometimes after the grandest, most thrilling bursts of pathos, when sobs resounded on every side, and tears had been conjured into the eyes, even of the undemonstrative, Ristori, while her face was concealed from the audience, has found great diver- sion in exciting the merriment of some friend at the side scenes, by the most irresistibly comic looks and gestures. If this be true, and we prefer to give it the benefit of a doubt, it proves that the gifted actress' heart may be in her art^ and not be in her role. Another highly distinguished artist, who has lent an additional charm to Florence, by making the " City of Flowers " her home, is Piccolomini, Mar- chioness of Gaetani. We had last seen her smiling a witching farewell (which had almost the sweet- ness of a closer adieu) at the Academy of Music in ]^ew York ; but her face was not less lively, her manners were not less captivating when our ac- quaintance was renewed in Florence in the autumn of 1864, at her palace in the street '^ of the angels," {via degli angli) ; an appropriate name to designate the locality of a songstress. She had been married four years, and three cher- ub faces gave brightness to the room. 204 ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINL The life of an artist has ever a touch of romance ; but Piccolomini's history is enriched by a more than ordinary mingling of the romantic element. She belongs to an ancient and noble Italian fam- ily — a family which boasts of having had a Pope and a Cardinal among its representatives. The branch from which our artist Piccolomini sprang chanced to be very restricted in its worldly posses- sions — not at all an uncommon circumstance among the Italian nobility. Piccolomini evinced a passion for music and the drama in her very babyhood. She was still a child when she conceived the project of studying seriously for the opera, that she might at once redeem the fortunes of her family, and en- joy the exercise of her gifts. She met with the amount of opposition from her proud relatives and aristocratic friends which was to be anticipated; but the force of that opposition had just as little power as might have been expected, when brought to bear upon the promptings of true genius. At sixteen, she made her debut at Sienna, where her family resided. Her success was decided, though she could hardly have been called brilliant. She studied with zeal and enthusiasm, and made rapid progress in the knowledge of her art. Musicians have never been willing to award her a high rank as a vocalist. Iler voice has no great ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PIGCOLOMINL 205 compass and no startling power, but we find com- pensation for what it lacks, in its varied and won- derful expression, in its melting sweetness, its ringing mirth, its sympathetic magnetism. She sings with her eyes, she sings with her eloquent hands; her whole frame is fermented with the spirit of song, and quivers, heightens, or bends, re- sponsive to the melody that gushes from her lips. She literally and marvellously illustrates the words of the poet : " Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know which is divinest, For her looks sing, too ; she modulates her gestures on the tune. And her mouth stirs with the song-hke song ; and when the notes are finest, ' Tis her eyes that shoot out vocal hght, and seem to sweU them on." But if musical critics will not admit that her singing is "great," no one can deny that her acting is of a superlative order. During an engagement which . she was fulfilling at Rome, an incident occurred which gave coloring to the rest of her life. One evening her attention was involuntarily attracted to a young gentleman, who always sat close to the stage, apparently ab- sorbed in the performance. Night after night he occupied the same seat ; he sat motionless, entranced, as one in a dream — never addressing any one near him, never glancing at the audience, never moving his eyes from the face of Piccolomini. And night 20G ADELAIDE BISTORI AND PICCOLOMINL after night, when she entered upon the scene, her eyes nnconsciously turned to see if that well-known seat was filled — and filled by him. Soon she forgot the audience ; she thought but of him, sang only to him. She had not the remotest idea who he was ; she had no definite presentiment that they would ever meet ; but he was her inspiration, he was her ^ublio — there was no other public for her when he was present. Some weeks later, while she was paying a morn- ing visit to a noble lady, a young gentleman en- tered the room, whom Piccolomini at once recog- nized. The lady presented her nephew. The con- fusion and more than wonted timidity of the youth- ful vocalist were inexplicable. After this, Piccolomini and the young Marquis di Gaetani often met in society. She quickly became aware that she ha^ given him her heart unasked. Her native pride and her maidenly delicacy ren- dered her so fearful that he might divine her prefer- ence — a preference which he had never solicited — that she treated him with marked coldness. He, meantime, worshipped the glorious star at a distance, never daring to dream that its light could be shed on him apart from the crowd. Though he lived but in her presence, though he hung upon her words, though he followed her from city to city, he clier- ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PIGGOLOMINL 207 ished no hope that he could ever rob the public of this idol and call it his own, and his lips remained sealed. Years passed on, and Piccolomini received and refused the most brilliant offers of marriage, and even her intimate friends imagined that her heart was untouched. She was in love with her art, they thought ; there was no room in her soul for any other passion. She appeared in London, and achieved a triumph that far surpassed all former successes. In Amer- ica, also, she created a genuine ficrore. Wherever she travelled she was accompanied by her family — her father, mother, sister, and brother surrounded her, and they knew that the foot of a favored lover « never entered the magic circle. During her visit to America she accidentally learned that the young Marquis was about to be married. The shock of this intelligence was so se- vere, so violent, that it broke the ice beneath which she had hidden her great love, and, in her anguish and despair, she betrayed her secret to a friend. This friend at on(}e occupied herself in discovering whether the report of the Marquis' engagement was true, and found that it was a mere rumor. A mys- tery hangs over her next steps ; but it is very cer- tain that Piccolomini no sooner returned to Europe 208 ADELAIDE BIBTOBI AND PICCOLOMINL than the Marquis became her accepted lover. The mysterious mediumship of the confidante is more than suspected. In a very brief period after her betrothal, the lovely vocalist laid her laurels at the feet of her lov- er, and exchanged her profession — its excitement, its inspiration, its glories — for a wif e^s devotion and a mother's joys. Few women, famed or unfamed, are so bount- eously blessed. She has a charming -home, the most tender and devoted of husbands, three lovely chil- dren, admiring friends without number ; sheh as youth, health, wealth, beauty ; but — but — it is use- less to deny a fact that is so apparent : though she is happy, though no one can doubt her happiness, there are moments when she pines for her artist life ; a sense of listlessness and of overwhelming idleness oppresses her ; her everyday existence does not rouse and stimulate her mind ; does not meet the require- ments of her artistic nature. She is often the vic- tim of ennui / often grows dull, as with a surfeit of happiness. When her talents are called into play for charities, she suddenly revives; a new soul seems breathed into her inanimate frame ; once more she is inspired ; she lives ; she is the Piccolo- mini of old. A few seasons ago, her former manager, Mr. Lum- ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINL 200 ley, was in great tribulation, and on the brink of ruin. Piccolomini persuaded her husband to take her to London, and to allow her to play an engage- ment for the benefit of her old director. There can be no question of the double happiness she experienced — the joy of serving an old and esteemed friend, and the delight of once more revelling in the exer- cise of her great gifts. Speak of that engagement, and her blue eyes fill witli a lustre that rarely illumines them, except when she is singing ; her whole face beams, her lips grow tremulous, and her words are broken by suppressed sighs. The last time she appeared in public in Florence was in Ts ovember. 1S6-1, at a concert given in aid of the sufferers from the inundation. She has always been subject to stage fright, and this terrible nightmare is increased by even a brief retirement from the stage. On the o(;casion of which we speak, when she was summoned to ap- pear, she treml)led visibly, from head to foot. She could scarcely breathe, and was seized with a violent palpitation of the lieart. When she entered upon the stage her agitation was so overpowering, that she could hardly stand, and she had to grasp a piano, which stood near, for support. She was to sing Donizetti's '' Affandomio,^^ and to be accompanied on the harp l)y her master, tlie distinguished Rom- 210 ADELAIDE RISTORI AJiD PICCOLOJfm. anelli, of the Pergola. Almost with the first notes she uttered her terror ran i shed The blood mshed back to her pallid cheeks and lips ; her eves flashed and dilated ; she stood erect, snblinie in her inspired beauty. She sang with vehement passion ; she had forgotten herself ; she had forgotten all but her di- yine art ; the music in her hand was crumpled, nearly torn, by her nervous fingers ; her sotd came down rato her body, and almost grew visible to mor- tal eyes. Her husband sat behind the scenes, not far from our own seat, and where we could watch his face. It was a picture worth studying. Even so he must have Lx>ked in those days in Rome, when his eyes were fastened upon that unknown Piccolomini who was now his wife. I have already given an account of the frightful inmidation, and of the sufferers for whose relief Piccolomini was drawn from her seclusion; and her noble-hearted charity. THE BEAUTIFUL HOEROE. A FLOEENTmE LEGEND. Every one knows that Florence, the gem of Italian cities, is encompassed for miles by grand old villas, dotting lovely valleys and cresting undulating hills. Linked to many of these ancient villas are strange legends — liistories of wrong and revenge, of shame and grief, of heroic endm-ance and cruel martyrdom. One of the most startling of these narratives is asso- ciated with the villa Salviati, on the road to the pic- turesque hill of Fiesole, a little beyond the villa Careggi, where Lorenzo the Magnificent lived and died. The superb villa Salviati is now owned by singers of world-wide fame, and as one gazes upon the handsome portraits that adorn its walls, it is from the noble features of the Italian lyric queen that the eye turns to rest upon a face full of bitterness and woe — a face that has the look of one unloved, yet capable of love, and of desperate deeds through (311) 212 THE BEAU TIF i^L HOBEOB. that love — tlie portrait of the Lady Yeronica, a daughter of the royal house of Massa, the wife of Jacopo Salviati, Duke of San Guliano, to whom the Tilla belonged. Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, there was a grand festival celebrated at this magnifi- cent villa, the last ever given there by a Salviati. The host, then a dashing cavalier in the first flush of reckless manhood, was a few years younger than his wife. She could hardly have been thirty, but the disparity of their ages was rendered striking by the gay insouciance of Jacopo Salviati's handsome, fur- rowless face, and the stern intensity, the wistful eagerness of gaze, that was wearing sharp lines in the countenance of the Lady Yeronica. It was during this feast that one of the spies whom she employed to watch her husband's move- ments delivered to her a small package. The eve- ning was far advanced. Some of the guests had de- parted; others lingered upon, the threshold, to enjoy the glorious panorama revealed by the rising moon. The Duchess could hardly conceal her impatience to have them s^one. She started when the horse of the Diike was brought to the door, and her knitted brow grew visibly darker. Salviati, with smiling suavity, made his apologies to the remaining guests; the THE BEAUTIFUL EOBROR. 213 Grand Duke, his master, required his immediate presence. " The Grand Duke has need of you at this hour ? " the Duchess whispered, or rather hisspd out between her closed teeth. " Why not ? " answered Salviati, aloud. " All my hours are at his command." He bowed courteously, sprang into the saddle, and waved his hand in graceful adieu as he rode rapidly from the door. Even while he was speaking, the lady's fingers clutched the little package she had hidden in her pocket, and as she forced her white lips into a sort of smile, and strung unmeaning words together in idle talk, she could not relax her hold. The last guest turned to depart ; then, without a second's pause, the casket tightly grasped in her trembling hands, she flew up the broad stair to her sumptuous chamber. A child, sleeping beneath a canopy of cerulean silk, was wakened by her sud- den entrance, and lifted up its little face, flushed with the roses of sleep, and watched her with great, wondering blue eyes, like his father's. She pressed the spring of the morocco case, and shivering, gasp- ing, gazed wildly upon something within. It was a countenance of child-like loveliness, shining out from amid the wealth of loosened tresses, as through :^1^ THE BEAUTIFUL HORROR, a clond which the STmset had turned to gold. The eyes were blue, and had that pleadingly pathetic expression which told they had early been familiar with son'ow, though they seemed formed only to brighten with joy. And there was the long, slender thi'oat, slender to a fault, which she had so often heard Salviati admire as an especial chai-m in womanhood. The Duchess raised her eyes ; a mirror opposite reflected her own dark, pain-distorted face, her sunken, lusti*eless eyes, her thick, ungraceful throat. TTith a look c>f passionate despau*. and a fierce ciw, she flung down the miniature and stamped upon it, and tossed her arms above her head, and wheeling round as she staggered towards the bed, suddenly faced the amazed l>\v. '• Oh. mamma, you frighten me I ** he cried ; '* oh, don't I How ugly you look, mamma I " The word " ugly *' had scarcely passed the child's lips, when she struck him upon the mouth. " tTgly I t^gly ' Do I not know it ? Do I not see it i Must even my own child tell me so ? " Then she wept violently, and caught the boy in her arms, and caressed him ^vith a sort of savage re- morse imtil his sobs were hushed. In the street called Via del Pebi^^tri, near the church San ArrJjro^io^ stands the house of Giustino THE BEA UTIFUL HOBNOB. 215 Canacci, one of the most wealthy, most highly hon- ored, of Florentine merchants. It is past midnight, but Caterina Canacci sits in the great salon, in the attitude of one listening for distant sounds — sits with an air of expectation. She goes to the window, and looks out, and listens. The moon has disappeared, the heavens have grown dark, threatening one of those sudden storms so com- mon in Italy. She moves to a door at the further end of the apartment, aiid bends her head to catch the sound from within — the low, regular breathing of one asleep. She softly opens the door, and though the taper burns faintly, it gives light enough to show the benignant features of an old man — the white locks lying upon the pillow, the mild lips parted with a half smile, almost the smile of a sleeping child, it speaks such absence of care, such sweetness of repose. Caterina closes the door noiselessly, for she has heard a light signal, and flits across the spacious apartment, down the great stair, cautiously lifts the chains of the hall door, and draws back the bolt. A cavalier enters, and is joyfully greeted. " Jacopo, how bravely you are attired to-night ! " she exclaimed with child-like admiration, examining his gala dress. " Come in, step softly ; he has only just fallen asleep." 216 THE BEAUTIFUL HORROR Chains and bolts are replaced, and the lovers pass up the stair, and enter the apartment Caterina has just quitted. They sit side by side, and while the visitor twines his fingers in and out among the loos- ened tangles of those soft, bright locks, Caterina prattles to him. Some chance word has touched a chord that has opened her heart, and she is telling of grinding poverty, of hard struggles, of the goodness of Giustino Canacci, who came one day to bid her wear his name with a ring, that he might save her and her kindred from further misery. She loved him for his goodness, she said, and then sorrowfully added, Was she not wrong to permit this gay caval- ier to visit her so often, and very wrong to have given him her word to hide those visits from her husband ? Besides, how little she knew of the cavalier himself . IS'othing but that his name was " Jacopo," and that he looked the noblest gentleman she ever saw. And how had he come to notice her, or she him? Only from seeing each other day after day, as she sat at the casement. She had not meant to drop the flower — indeed she had not — which fell from her hands one day, and which he picked up and gained admission to return; though, after all, he did not give it back, as he well knew. How strange that, from that hour to this, he had come so often, and yet she knew nothing about him ! THE BEA UTIFCfL HORROR. 217 "Except that he loves you!" replied he, fer- vently. Caterina put a rosy finger on his lips, and with the other hand pointing to the chamber where the old man slept, answered reproachfully : " I am his, you know; and you promised never to utter words which I could not hear without a blush, or remem- ber without remorse." The sky had grown darker and darker, and at that moment a sudden peal of thunder shook the old mansion to its base ; then came the quick flash and the crashing peal, followed by another and an- other as violent. In the silence that ensued, a feeble voice could be heard calling " Caterina ! Caterina ! " and there was a sound as of one rising from bed, and groping about the chamber with feeble steps. Caterina started up, trembling helplessly ; but the cavalier, with presence of mind, extinguished the lamp. " Caterina ! Caterina ! " and the advancing steps were still heard. A vivid flash, for a second, flooded the whole room as with daylight, and they saw the old man standing, like a spectre, in the doorway, as plainly as he saw Caterina, pale and cowering, and the handsome cavalier bending aver her. 10 218 THE BEAUTIFUL HOBROR. " Caterina ! Cateriua ! " almost wailed the old man ; " I did not think thou conldst be false to me. Why hast thou done this ? " The tone was one of agony, but not of reproach. Another flash revealed the three again. The old man staggered forward with one arm outstretched toward the cavalier, as though trying to speak. All was dark again, but they heard a hea^-}^ fall, and the next flash showed Giustino Canacci prostrate on the ground. Caterina darted towards him, and fell on her knees. '* Signor ! Signor ! " she sobbed out, " I have erred, but I have not wronged thee, as thou thinkest. I am not false ! Pity me ! pity me ! " The Duke had lighted the lamp. He raised the old man in his strong arms and bore him to the bed. Canacci was not insensible ; he looked in- quiringly^ not angrily, into the stranger's face, and murmured feebly, ^' Who art thou ? " Jacopo did not answer. The dying eyes turned to the weeping Caterina. " Poor lamb ! if I took thee to my fold, it was be- cause I knew it would not be for long — it was only to shelter thee." " And oh ! how ill I have repaid thee ; but only in hiding that Jacopo came to see me, and that — that — " THE BEAUTIFUL HOBBOB. 219 " That he loved thee," replied the old man ; and his lips tried impotently to form themselves into a smile. " So be it ! I only ask that he will guard thee tenderly. I shall not make him wait." He laid the soft little hand which was clasping his in that of the cavalier, who took it in silence. A sharp pang choked his utterance, but if he could have spoken, was it possible to tell the old man that he could not wear this jewel upon his breast ? Was it possible to slay Caterina with that knowledge in such an horn- ? Some good angel prompted him to do so, even then, and save her and himself ; but the opportunity was soon lost. Caterina was bending over a corpse, wildly lamenting, and accusing her- self of having caused the death of her benefac- tor. The events just narrated took place early in '^o- vember. Upon I^ew Year's Eve, a heavy fall of snow, very rare in Florence, kept almost all Italians within doors, for they ever shrink from cold. The snow rendered noiseless the steps of those who ven- tured forth, and deadened even the sound of car- riage wheels. Two men, shrouded in long cloaks, were hiding in the Via dei Pelastri, near the house where Giustino Canacci had dwelt. Once or twice they 220 THE BEAUTIFUL HOBBOR stole from their place of concealment, as tliongli to reconnoitre, and looked down the street. If a stray foot passenger chanced to get a glimpse of them, he quickened his pace with a shudder. The trade of the assassin was well known in Florence, but no one dared to meddle with another seeking for vengeance. A carriage approached noiselessly. The man who was playing the part of coachman was evi- denly nnused to such an office ; he drew up awk- wardly a few paces beyond Canacci's former resi- dence. A lady, wearing a black mask, looked out for a moment, when the carriage stopped, then spoke in a whisper to one within. There was no answer, but a man put forth his hand, opened the door, leapt out, and walked boldly up to the dark angle where the two bravoes were hiding. This man was in no way disguised, except by the fumes of liquor, which usually enveloped him, and brought to the surface the most brutish part of his nature. Almost any passer by would have recognized him as Masso, a low, lawless fellow, the only son of Gius- tino Canacci by a first marriage. He had never looked with favorable eyes upon the pretty Caterina, but when he learned that the bulk of his father's large fortune was left to her, only an Italian can conceive how he hated her, and THE BEAUTIFUL HORBOR. 221 how open lie was to overtures from those who shared that hatred. Masso exchanged a few words with the men and then returned to the carriage. " Signora, he has not gone yet." The lady did not reply, but signalled to him to resume his seat in the coach. They had not waited long when the door of Giustino Canacci's house opened, and the lamp, car- ried by a beautiful girl attired in mourning, fell upon the radiant face of a cavalier who was care- fully enveloping himself in his cloak. As he passed the threshold he turned and tenderly kissed her forehead. The lady, who was leaning far out of the car- riage, drew back and clinched her hands until the nails pierced the flesh and blood marked the press- ure of every finger. The cavalier went rapidly on his way. As soon as he was out of sight, Masso again descended from the carriage, and knocked at the door. Caterina had not had time to return to her apartment, for it was her voice that answered, without opening, " "Wlio is there 1 " " It is I — Masso ; open the door." The order was at once obeyed. 222 THE BEAUTIFUL HORROR. '' Come to the salon : I have something to say to Ton," said Masso. Caterina, bearing the light, led the way to the salon, having fii'st carefully closed the door. "Wlien they entered the room, Masso said : '• TTait for me here a moment — I have f oro-otten c something." Caterina nodded a smiling assent, and seated hei*self. Masso returned to the street, handed the lady fi'om the carriage, and signalled the two bra- voes. All four entered the house, and the door was closed and barred. Masso led the way to the apart- ment where Caterina sat. The masked lady en- tered first ; the three men grouped themselves near the entrance, but she strode up to Caterina. '- Vv^hat is this ? TTho are you, madam ? '' in- quired Caterina, somewhat startled, though not evincinor anv o:reat alarm. The lady reinoved her mask. '' Do you not loiow me ? " " Xo, truly, Signora," answered Caterina ; but her voice trembled, for the satanic expression of the woman who stood before her might well have terrified a braver heart. " I am the wife of the Duke San Giuliano." Caterina did not change color; she simply bowed, THE BEA UTIFUL EOBBOR. 223 and her blue ejes looked the inquiry she was too courteous to speak. " Who left this house a few moments ago \ " asked the Duchess. Caterina did not answer. " It was your lover ! " shrieked the Duchess. Caterina dropped her eyelids silently, but with- out shame ; she had no thought of denying the fact. " The Duke, San Giuliano ? " added the Duchess, fiercely. Then Caterina gave a violent start, and her face blanched- with terror, as she exclaimed, — "IsTo! no! Oh, no!" " I tell you yes — I saw him ? My eyes are not false as lie is^ and as yoic are I " Caterina's limbs refused to support her, and she dropped, half kneeling, half crouching, before the Duchess. " You mistook — you mistook ! Jacopo, who left me but now, has no wife. When I put off these weeds he will have one. He has told me a hundred times that he never loved any woman save me. It was the tr%ct7i, I knew. You have mistaken him for some one else." Then the lady's fury burst all bounds. She sprang toward the girl, and seizing her by the 224: TEE BEA UTIFUL EORROR throat — that beautiful throat, which her husband must haA'e thought of when he so lauded slender throats — plunged her dagger in Caterina's breast, exclaiming, — '^ Two wives he cannot have ! Thus I rid him of the one whom he dared to say he loved! He has only one left to love." The wound was not mortal, and Caterina, with the strength of fear, struggled to her feet, and freed herself from the grasp of the frantic woman — but she encountered the bravoes ! Masso went forth to see that her cries had not been heard. The men soon followed him. After a long interval the door opened again, and the lady appeared. She carried in her hand a small black bag, entered the carriage, laid the bag on her knees, and held it there as she was driven back to the Yilla Salviati. The Duke woke early the next morning, and summoned his valets. It was ]N"ew Tear's Day, and all the world would throng the court to pay homage to the sovereign. Salviati bade his valets bring forth his most costly attire. lie was merry that morning, and liberal because he was merry; he flung to each a large piece of gold to celebrate the THE BEAUTIFUL HORROE. 225 " Caj>o ^d Anno " (^ew Year), for it was a year which promised much happiness^ he said. He was humming a popular love song, when some one tapped lightly on the door. " Come in ! " A servant entered, bearing a blue velvet basket, embroidered with seed pearls, and apparently well filled with fine cambric. The cavaliers of those days delighted in fine linen and rich laces. " My lady sends to my lord Duke this E"ew Year's gift." " Thank your lady, and say I wish her a happy New Year. This is for thee." He tossed the at- tendant a piece of gold. The laces v/ere very costly. Upon the top lay a superb handkerchief ; then came a rich collar and cuffs ; he was trying to lift out the next article, but the lace must have caught — it appeared to be fast- ened. He plunged his hand in the basket to loosen it. His fingers came in contact with something very soft and silky ; the touch, thoicgh familiar, thrilled him like an electric shock. He drew out his hand, but, tangled about the fingers, was a long, long tress of burnished gold. Terror stricken, he tore away the cambric which covered something in the bottom of the basket. Oh, heautiful horror! that face — the delicate features white as wax, 10* 226 TKE BEAUTIFUL HORROR the sightless, glassy, blue eyes, opened wide — the head of his beautiful Caterina lay before him ! With the savage roar of a wild beast, Salviati rushed from the apartment to that of his wife. The Duchess was gone. She had only returned home the night previous, prepared that basket, left it in charge of a servant, and fled. The false husband and revengeful wife never met again. Salviati, after wandering about the world, resting nowhere, and finding no peace, haunted by that beautiful horror, died in his prime. Veronica took up her residence at her father's court. Often and often she prayed for pardon ; but Salviati was deaf to her supplications. Her life drao^ired on to extreme old asre. She passed her davs in acts of charity, which brouo^ht comfort to Other hearts, but hers was evermore comfortless. GINEVRA. > » » . There is an antique street in Florence, running from the Piazza del Duomo to the Via del Oche^ which bears the startling title of Via della Morta — Street of the Dead. The original name of Via del Campanile was changed to Via della Morta to commemorate the resuscitation of the beautiful Ginevra, who, having escaped from the tomb, wandered through the streets by night, seek- ing that shelter which the terrors of superstition de- nied her. The story of Ginevra, even more thrilling and singularly romantic than that of Komeo and Juliet, or Ippolito Buondehnonte and Dianora dei Bardi (whom T. Adolphus TroUope styles the " Tuscan Romeo and Juliet"), can hardly be called a tradi- tion or legend. It is, beyond question, a true his- tory, and has been chronicled by various reliable Italian historians — Lastri^ Boiidinelli, del Mig- liori; but the most minute account is that given by Manni in his " Veglie Piacevole^ 228 GINEVBA. Leigh Hunt has incorporated some of the chief in- cidents of the life of Ginevra in his drama entitled ^' A Legend of Florence ; " a play which was en- acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, 1840, when the role of Ginevra was exquisitely personated by Miss Ellen Tree. The distinguished author has, however, made a most unaccountable error in regard to the period in which Ginevra lived. According to the above-men- tioned historians, the most remarkable event of her life occurred in 1396, but Leigh Hunt states the time of his play to be " during the Pontificate of Leo X." Pope Leo X. was not born until 1475, and he did not become Pope until more than a century after the death of Ginevra. Strange to say, Leigh Hunt does not seem to have been ac- quainted with some of the most striking features of her history. If he had been, he could hardly have omitted in his play an element so highly dramatic as the citing of Ginevra and her early lover, A?ito- nio Rondinelli, before the tribunal of her enraged husband, Francesco degli Agolanti ; Ginevra's eloquent recital of her wrongs ; the wonder and sympathy of the Florentine public, and the extraor- dinary decision of the judges. The Rondinelli were a very ancient and much- esteemed Florentine family. They gave to the Ee- GINEVBA. 229 public tliirtj-six Priori, twelve Gonfalonieri (may- ors), and one Senator, or Commendatore. The name Roi%dinelli signifies swallow^ and the JRondi- nelli coat-of-arms was a swallow upon a field of gold. Towards the close of the fourteenth century, the young Antonio Bondinelli became enamored of Ginevra degli Almieri, a lady of high lineage. Bernardo, the father of Ginevra, a stern, hard, grasping man, was at variance with the Eondinelli family (an occurrence almost too common be- tween noble Florentine families, in those days, to be worthy of mention). The youthful Ginevra warmly responded to the passion her lovely person and lovelier character had kindled; and notwith- standing the division between their families, the trusting lovers basked in the delicious hope that they would one day be united. Antonio sought Bernardo degli Almieri, and in spite of a frigid and frowning reception, boldly avowed his affection for Ginevra, and prayed that the discord between their houses might be melted into harmony by her fair hand, clasped, before the altar, in his. The father repulsed him rudely, and forbade all intercourse between the lovers. Then Ginevra, gaining courage through her dismay, went to her father and implored him to hear her — told 230 GINBVRA him of her love for Antonio, and besought him not to separate them. Her father tm-ned an obdurate ear to her pleadings, and drove her from his pres- ence. Ginevra mourned and pined for her ban- ished lover without disguising her sorrow. Ber- nardo augared from this open grief that she cher- ished a hope that he would be moved to i*evoke the sentence of separation. To dispel any such base- less delusion, he determined to give her in marriage mthout delay. FTancesGo degli Agolanti was one of the most opulent men in Florence. From certain facts, how- ever, related by historians, it may be inferred that he was as miserly as he was wealthy. Ginevra, far from listening to his wooing, turned from him with unconcealed aversion ; but this did not prevent Agolanti's demanding her hand of her father, who promised it willingly. When her approaching betrothal was announced to Ginevra, she made reso- lute resistance, and conjured her imperious father not to add this new affliction to the one whiqli had already bereft her-of her happiness. His reply was to hasten the preparations for her nuptials. When Ginevra found her struggles fruitless, she fell into a state of deep dejection and listless apathy. She no longer seemed to notice what passed around her, and was led to the altar unresistingly, as though her GINEVRA. 231 faculties bad become torpid — as if sbe was no longer capable even of tbe sensation of pain. After Jier mamage, this inert and passive condi- tion became confirmed. She moved about like a being whose soul was absent, and went through the ordinary routine of life mechanically, almost uncon- sciously. She seldom spoke, or smiled, or even lamented her fate aloud. Yery soon she was at- tacked by an hysterical affection which induced long swoons of frequent occurrence. The physi- cians who attended her pronounced her disease con- sumption. At the end of four yeairs, she one day fell into a swoon, from which all efforts to revive her proved ineffectual. The medical men, after having exhausted their skill without result, informed her husband that she had expired. At sunset on the evening of the same day, she was carried, with great pomp, upon an open funeral car, to the family vault of the Agolanti in the ceme- tery of the Duomo. Here, according to custom, her fair body was laid upon a shelf, among the mouldering skeletons of her husband's ancestors. The month was October. The moon shone brightly that night. The stone placed at the mouth of the tomb had not been re-cemented. The masons were to perform the work on the morrow. Through the aperture left by the loosened and ill-fitting stone. 232 GmEVRA. the moonlight streamed, and lighted np tlie dismal Taiilt. Ginevra from her long swoon had sunk into a deep trance, bnt life was not extinct. In the mid- dle of the night she feebly stirred, and slowly recov- ered her consciousness. At iu-st, in her half -wak- ened and tremulously weak state, she thought her- self oppressed by a frightful dream. But as her senses fully returned, she saw the skeleton forms with which she was holding companionship, and attempted to start up, but fell back powerless and in great affright ; for she now discovered that her hands and feet were bound. Then, for the first time, she beheld the grave-clothes in which she was attired, and knew by them, and her bandaged feet and hands, that she must have been supposed to be dead, and had been buried. Fear lent her new strength, and after many despairing efforts she suc- ceeded in loosening the bandages, and disentangling herself from the swathing folds of her long shroud. She stood up, trembling and appalled, but, guided by the moonlight, staggered to the five steps before the entrance, and crept up to the stone which barred her exit. To remove it with those delicate and feeble hands seemed impossible ; but at such mo- ments the frailest natures are endowed with super- human strength. After several futile attempts, GINEVEA. 233 which with every failure increased her horror, the stone was rolled over, and she stood in the moon- light, in the open cemetery, freed — saved from a living tomb, probably from a death of maddening terror. With feeble steps she hurried through the streets, her long shroud trailing on the ground, her white drapery floating around her, and her ghastly face looking unearthly in the moonlight. She was seek- ing her home — the home from which she had that morning been borne as a corpse. What wonder that the midnight stragglers who met her thought that they saw an apparition, and fled affrighted ? At last she reached Francesco Agolanti's house, in the street called by the name of his family, and, knocking, sank upon the threshold, crying out to her husband to admit her quickly. The window of Agolanti's chamber opened upon a balcony which commanded the front entrance. He heard the knock and the pleading cry, and hastened to the balcony. Ginevra looked up, and called to him with a feeble, imploring voice. He recognized the grave-shrouded form, the white face, and the plaintive tones, and was seized with frantic alarm, for he believed him- self visited by the ghost of his buried wife. Mak- ing the sign of the cross repeatedly, and with great rapidity and vehemence, he bade her depart and 234 GINEVBA. leave him iu peace, promising that abmidant masses should be said for the rest of her soul. Ginevra, in an agonized voice, replied that she lived, and en- treated to be admitted. Her husband, more terrified than ever, rushed into his chamber, closed the window, sprang into bed, and covering his head with the clothes, to shut out the terrible sound of that low, piteous plaint, recited the De Prqfundis until all was silent again. The hapless Ginevra rose from the ground with difficulty, and with tottering feet dragged herself to the door of her father's house in the Mercato Yecchio, behind S. Andrea. Again she knocked, and prayed to be allowed to come in ; but when her summons roused the domestics, and her father himself, she was again mistaken for an apparition ; the door was closed upon her, and her father and liis servants retreated in alarm. Ginevra lay upon the cold steps, almost insensible, and in despair. All who saw her fled, terror-stricken, from her presence. She had returned from the grave, and no one would grant her earthly shelter. ]^o OJie? Was there not one who would never bid her depart, even should he imagine that she had come to him as a spirit ? With that thought she once more struggled to her feet, and made her toil- GINEVBA. 235 some way through the deserted streets to the Piazza San Lorenzo, where dwelt Antonio Rondinelli. Antonio still loved her with unabated ardor, and had taken a vow to be constant to her memory, and never to marry. The tidings of her death had reached him, and he had not sought his couch that night. He was sitting weeping, and thinking of his doubly lost Ginevra. Her strength was now so far exhausted, that she could only knock very feebly ; but Antonio heard the sound, and passing out into liis balcony, saw the grave-clad figure, and the upturned, colorless face of Ginevra. She faintly murmured his name. He, too, believed that it was a spirit — but it was the spirit of his beloved, and the sight and sound filled him with transport. Rapidly and joyfully he de- scended, and threw open the entrance door, and stooped to raise the cold, shrouded form that lay prostrate at his feet. What painter, what poet could picture his amazement and his ecstasy ? Ginevra lived, and was restored to him ! He summoned his mother, with whom he resided, and assembled his family to rejoice with him, and to listen to Ginevra's tale. Then Antonio bound them all by an oath to silence, and sent a faithful servant to replace the stone upon the opening of the vault, and to remove every trace of the fugitive's 236 GINEVRA. footsteps. Meantime the exhausted Ginevra, now indeed almost dying from the neglect and hardships she had endured, was laid in a warm bed, and ten- derly ministered to by the mother of Antonio. For four days Ginevra's life seemed like a flickering can- dle, which a single breath might extinguish. On the fifth day she gradually revived, and before long was able to rise and converse. She then pondered deeply and sadly upon the only honorable com-se that was left to her, and with gentle firmness aimounced to Antonio, that, as she could never return to her brutal husband's protec- tion, she felt herself compelled to enter a convent. Antonio, hurled from his sudden happiness into an abyss of despair, implored her to revoke this cruel decision — cruel not to him only, but to herself. He brought forward manifold arguments to con- vince her that the tie w^hich bound her to As^olanti was dissolved by a death and burial which all the world believed to be real, and entreated her to be- come the wife of one who had never loved but her, and had claimed her for his own before she was sold to Agolanti. Ilis mother and family joined their prayers to his, and Ginevra listening to them, and to the pleadings of her own heart, slowly con- sented. It is recorded that Antonio and Ginevra were GINEVEA. 287 privately united by the public notary, wlio was bound to secrecy. Meantime all Florence was listening to descrip- tions of the ghost of Ginevra, which so many persons had beheld passing through the streets, and which her husband testified had appeared to him, and her father made known had also visited his door. The two families ordered a bountiful number of masses to be said for the repose of the unquiet spirit. Agolanti now offered the jewels and wardrobe of Ginevra for sale. His great wealth did not prevent his evincing this lack of reverence for her memory, impelled by a sordid love of gain. Eondinelli, as soon as he heard of the proposed barter, hastened to the residence of Agolanti, and purchased every ar- ticle his newly-made wife had possessed, paying the most extravagant prices to prevent the smallest ob- ject which had been consecrated by her use from passing into the hands of strangers. For some months Ginevi-a lived in entire seclu- sion, her existence unknown to any but her hus- band's family and a few trustworthy domestics. But neither she nor her husband were satisfied with this mode of life. Rondinelli saw no reason why he should not appear before the world as the proud husband of so fair and beloved a wife. Ginevra, 238 QINEVBA. too, detested the constant stratagems to which they were obliged to resort, and resolved to go forth boldly. In the revivifying atmosphere of calm hap- piness and satisfied love, she had risen out of the passive inertness which had paralyzed her faculties during the four miserable years which she had passed under the roof of Agolanti, and her character reassumed its genuine traits. Frank, ardent, and confident, hating dissimulation, and having firm faith that the step she had taken was fully justified, she exhibited neither fear nor hesitation, and was ready to brave the ordeal of public opinion. Accordingly, one morning, Antonio and Ginevra were seen in the Boboli Gardens. Ginevra was leaning on her husband's arm, his sister accompanied them, and a servant followed. They encountered friends, whose amazement rendered them almost speechless. But Ginevra, whenever she saw she was recognized, paused, and courteously addressed her former acquaintances. She told them that her husband had not only hastily buried her alive, without the proper investigation which might have proved that she was not dead, but that when she sought his door, and that of her father, she had been rejected by both ; and that it was not the fault of husband, father, priests, or physicians that she was not in reality dead; for dead she must 9 to Oil GIIsfEVBA. 239 shortly have been but for him who alone had truly loved her, and opened his door and his arms to receive her, whether she came in the flesh or the spirit; and therefore it was to him that her life belonged, and to him it had been consecrated. Francesco degli Agolanti soon heard of his wife's re-appearance, of her defiant words and her new marriage. Finding that the tale was true, he made an appeal (with great clarrioT^ as the Italian histo- rians say) to the courts of justice, to induce them to restore Ginevra to him, her rightful husband. Ginevra and Antonio were suiilmoned to appear before the ecclesiastical court, over which the arch- bishop presided. The excitement ran high through- out Florence, and the court was surrounded by an indignant and enthusiastic populace, who denounced Agolanti and Bernardo, and openly declared their sympathy for Antonio and Ginevra. Before the tribunal Ginevra told her tale bravely and with great feeling, and made known her determination to resist her former husband's effort to reclaim her, after he had twice placed her life in peril, had shut her up in the grave, and had closed his doors upon her ; adding, that if she should be separated from Antonio, she would take refuge from Agolanti in a convent. The cause was ably argued on both sides. But 24:0 GINEVRA. the judges, in tliose times, hardly dared to gainsay the outspoken verdict of the many-mouthed public, which was apt to decide for them what was justice, and to enforce that justice, when not summarily dealt out, by riot and bloodshed. The decision given will seem almost incredible in our days. The marriage between Agolanti and Ginevra was declared void and null, through her supposed death and actual burial ; and the court decided that she was free to form other ties, accord- ing to her good pleasure ; that the ties she had contracted were legal ; and that she was now the lawful wife of Antonio Rondinelli ! LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. PAET I. ''' Lcb Belle Clementine /" That was the only name by which she was known when she stood be- fore the French tribunal — the only name by which she is designated on the records of the criminal court of Paris. The French law makes a lenient provision by which a culprit's family is spared un- deserved shame, and thus the real name of " La Belle Olementine^'' throughout her trial, was kept a profound secret. Clementine belonged to one of those noble, but decayed, families, whose exclusiveness had not sur- vived its wealth. It was not difficult to obtain ad- mission into the salons which the degenerate no- bility frequented. The handsome, daring, dashing Chevalier de la Bocheforte found an easy entree^ and nobody troubled himself about the Chevalier's antecedents. ^^ La Belle Clementine'''' had hardly completed (2-11) 242 LA BELLE CLEXENTL^E, her seventeenth, vear Tvhen they met. De la Roche- foite was qnicklv and geniiinelj enamored of the peerless beauty, and Clementine was too impassion- ate, imaginative, ardent, not to be captivated in torn. Her beanty vras all the more striking, because wholly nnlike the French type. Those changeful eyes, the positive color of which might have been gray, but appears now blue, now violet, now hazel, and now black ; that luxuriant hair, revealing a variety of tints — bright chestnut near the roots, and the hue of satiny straw towards the ends; the finely shaped nostrils, that expand when the eye dilates ; the transparent skin, that shows the delicate veins beneath, betrays the faintest blush of emotion, and renders pallor more marble-like when the blood re- treats — these were eloquent signs of the tempera- ment most dangerous to womanliood before its eai-s are opened to the heaven-commissioned monitor within. For the Che^•alier de la Kochef orte to have offered himself openly as a suitor to Clementine, would have entailed the necessity of making Icnown his birth, his means of livelihood, his actual position ; and there were verv srood reasons whv these should remain enveloped in myster}'. Singular as it may seem, vanity, and perhaps a touch of latent lionesty, LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 243 prompted him to test the depth of Clementine's in- fatuation, and the straggle of his own power, by thrilling her ears with the romantic narrative of his lawless youth, and the history of daring exploits, to which the administrators of justice w^ould have given a somewhat sterner name. Did Clementine shrink from the man who stood before her an avowed . criminal ? Alas ! it is as sad as true, that a large class of women are subject to a sort of demoniacal possession wdiich takes the form of frantic admiration for a \dllain-hero. The awe, dread, and wonder, and with which they regard these fascinating demi-devils, only strengthen the un- reasoning passion. Clementine, when she heard from her lover's own lips the story of his unworthi- ness, was more madly in love with him than before. She was -ready to fly with him, to cling to him, to share his dangers and be covered with his shame, to risk life itself by his side. A secret union in France was out of the question for one who had not reached her majority. They fled to England, where the marriage was duly sol- emnized, returned to Paris, and lived in seclusion, undiscovered by her relatives. Three years after " La Belle Clementine " be- came the wife of " Yictorien le Yictorieitx^'^ as he w^as styled by tlie band of rufiians whom he ruled 21i ZA BELLE CLEMENTINE. with a rod of ii'on, and who idolized him for liis braverr, a robbery was committed on the prem- ises of a weahhy miser, followed by murder — a mm*der which was supposed to have been uninten- tional, and perpetrated in self-defence. The offen- dei-s were traced to the abode of theii* chief ; Yic- torien and his band were arrested, and with them " La Belle CleTYientiiier The trial lasted many days, and though it took place with ^' closed doors," veiy little influence was needed to obtain admission, and the comt was thi'onged. Clementine's remarkable beauty, her youth, her apparent unsophistication, and her passionate at- tempts to shield her husband, moved even her judges to compassion. Tictorien and several of his comrades were foimd guilty of murder, and sentenced to the guillotine; ^^ La Belle Clementine^'' and the othei*3 were condemned to imprisonment for life. Clementine was thrown into a state of frenzy by the sentence passed upon her husband, and pit- eously implored to bo allowed to share his fate ; since the judges thought her gnilty, let the guillo- tine be her doom also ; the sentence they had passed on her was no punishment — for if Tictorien died, the whole world would be but one vast, solitary LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 245 prison-house, wliicli tlieir sentence could not render more desolate. Her pathetic appeal was not one to be granted, but it heightened the agitation visible throughout the court. That emotion had in one instance been so violent, that when the jury pronounced the verdict of " guilty," a young man fell to the ground, and' was borne forth insensible. That night De la Eocheforte swallowed an acid, which he had himself prepared by steeping a sou in vinegar, and was found dead in his cell. When the tidings were communicated to Clemen- tine, they seemed to benumb her intellect ; she sank into a state of physical and mental prostration, and was hardly conscious of her removal to the Maison Centrale at Fontevrault. An attack of brain fever ensued, and when she rallied, her body alone ap- peared to have returned to life — her soul remained afar off. Happily she found a pitying friend in the kindly physician of the prison. He advised her to peti- tion to be sent to Cayenne, where she would at least have more freedom, be allowed to breathe the fresh air, and have duties assigned her which would help to divert her thouo-hts from brooding: over the mis- erable past and dreary future. Clementine, grate^ ful for any change, and believing that none could 2^6 LA BELLE CLEMENTi:!^E. be for the woi*se, made the application. The request was granted without difficulty, and the stricken, doomed, desolate gii-l made a tedious voyage to the French penal settlement in South America, which is a less intolerable home to the convict than the prisons of France. Ou the small, arid, sun-scorched island of Cayenne, Clementine thought to pass the remainder of her days. PAET n. We have already mentioned that when ''' La Belle Clemerhtine '' was pronounced guilty, there was one pei-son among the sympathizing crowd so strongly moved that he fell prostrate and unconscious. It was the Viscount Eugene de Rosier, a youth of eighteen. Every day, while the trial lasted, he had presented himself at the doors loug before they were opened, and, being the fii-st to enter, he al- ways made his way to the same seat — one where he could face the prisoners at the bar. His agita- tion when La Belle Clementine appeared in the dock was often so imcontrollable, that it drew tlie eyes of the court upon him. When appearances seemed to criminate her, he clenched his hands, gasped for breath, and sometimes tore open his vest LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 247 as if he were stifling. His eager eyes never turned fi'om her face, and now and then it seemed as though magnetically they drew her eyes to look his way. In leaviuo- the court he was often heard assertinoj his firm belief in her innocence, quoting circum- stances which proved that she could not be guilty, and vehemently protesting that her only crime con- sisted in loving too faithfully and too blindly a vil- lain. Friends inquired if the young Yiscount knew " La Belle Clementine " personally. " Know her ? Yes, — IN'o," he answered, incoherently. That is, he knew her ; for who could listen to all those minute details of her life, and feel that he did not loiow her ? Who could look upon her wondrously beauti- ful countenance until it became so familiar that it filled his mental vision night and day, and say that he did not know her ? But, except before that dreadful tribunal, they had never met; he had never addressed one word to her ; and yet he was sure she knew of his sympathy, his devotion, his prayers that she might be proved innocent. Their eyes had met — she had thanked him by a grateful look — had told him of her innocence by the indig- nant flush that mantled her cheek when she was ac- cused. No jury would dare to commit such a 2-iS LA BELLE CLE2IE2s^TiyE. wrong as to find a verdict of " gnilty -' against lier. ^When tlie last day of the trial came — when he discovered his error, and heard that appalling word pronounced, the yoimg Yisconnt started fi*om his seat, trembling, and deadly pale. lie strove to speak, bnt the words tiinied into a hoarse cry, which broke the solemn stillness that followed the verdict. Then came the sound of a fall, and all eyes, even those of Clementine, the convicted, were turned up- on the youth, whom the gens d/armes carried insen- sible fi-om the court. ^Yhen he recovered from his swoon, the vounor Viscount raved wildly against the injustice of the law, declared that he would see Clementine again, would give her the assurance that there was one who would move heaven and eaith to get her sen- tence revoked, or enable her to escape. Ilis fi-iends only laughed at his vague thi-eats, and his parents secretly remarked how well enthusiasm became him — how his eves flittered with an unwonted lii^ht, vv'hat a torrent of eloquence burst from his lips. But suddenly Eugene disappeared, lie made no preparations, left no letter, had not supplied him- self with money, and his purse was usually empty. Aoronized bv terrible fears, his father c»ffered a large reward for his discovery, and he was soon LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 249 traced by the police. On the road to Fontainebleau they found an exhausted, half -starved youth, whose college dress betrayed him. He had wandered three or four days and nights without food or shelter, determined to reach the Maison Centrales and to see Clementine. He had planned various extravagant modes of obtaining an interview, and he was within sight of the walls of the city, when is over-taxed strength abandoned him, and he sank by the wayside, unable to drag himseK a step farther. In spite of his pathetic entreaties to be al- lowed to complete his journey, he was re-conducted to his home. It was only too evident that his mind had become seriously unsettled by what French physicians call the idee fixe. For years he was kept under the sur- veillance, first of a tutor, then of a constant com- panion. IN'otwithstanding his mental infirmity, he distinguished himself at college. He also excelled in fencing, boxing, running, leaping ; he was a dar- ing equestrian, and one of the most skilful swords- men in Paris ; he cultivated all gymnastic exercises with singular perseverance, as though he had some hidden object in view, and expected an hour would come when he would fight against fearful odds, overleap the most most formidable barriers, make his escape, and fly unimpeded by heavy burdens, -ti* 250 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE, Ilis father died, leaving the son but a small patri- mony with his title. At last the irritating watch- fulness which had thrown a restraint over Eugene's actions was relaxed. He had always delighted to exhibit his strength of muscle. He suddenly in- vented a new mode for its display at the Jockey Club, of which he was a member, by bending a Napoleon between his Unger and thumb — gold be- came wax in his iron grip. This feat he performed many times, and< after bending the coin, always presented it to one of the wondering lookers-on, and received another ^N'apoleon in exchange. A young man from Boii-deaux, wdio was making his first visit to Paris, was so much struck by the ease with which Count de Rosier folded up these coins, that he frequently desired him to repeat the experiment, always securing the bent coins as tro- phies, and giving others in exchange. It chanced, after a time, that the young Bordeaulaise fell short of money, and took the little stock of bent ISTapoleons which he had kept as curiosities to the money-changers. The information which h e recei ved on presenting them caused him to rush to the club in a state of fury. There he found the Count sit- ting in his usual seat, and in an attitude which had lately become habitual to him — that of a man who LA BELLE CLEMENTLNE. 251 was waiting, waiting for some one or something — - always waiting ! His face brightened strangely as lie saw the flushed and enraged countenance of the Bordeau- laise, and grew brigliter still, when the young man planted himself in front of the Count, and requested the gentlemen present to bear witness that every Napoleon which Count de Hosier had bent with such marvellous facility, and in exchange for which he had received good money, was counterfeit ! The Count rose, bowed courteously, and replied, with an air of self-congratulation, " You are right, sir ; they are counterfeit coins, every one of them! I freely admit the fact." He spoke in a tone of triumph. "Sir," exclaimed his exasperated accuser, "do vou know that this is a crime for which I shall bring: you to justice? " " You are bound to do so, sir," replied the Count, complacently. " Do you suppose that I am jesting, that you take it so coolly?" returned the Bordeaulaise. "Are you aware that you ^vill probably be transported ? " " Yes — to Cayen;ie ! that is all I ask. Heaven Imows I have done enou2:h to be sent there ! But I have l)cen so unfortunate, nobody would ever find inc out I " 252 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. The gentlemen who had formed a circle around De Hosier looked at each other aghast. Seeing that no one moved, he asked indig- nantly : " Why am I not arrested ? Have I not admitted that the coins were false ? " At this crisis an elderly gentleman suggested that the Count should be locked in the room where he then was, and begged the other members of the club to withdraw to an adjoining apartment. ^Ylien they were assembled there he strenuously advised, that, before sending for the officers of justice. Dr. Blanche, the celebrated physician for the insane, should be summoned. The Count sat waiting, , with that air of eager expectation which had grown so familiar to his features. But when the door opened, and he turned to welcome an officer, he encountered a physician. After a brief interview. Dr. Blanche informed the members of the club that the unfortunate Count was undoubtedly laboring under monomania, and that his fixed determination to behold and succor a being who had made an indelible impression on his youthful imagination would cause him to com- mit any act of madness. He added that there was but one chance of cure — a faint one, perhaps, but LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 253 still chance — and that lay in the gratification of the ardent desire which he had cherished for full twenty years. The Count fancied that in beholding "Z(^ Belle Clementine " he would see the young and beautiful woman whose image was ever present to his eyes. But twenty years had elapsed. Clem- entine must now be forty — time, toil, exposure to a tropical sun, and the wretched existence she must have led, had doubtless destroyed her personal charms. The presence of the real being would de- throne the ideal, and dissipate the Count's infatua- tion. The benevolent doctor concluded by saying that if the members of the club would lend him their aid in taking steps to render this voyage to Cayenne feasible, it might be the means of restoring to reason an unf ortimate gentleman whom they had all hitherto esteemed. Not a man present withheld his consent, and the generous young Bordeaulaise was one of the most zealous in discussing the best method to be adopted, and afterwards in carrying into execution the plan$ agreed upon. PAitT in. Clementine, by the time she reached Cayenne, was comparatively restored to physical health. She 254 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. seldom spoke, and neTer murmured. In a state of stolid abstraction she went mechanically through the labors assigned her — labors for which those smallj delicately-moulded hands, that bore witness to her gentle blood, were how unfitted ! She was never roused from her apathy, save by the voice of the priest whose duty it was to visit the convicts. She never seemed to experience the faintest emotion, either of pain or pleasure, except when she was assembled with her unfortunate companions to listen to his exhortations ; and then it was only the expression of unutterable anguish upon her pallid countenance that betrayed her mental agony. As years passed on, little by little, a holy calm, full of earnest endeavor, took the place of her apathetic tranquillity ; no stranger who looked into those serenely thoughtful eyes could have believed that hers was an existence without earthly hope; that she was a convict for life ! Gradually more liberty was accorded her ; she was permitted to nurse the sick, and it was soon found that she ministered to them with singular skill and tenderness. She also evinced a marvellous power to comfort tliose whom a sentence as severe as her own had driven to reckless despair. She induced them to accept the fate which was inevita- ble, and to turn their thoughts to that life which LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 255 was full of hope, even to such as they. Often the most dcfrraded and nnorovernable listened to her pleading voice, and their blasphemies and lamenta- tions melted into prayere. She always spoke of hei-self as of one as guilty as they ; and this self- accusation seemed all the stronger from the fact, that the most criminal of her companions were ever striving to prove their innocence and the injustice of their sentence. From time to time, reports sent from the penal colony to the- French Government set forth the piety, and virtue, and untiring zeal of "Clementine." But her sad story had almost passed out of the minds of those who now heard these accounts. It would be tedious to enter into the full particu- lars of the movement which resulted in the embark- ation of Count Eugene de Rosier and a young physician, selected by Dr. Blanche, for Cayenne. Eugene betrayed no symptoms of derangement during the passage, except, indeed in the enthusiasm with which he over and over again described to his companion the eloquent face, the rapid transitions of expression, the great eyes of changing hue; the hair of mingled tints, so luxuriant in its thick waves and rich curls ; the fragile, graceful form, the lofty bearing, the picturesque attire, of "Z^z J3elle Clemen- tine!''' He would know her anywhere, he affirmed ; 256 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. in any garb ; and a voice within told him that she, toOj wonld instantly recognize him. As they neared the port, he gave way to a wild bm-st of joy, and his impatience became so great, that Dr. Jouvet placed his ann in that of his patient, and grasped him fii-mly, fearing that he might plunge into the waves, and endeavor to swim to the shore, for he was a bold and experienced swimmer. They were safely landed at last, and without delay sought the residence of the Governor; were court- eously received by him; presented the letter of which Dr. Jouvet was the bearer, aud obtained an order for the Count to visit Clementine. On their way to the prison, Eugene was filled with dismay at the dreary appearance of the island; at the sight of the wi-etched, wasted, diseased con- victs whom he encountered. Throuo;h what horrors " La Belle Clementine^'' so young, so beautiful, must have passed duriug her twenty years of cap- tivity ! Twenty years I Could it be twenty years since he beheld lier last ? And he could see her face as vividly, could remember the sound of her voice and the most trivial incidents of that fearful trial as perfectly, as thougli twenty hours instead of twenty years had elapsed. Dr. Jouvet delivered the Governor's order to the head matron, and when she retired to summon LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 257 Clementine, he also withdrew. Eugene was left in the rude, bare apartment appropriated to the ma- tron's use, waiting with beating heart and breath almost suspended. In a fev/ moments the door opened, and he bounded forward impetuously, but stopped; for there stood before him an elderly woman, attired in the uncouth prison dress ; her hair smoothed away from her brow and almost entirely concealed be- neath an ill-shaped cap ; her form very far from fragile ; her face round, and somewhat ruddy, though lightly furrowed ; and her whole aspect that of an unpretending, self-possessed matron. The Count paused abruptly, and then said, v/ith an apologetic air ; "I desired to see Clementine — La Belle Clemen- tine ! " he added, fervently. The matron's lips did not part even with the faintest soujpgon of a smile at this familiar appella- tion. She merely raised her eyes to his face with a look of inquiry ; the hue of those steady eyes was not dubious: it was clearly and softly gray. Then, bowing calmly, and without a shadow of emotion, she replied : " I am Clementine, Monsieur.^'' " You I " The Count was struck speechless. He gazed at 258 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. her in agOBized bewilderment; tried to recognize her features, her form, her expression, her voice even — in vain ! in vain ! He had never seen, never heard, this cold, calm, self-contained matron before. At last he gasped out : " And you — you remember Tne f " " No, Monsieur," was the laconic answer. " Is"o ! and I was there through it all ; I watched you every day; I knew you were innocent — innocent of everything, but lovdng too well." Clementine started, and flushed crimson; the gray eyes had grown very dark as they were raised heavenward for an instant, and then dropped their lids. " Through all these years your face has ever been before my eyes," resumed the Count. Clementine's gaze was bent upon the ground, and, though her lips quivered, she made no answer. " Say, at least, that you remember the youth who swooned when you were pronoimced guilty ? " She shuddered visibly, and, in a half-whisper, answered : "Yes, I remember." " lie has dreamed of you night and day ; has fol- lowed you here, after all these years, to see you — to do something for you ! " LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 259 " Wliat is there to be done for such a one as I am ? " replied Clementine hopelessly. The words recalled Eugene to a consciousness of his position. "What was there to be done, indeed ! How often he had di-eamed of " La Belle Clem- entine " pardoned by the Emperor ; how often he had fondly thought he would make her his wife ; how often he had pictured their lives in some far- ofi: land, where both would be unknown. But this woman, who, though still strikingly handsome, bore no resemblance to the ideal in his mind — was she the being with whom he pined to share the rest of his existence, and for whom no sacri- fice could be too great ? " If the Emperor's pardon could be procured — " He hesitated, and was silent — at a loss how to finish the sentence. " I have never dared to hope for it ! " mournfully ejaculated Clementine. " But, if it could be obtained, there would be a future still before you ! " " There is a future, even here ; my life is not wholly useless. I thank God for that." She could hardly have made a reply that would have touched Eugene more deeply ; there is some- thing so penetrating in the holiness of that resigna- tion which hopes nothing for itself, yet is hopeful 260 LA belli: CLEWENTIjS'E. and helpful for others. He recognized her voice at last, and it seemed to him more richly melodions than ever. "/will seek for yonr pardon! To what better object could I devote mv life?" he replied, with new ardor. Clementine's eyes dilated with sudden joy nntil they seemed a brilliant black; she clasped her hands, and burst into a fit of convnlsive weeping. A jailer entered ; the time allowed for the inter- view had expired. Without being able to utter a single sentence, the convict was compelled to with- draw. The state in which Eugene returned to his com- panion completely pnzzled the physician. It was impossible to tell whether his patient was or was not cured, or what effect the great change in Clem- entine had wrought upon him — he was so excited, yet so eager to leave the island. A very inferior vessel was to sail for France in a few days ; its ac- commodations were of the rudest kind ; but Eugene insisted on taking passage ; he could not brook de- lay : and durino: the days that intervened before the ship sailed, he made no attempt to see Clemen- tine again. ZA BELLE CLEMENTINE. ^61 CONCLUSION. Two years later, the Count was once more on his way to Cayenne; for two years he had labored, first to reach, then to influence those in power, who finally obtained from the Emperor the pardon of which Eugene was now the bearer. During those two years, no symptom of his mental derangement had been apparent; he had something to achieve, and to a mind in the state of his, occupation is sal- yation. Eugene had made every arrangement for Clemen- tine's instant return to France. Plis thoughtf ulness and delicacy were touchingly evinced in his prepa- rations. He had secured a stateroom on board of the vessel in which he sailed for its return passage, and had pro^dded a trunk containing a fitting ward- robe for a lady. Did Eugene remember his frantic impatience to behold Clementine when he entered that port two years before ? He betrayed no such eagerness now. He did not even seek the prison. The trunk, with two envelopes addressed to Clementine, were con- veyed to her by a trusty messenger. One envelope contained her pardon, the other the ticket for her passage and a handsome smn of money — literally half of all that Eugene possessed. These gifts she 262 LA BELLE CLEMENTLNE. was allovred to belieye were part of the Emperors LoiiiitT. Clementine liad gained the respect and esteem of the whole colony, and her departure was the signal for lond lamentations among the poor wretches whose fate her gentle presence and loving ministry had softened, Alas I they were too sorrowful for themselves to be generous enough to rejoice for her. When the day upon which the vessel was to sail arrived, she was handed on board by the Governor of the island himself. She wore the simplest of the dresses found in the well-filled trunk, but her beauty, so long disguised by the hideous prison garb, shone forth in startling splendor. It was not the beauty of the Clementine of old, but a mellow, subdued, unyouthful, yet heart-touching loveliness. There was not the faintest trace of the twenty years' convict in the dignified gentlewoman with whom the Governor shook hands warmly, as he withdrew, after presenting her to the captain of the vessel. The captain himself conducted her to lier stateroom. As slie was walking by his side, she started vio lently, and left a sentence unfinished. She had cauHit sis^ht of some one in the distance, who lifted his hat. Eugene, as he advanced to greet her, ex- LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 263 perienced a sense of inexplicable gratification when he found her so powerfully agitated, that, after stammering out a few inarticulate words, she re- tired to her stateroom, and did not re-appear until the vessel had sailed. " It was a moonlight evening. Eugene was pacing the deck, in so happy a frame of mind, that he won- dered at himself, when he again beheld " La Belle Clementine'''' — he had once more involuntarily re- stored to her the familiar name by which, during the last two years, he had ceased to designate her in thought. She came towards him as rapidly as the motion of the vessel would permit, with an air of mingled timidity and frankness. He hastened to offer his arm ; she hesitated — but the lurching of the vessel per force overcame her unwillingness to accept its support. "I came to thank you — no, not to thank you — that is impossible ; you have given me life itself, and all the thanks I could utter — " Eugene interrupted her — " would but pain me. Do not thank me for purchasing the greatest happi- ness that was ever mine by an act which is one of simple justice to you." The eyes which Clementine lifted to his face looked wondrously blue in the moonlight ; woman- 264 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. ly instinct taught her that he would accept their thanks, while he refused those of her lips. The passage was long, for the ship was often be- calmed, but the days were all too short for Eugene. He loved " La Belle Clementine " as fervently as ever ; or rather, he now loved the true Clementine, whose mind and heart were daily revealed to him, not the creature of his imagination, to whom she bore so little resemblance. And Clementine, how was it with her ? Alas ! how alone could it be ? Her early passion for Yic- torien had been as mad as Eugene's infatuation for her former self, and, like his, was the mere idolatry of an ideal ; but this man, who had loved her so many years ; this man, who had brought the light of hope, beaming from his face, into her prison house — who had broken her chains, restored her to life — was it wonderful that in his presence she walked in paradise ? But in the heart of a true woman love is indis- solubly united to boundless generosity. And when Eugene asked Clementine to be his wife, though her frame thrilled with joy as her ears drank in the delicious words, she did not betray by the quivering of a muscle her internal ecstacy. She had long known that his noble and generous nature would not let him shrink from offering her the safe shelter LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 265 of his heart, the shield of his name, and she had pondered well over her course. In reply to his prayer, she calmly pictured to him what his future life would inevitably be if she had returned his affection — {iff oh, holy hypocrite!) — if she had consented to become his wife ; and she painted what her own misery would have been when she felt him dragged down and shut out from fellowship with his equals, by his union with a pardoned convict — greater misery, she added, vehemently, than she had endured at Cayenne — aye, far greater ! The Count de Eosier, she said, had still a career of honor and usefulness before him ; he could never sink back into the gloom which, through an imaginary passion for her, and a too absorbing sym- pathy with her misfortunes, had darkened his past life. The very memory of the benefits he had conferred upon her must brighten the rest of his existence. As for herself, the good old priest at Cayenne had given her a letter to a holy father in Paris. She had made up her mind to take such vows as the law permitted, and become a Sister of Charity. She chose this vocation of her own free will, for the Emperor's pardon had been accompanied by a gift which secured her independence. She had 13 266 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. placed half the sum in the hands of her friend, the priest, at Cayenne, to be used in ameliorating the condition of the convicts ; the other half would go to the Order of Sisters which she joined. Certes it was not for these purposes that Eugene had impoverished himself by diminishing^ his own moderate income to half, but there was nothing to be done. Again and again he pressed his suit — ever with the same result. Clementine preserved her secret with such wonianly art, that Eugene at last believed her true to the villain who had caused her ruin, and was compelled to abandon all hope. When they parted at the door of the priest to whom she had been recommended, Eugene uttered one more remonstrance, but this time only against her becoming a Sister of Charity. The door had just opened to admit her ; for the first time she laid her hand in his ; then, with a smile that seemed to glorify her face, said, " Be sure it was for that I was made ! " and passed from his sight. And soon there were sufferers not a few, whose grateful voices testified to the truth of these words, proclaiming 'that she had indeed God's license to minister. Eugene had no mental relapse. Ilis care was effected in a manner somewhat different from the LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 2G7 one wliicli Dr. Blanche had planned; but it was complete, and all the more permanent because the bestowal of half his fortune upon Clementine forced him to seek some bread-yielding occupation. IN'ow and then, as he passes through the streets of Paris, he encounters a Madonna-faced woman, wearing the white coif, serge dress, and large white collar of the Sisterhood of Charity ; and though her meek gray eyes are never raised to any other face, recognition of a male not being permitted to her order, she smiles upon him with grave sweetness, and the smile seems to say, — ' " What should I have been but for you ? " Eugene cannot doubt that she is happy, and her existence of helpful charity, of self-abnegation, and peaceful satisfaction, has taught him the wisdom of angels who know that, — " From deepest woe divinest joy proceeds ; No human heart, until it inly bleeds Its life away in pure self-sacrifice, Can teach to earth the wisdom of the skies." CATEKINA SFOEZA. THRICE WEDDED, THRICE WmOWED. An Italian Chatelaine. PAET I. Theke is a State Prison in Florence called the Micrate, which but a few years ago was the old Murate convent, inhabited exclusively by noble ladies, who, in weary disgust or penitential sorrow, had retired from the storms or allurements of the world. In that convent died Cateriua Sforza — one of the most lion-hearted, indomitable, yet fasci- nating and beautiful women of her age; an im- pressive t}^De of the Italian chatelaine of the fif- teenth century. Caterina's life was replete with those startling in- cidents and sudden changes which give to history the hiorh coloring: of a sensational romance. She was the illeo-itimate dauo-hter of Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan, and was born 1462. When she had reached her eighth year, the Duke caused (268) CATEBINA SFOBZA. 269 her to be " legitimatized,^'' and liis gentle second wife, the Duchess Bona, soon after lier marriage, affectionately received the precocious child into her princely home, and did not ce^se tenderly to watch over the little stranger when she herself became a mother, nor to give her the precedence due to the eldest daughter of the noble house of Sforza. It is related of Duke Galeazzo, whose court was renowned for its luxury, vice, and splendor, that, having exhausted all amusements in turn, he found his highest enjoyment in v\^itnessing tortures, execu- tions, and cruel mntilations. The sight of death and human decay excited in him such ferocious de- light, that he even frequented charnel-houses, and caused graves to be torn open that he might gaze upon corruption. When Caterina was eleven years years of age she was publicly betrothed, by proxy, to Girolamo Ria- rio, a nephew of Pope Sixtus lY. " The great Galeazzo," the " sujperh Duke^^ lived but thirty-two years to blot the 'annals of history with the record of his unsurpassed abominations. In December of the year 1476, three youths, one of whom came to avenge a sister whom the Duke had brought to shame, waited for their sovereign at the door of the Cathedral of St. Stephen's, and although 270 CATERINA SFORZA. the Duke was surrounded by his guards, stabbed him mortallj^ In May, 14Y7, Caterina was married, by proxy, at Milan, to Girolamo Eiario, whom she had not yet seen. The recent death of the Duke forbade all festivities, and the youthful bride departed immedi- ately to join her bridegroom at Eome. She had smiled upon only fifteen birthdays when, accompa- nied by her bridegroom, and mounted upon a richly caparisoned steed, she rode through the Porta del Poj^olo into Rome. Slie was eminently beautiful and superbly attired, and, as she passed through the Piazza of the famed old Pantheon^ in the midst of a brilliant cavalcade, to the magnificent residence of her husband, on the banks of the Tiber, all Rome grew wild with enthusiastic admiration. The Palazzo Corsini now rears its noble walls where the Riario palace then stood. Caterina's influence soon became all-powerful with Pope Sixtus and his court; it is said the princes of Italy who had any favors to ask of the Apostolic See had only to secure her intercession to obtain their wishes. Shortly after his bridal, Girolamo, wdth much ceremon}^, was made a citizen of Rome. Later, he received from the Pope investiture of the city and county of Forli^ one of the most important towns of CATEBINA 8F0BZA. 271 Homagna^ and near ttie principality of Imola^ brought to him by his wife. He was also made generalissimo -of the Papal forces. On Easter Day, the 26th of April, 1478, Lorenzo de Medici, called the "Magnificent," and his brother Giuliano, were stabbed by assassins in the cathedi'al at Florence — Giuliano, mortally; Lo- renzo not fatally. Florentine historians declare that Girolamo was one of the conspirators who planned the infamous deed, and one writer adds, " These things were ordered by Pope Sixtus, to take away the dominion of Florence from Lorenzo de Medici, and give it to Count Girolamo." It was well known that Girolamo, who had the highest appreciation of Caterings superior intellect, consulted her upon all state affairs; but that he made her the confidante of this murderous project seems improbable. She was but sixteen, and about to become a mother; there is no proof that she had any knowledge of her husband's crime. The first infant to whom she gave birth was a daughter, Bianca, whose sex occasioned her parents severe and undisguised disappointment — a disap- pointment, however, which was not repeated, for Caterina never bore another daughter, though she gave birth to numerous sons. To no woman could 272 CATEBINA SFORZ± liave been more appropriately applied Shakespeare's adjuration, "Bring forth men children only, For thv Undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males 1 " The next year a son, Ottaviano, was bom, and a second son the succeedins^ vear. After passing four years in. Home, Girolamo and his Touno^ wife, for the first time, visited their dominions of Forli and Imola. The journey occu- pied eight days, and the cortege of the youthful couple resembled a triumphal procession, termina- ting with a train of horses in rich housings, mules bearing heavy loads or drawing well-filled carts, and each mule-load covered with an embroidered cloth, showing the arms of Hovere and Sforza, and bound with silken cords, and each cart similarly protected. The citizens of Forli hailed with exuberant dem- onstrations of joy the entrance of all this wealth into their city. Yoimg men, and maidens dressed in white, and bearing olive-branches iu their hands, preceded by the clergy and magistrates in their robes of office, went out to welcome their sove- rei2:ns. The Count and Countess descended from their horses and received them standing. Every one was charmed by the beauty of Caterina, who wore her most gorgeous gala dress, and her costliest CATERINA SFOnZA, 273 pearls and diamonds. The homage of the city was offered in a very choice oration, and in replying, the Count was pleased to remit the corn duties, which gave, great satisfaction. For three days there were public rejoicings throughout Forli. In the principal square a tourna- ment was held, in which the Roman princes joined. A vast wooden castle was constructed in the middle of the piazza, and besieged and defended by two parties of the town-people. A reward was given to the first of the besieging party who entered. Un- fortunately it cost the youth who accomplished the feat an eye. Then there was a grand ball, at which the Count and Countess led the dance, and, says the historian, ^' there were, of course, triumphal arches, allegorical paintings, cunning carpentry, devices moving by unseen means ; eating, drinldng, and speechifying, in prose and verse, to a wonderful extent. And charming it was to see the lady Countess and all her damsels come forth in different mas^nificent dresses every day for a whole week, and the great buffets, ten feet high, in the banqueting-hall of the palace, loaded every day with a fresh service of silver and gold." Far different was the scene that palace was to witness when a few years had swept on ! 12* 274: CATEHmA SFORZA, Tlie Youthful coiij)le, after they had sojourned in Forli nearly a month, yisited Imola, where the fes- tive welcome was repeated in a more moderate manner. The Count occupied himself in the improvement of both cities; schools were established, palaces enlarged, public squares adorned, streets paved, and an academy of fine arts instituted. The first visit of the Count and Caterina to Imola was but short. After a sojourn of three weeks thej left for Venice, to carry out certain ambitious views of the Pope. It is expressly stated that Caterina accompanied her husband because he so thoroughly relied upon her counsel and judgment. He was not, however, successful in his mission, though Venice received the noble guests with imstinted pomp and multiplied festivities in their honor. Shortly after the retmni of the Count and Coun- tess to Imola, they received news from Tolentino, the trusty Governor of Forli, of a conspiracy which had for its object the restoration of the dynasty of the Ordelaffi, the ancient masters of Forli, from wliom it liad been unrighteously wrested by the Pope. The conspirators had agreed to assassinate Girolamo on his journey from Imola to Forli. The Count and Countess hastened to Forli on hearing these tidings, for the danscer was over, and after a brief stay there, CATERINA 8F0BZA. 275 returned to Rome. On the tenth day following their departure, the four corpses of the conspirators were seen dangling from the windows of the Palazzo Pubblico. Girolamo was now called upon to head the Papal troops, and to give battle to the ^Neapolitans near Yelletri. In company with Robert Malatesta, who commanded the Venetians, he won a great victory, marched in triumph back to Rome, and presented the banners, taken in battle, to his exulting Countess. Robert Malatesta died of fever soon after the con- quest he had gained, and his death was attributed to poison administered by Girolamo out of military jealousy. Rome had begun to be the scene of great distress and discontent. There was a scarcity of grain, of wine, and provisions ; and the deadly feud between the implacable Colonna and the furious Orsini^ kept the Eternal City in a constant state of anarchy. The Pope and Girolamo warmly espoused the cause of the Orsini. In March, 1484, all the Orsini headed by Girolamo, armed themselves, and attacked one of the palaces of the Colonna. A fearful tumult was the sequence : the houses not only of the Col-- onna, but of many private citizens, were sacked, and all manner of atrocities committed. • In the midst of these disturbances Pope Sixtus 276 CATERLS'A SFOBZA. died, on the 12th of August. 14:84 ; and great was the change for Caterina and Girolamo, whom Eome now hatei Caterina was alone, for Girolamo was driving the Colonna ont of their fortresses in the neighborhood of the city. She was a woman of great eneigv, and prompt in her decisions ; she saw her danger, and immediately took possession of the Cas- tle of St. Angelo, in the name of her husband, as commander of the forces, and during the first out- bnrst of anarchy that followed the Pontiffs death, she and her children were safe. Girolamo returned to Ec-me. to find his palace ntterly devastated. Even the marble doorways and window-cases were wrenched off and carried away, and the gardens and green-honses torn and trampled into ruins. Girolamo deemed it wise to leave Eome with his wife and children. They arrived at Forli on the 4th of September. How different had been their entrance into that city only a few short years before ! "Where, now, was the festive welcome i Where, now, were the olive branches and rejoicings, the ball and tournament ? They were met in silence. During the next four years evil auguries multi- plied. Girclamo needed money, and re-imposed the taxes he had taken off; this, and his other well- CATERINA 8F0RZA. 277 known misdeeds, daily increased his unpopularity, and rendered liis position perilous. Caterina became the mother of three more sons during those four years. An event of great importance marked this fourth year. Tolentino, the faithful Governor of Forli, who once warned Girolamo of the conspiracy against him, had died, and one Melchior Zocchejo,of Savona, a ferocious and worthless man, had been appointed Castellano of Ravaldino^ the magnificent fortress built at Forli, by Girolamo. Codronchi, the senes- chal of the palace, who had formed an intimacy with Zocchejo, managed one night to introduce sev- eral bravoes, in the guise of servants, into the fort, killed Zocchejo, and became master of the fortress. It was supposed the Codronchi had been won over by the Ordelaffi, and that the fortress and the city were lost to the Count and Countess. When a messenger reached Imola with these terrible tidings, the Count was too ill to travel, and Caterina was daily expecting her fifth confinement ; yet, prompt and undismayed as ever, she mounted her horse, and by midnight was before the gate of the Ravaldino, calling upon Codronchi to account for his conduct. The seneschal appeared upon the battlements, and entreated the lady to seek repose, and retm-n in the '2. i 5 CATERINA SFOBZA. morning and breakfast at the fort, as he could say no more that nio^ht. Caterina had no alternative but to accept the in- Titation, and withdravr. The next morning she re- appeared before the walls, ^vith attendants bearing provisions for an excellent breakfast. She vras told that no one but herself and one servant to carry the breakfast would be admitted. The brave Caterina reflected a few moments; if the man had' been bought over by the Ordelaffi, if she trusted herself within tliose walls, her fate was sealed ; but what could she accomplish if she did not run the risk? Her counsellors strongly advised her to refuse to enter, but she boldly passed in with the groom who bore the provisions. After a brief stay she came forth, and sent for Tommaso Feo, one of her most highly esteemed friends, and returned into the fortress with him. Codronchi gave over the command into his hands. Feo was left as Castellano^ aiid Caterina, with Cod- ronchi, proceeded to the Palazzo Pubblico, where a great crowd had assembled. The Countess addressed the citizens in these words : " Know, my men of Forli, that Pavaldino was lost to me and to the city, by the means of this Innocenzio Codronchi here; hut Ih^aples, and marched into Italy. Forli was in a dangerous position between the Neapolitan troops at Cesena and the French troops at Bologna ; and Caterina was forced to side with one party or the other. After more than usual hesitation, for promptness of decision was her especial character- istic, she declared herself the ally of the king of ]S"aples, on condition that Eome and Naples agreed to defend her states, and that her son, Ottaviano, iiovv' seventeen years old, received the rank of gen- eral in the allied army, witli a large stipend. The CATEBINA 8F0BZA, 291 Frencli, however, met with unexpected successes. Forli was not protected as stipulated, and Caterina deliberately changed sides and made friends with the victors. During this period the young Giacomo Feo had acted as governor-general of Caterina's states ; and she finally obtained for him from the King of France the rank and title of general It is re- corded that Giacomo was highly elated by this dis- tinction ; but alas ! his promotion proved a fatal boon : it awakened the jealousy of the citizens of Imola and Forli, and seven of them took a vow that they would kill the pampered favorite. On the 27tli of August, 1495, Giacomo went hunting with Caterina and her sons. When the party returned in the evening, Caterina and some of her children were in a carriage, behind wdiich came Feo on horseback. The seven conspirators had grouped themselves just within the city walls, for they had sworn to fulfil their oaths that day. After Caterina and her sons had j^^^ssed, they suddenly rushed upon the newly made general ; a pike pierced his body, he uttered but one cr}", and fell dead ! Caterina, affrighted by the shrieks of some of her retainers, looked back, and saw her husband slain, and her attendants flying in all directions. 292 CATERINA 8F0RZA. She and her sons hastily mounted horses taken from the grooms, and galloped to the fortress. At the age of thirty-three, the heroic chatelaine was for the second time a widow, and again the widow of a murdered husband ! There was a strong manifestation of popular indignation in Forli against the assassins. That night they were hunted through the town, and the next morning carried to the piazza, where some were quartered alive, some dragged by horses through the streets. In those days, in Italy, the whole male portion of the family of a political conspirator was included in his condemnation ; but the vengeance of Caterina was not limited to sex. Even the women, children, and babes of the guilty men were brutally slaugh- tered at her command ; not one babe was spared ! She had never before evinced such a degree of sav- age, pitiless cruelty, though its exercise was entirely in accordance with the creed of her time. Be- tween forty and fifty persons were put to death to avenge the murder of Giacomo; and while the bodies of the criminals were hanging from the win- dows of the Palazzo PuhUico, Feo was buried with even greater pomp than his murdered prede- cessor, Girolamo. Caterina's temperament was too elastic and her CATEHmA SFORZA. 293 mind too vigorous for even grief to render it inac- tive. She found in incessant occupation a balm for her sorrow. During the first two years of her widowhood she sought distraction by tearing down the palace at Forli, to which such odious associa- tions were attached, and buildinof one more mamifi- cent, near to the fortress Eavaldino. She purchased a large tract of land adjoining the new palace, and cultivated orchards, and dairy pastures, and beauti- ful gardens and pleasure grounds, and hunting grounds, until the only fitting name for the rural Elysium with which she had encompassed herself was pronounced to be " The Paradise." In the third year of her widowhood, Caterina formed a third alliance — from motives of policy and ambition, it is supposed, rather than of affec- tion. Again she chose a husband younger than her- self. She was then thirty-five, and her third bride- groom, Giovanni de Medici, ambassador from the Republic of Florence to Forli, and great grandson of that Giovanni who was the founder of the Medi- cean greatness, was but thirty. Caterina's third husband, though he fought bravely under Charles YIII, of France, and was a wise statesmaii, holds no conspicuous place in history. Her nuptials were again kept secret, for the same 294 GATEBINA SFOBZA. reason which had before rendered concealment im- perative. Tha offspring of this union was the only one of Caterina's children who became renowned. The son to Y/hom she gave birth in the first year of this marriage became that celebrated Giovanni Delle Baiide J^ere, who was looked iipon as the greatest captain of his day, and from whom descended the long line of Tuscan Grand Dukes of the Medicean race. He was Caterina's eighth child and seventh son. Caterina's third husband was in delicate health at the time of their union, and he died six months after the birth of his son, in the second year of his marriage. Pope Alexander, in spite of the "homage" paid him by Caterina, when he was called to the Papal throne, soon manifested unfriendly intentions. This unscrupulous Borgia had sons, whom he did not even pretend (according to the custom of Popes) were his nephews. To enrich these sons was his first care, and under various pretexts he declared sundry little potentates of Komagna deposed from their sovereignties, and Caterina among them. But, with her wonted bravery, she defied the Pope him- self, and determined "to preserve her son's sceptre CATERINA SFORZA. 295 for him as long as the walls of the city and fortress would liold together." Louis XII. (who succeeded Charles YIII.) entered into a league with Pope Alexander, and undertook to seize the Duchy of Milan ; while Cesare Borgia, the Pope's eldest son, took possession of Imola and Forli, and other principalities of Pomagna. Borgia appeared with his army before the walls of Imola ; the city was quickly forced to surrender, but not so the Castellano of the fortress, who made answer that he would only yield when the fort was in ruins. Caterina and her son Ottaviano were preparing to defend Forli. She personally superintended the repairing of the fortifications, and Ottaviano labored with his own hands. But the citizens of Forli showed but little inclination to resist the Borgia ; and Caterina retired into the citadel with her per- sonal adherents, fu-st sending Ottaviano to Tuscany, to secure his personal safety. When €he found all her efforts to rouse the city in vain, the resolute chatelaine opened the guns of her fortress upon Forli, as a punishment for the desertion of her vas- sals. On the 10th of December, 1499, Cesare Borgia marched into Forli. T. A. Trollope says of this triumphal entry, " The troops and their officers hav- ing filed into the city before him, the great man — 296 CATEBINA 8F0RZA. most wicked, base, and incapable of any great or noble thouglit, of all men tliere ; the great man most reverenced, admired, obeyed of all men there, — advanced stately, in full armor, on a white horse, with a heraldically embroidered silk tunic over his armor, a tall white plume nodding above his hel- met, and in his hand a long green lance, the point of which rested on the toe of his boot." But a sudden storm dispersed the procession, and the soldiers rushed about the city, finding lodgings wherever they chose — turning the Council-hall into a tavern, making themselves masters alike of the public palace and. private residences, and to all in- tents and purposes sacking the city into which they had been admitted as friends ; thus the citizens were most unexpectedly and doubly chastised for not rallying around their liege lady. Borgia, after having twice parleyed with Caterina, attacked the fortress towards the end of December. For a week she defended herself ably ; then a truce of a few days was agreed upon, and the attack was renewed on the 10th of January. At mid-day on the 12th, a breach was nearly practicable, and later on the same day a fire broke out in the fort, which paralyzed the garrison, and the principal part of the fortifications fell into the hands of the enemy. But the undaunted Caterina retired into the principal CATERINA 8F0RZA. 297 tower, and held her ground. A large nnmber of the enemy had penetrated into another tower, which served a magazine, and there met a terrible fate ; for it was fired by Caterina's people, though appar- ently not by her order. Borgia again demanded parley, and Caterina ap- peared at the window of her tower ; but while she was standing there, reiterating her refusal to yield, a French soldier, who had found some means of ac- cess to the tower, came behind her, and made her prisoner, in the name of the General. That night Borgia and the French General visited the haughty lady in her citadel, and it is recorded that during the interview "the sound^ of falling masonry and exploding mines, the shouts of the pur- suers, and the cries of the conquered as they fell, ever and anon came through the thick walls, and gave clear evidence of the work of destruction which was in progress." Towards the close of January, Borgia returned to Rome with his noble captive. Caterina, arrayed in a black satin dress, made the journey on horseback, riding between Borgia and a French General. Once more she entered Rome ; through that Porta del Popolo, which she had first passed in triumphal procession, clothed in bridal robes, a joyous and beautiful bride of sixteen. 298 CATERINA SFORZA. welcomed by the whole city, she now rode, con- quered and despoiled, robed in black, thrice wedded and thrice widowed, with a Tictorious foe on either side of her rudely uncaparisoned steed ! She was led to the Vatican, which in those unforgotten days had so often been filled with cringing courtiers, too happy to receive a smile or a word from the Pope's favorite — now to be stared at, pitied, or disdained as a Pope's prisoner. An apartment in the Belmdere of the Vatican was made her place of confinement. Four months later she was accused of having attempted the life of the Pope, by endeavoring to send him letters ren- dered contagious by being placed upon the breast of one who was dying of the plague. Although this accusation could not be supported, it was rendered the pretext for transferring her from the Belmdere to the dungeons of the Castle of St. Angelo, where it was no doubt intended that she should find a living tomb. She owed her life to the interposition and remon- strances of Louis XII. As she had been captured by one of his Generals, his voice could not remain un- heeded by the Pope. After only four days' incar- ceration she was liberated, at the French King's re- quest, and allowed to travel unmolested to Florence, wliere all lier children had found a refuge. CATERINA SFORZA, 299 She was only thirty-nine years of age ; but into those thirty-nine years what a multitude of thrilling events had been crowded ! She was wearied out, crushed, spirit-conquered at last ; she had done with life — the life of the world ; even the presence of her children could no longer render that outer world endurable. She at once retired to the Convent of the Murate, and never again passed its walls. She died in 1509, in the forty-seventh year of her age, and was buried in the chapel of the convent, where her monument was visible until a few years ago, when the convent was converted into a State- prison. " Non v' ha cosa infinite, que gui." THE END. LIST OF BOOKS PUSLISEEL Mrs* MaiT J« Holmes' l¥ork», A novel i2mo. cloth, %i. 'LENA RITEBS. — DARKNESS AND DATLTOHT. — . do. . dO. . $1. TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. — . dO. . do. . $1. MARIAN GHET.— . . . dO. . do. . j>I. MEADOW BROOK. — . , . do. o dO. , $1 SUGLISH ORPHANS. — , • do. . do. . $1. CORA DEANE. — . . , dO. dO. . $1. COUSIN MAUDE. — . . , do. . do. . $1. HOMESTEAD ON THE HTLLSIDE. — do. . dO. . $1. HUGH WORTHINQTON. . . dO. . dO. . jJl. THE CAMESON PBIDK. . . do. . dO. . $1. BOSB MATHER. . . , do. . do. . $1. ETHEL yn's MISTAKE. — Just PuMished. do. , do. . $1. Miss Angnsta J. Evans. BEULAH. — A novel of great power. . i2mo. cloth, $i. 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