SECOND COPY. 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap. Copyright Ko. 
 
 Shelf.».C5"_5 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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A 
 
 CHILD ^-^^ 
 
 1'" 
 
 FLORENCE 
 
 ffllugtrateO 
 
 Ube Wicvncv Compani? 
 
 NEW YORK AKRON, OHIO CHICAGO 
 
 1899 
 

 n 
 
 34611 
 
 Copyright, 1899, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE WERNER COMPANY 
 
 i 
 
 JUN 2 J 1899 
 
 

GOING TO THE PARTY. 
 
A CHILD IN FLORENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WE lived in that same Casa Guidi from whose 
 windows Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poet- 
 eyes saw what she afterward put into glowing verse. 
 Casa Guidi is a great pile of graystone, a pile of 
 many windows which give upon the Via Maggio and a 
 little piazza, as the squares in Florence are called. 
 Consequently it is lighter and brighter than are many 
 of the houses in Florence, where the streets are nar- 
 row and the houses lofty. 
 
 According to almost universal custom, Casa Guidi 
 was divided into half a dozen different apartments, 
 occupied by as many families. Ours was on the sec- 
 ond floor, on Ihe side of the house overlooking the 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 pidizza. on which stood the church of San Felice. 
 The pleasantest room in our apartment, as I thought, 
 was a room in which I passed many hours of an ail- 
 ing childhood ; a room which I christened " The Gal- 
 lery,'* because it was long and narrow, and w^as hung 
 with many cheerful pictures. It opened into a little 
 boudoir at one end, and into the salon at the other. 
 The walls of gallery and boudoir were frescoed gayly 
 with fruits and flowers and birds. 
 
 Here the sun streamed in all through the long, 
 mild, Florentine winters ; here I would lie on my 
 couch, and count the roses on the walls, and the 
 birds, and the apricots, and listen to the cries in the 
 streets ; and, if a procession went by, hurry to the 
 window and watch it pass, and stay at the window un- 
 til I was tired, when I would totter back to my couch, 
 and my day-dreams, and my drawing, and my verse- 
 making, and my attempts at studying. 
 
 I was fired with artist-ambitions at the age of ten ; 
 and what wonder, surrounded as I was by artists liv- 
 ing and dead, and by their immortal works. It 
 seemed to me then that one musl put all one's im- 
 pressions of sight and form into shape. But I did 
 not develop well. Noses proved a stumbling-block, 
 which I never overcame, to my attaining to eminence 
 in figure-sketching. 
 
 1 
 n 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 The picture that I admired most in those days was 
 one of Judith holding up the gory head of Holofernes, 
 in the Pitti Gallery of Paintings. I was seized with 
 a longing to copy it, on my return from my first visit 
 to the Gallery. I seated myself, one evening, before 
 a sheet of drawing paper, and I tried and tried; but 
 the nose of Holofernes was too much for me. All 
 that I could accomplish was something that resembled 
 an enlarged interrogation mark, and recalled Chinese 
 art, as illustrated on fans. I was disappointed, dis- 
 gusted — but, above all, surprised: it was my first 
 intimation that " to do " is not " as easy as 'tis to 
 know what 'twere good to do." 
 
 In the midst of my futile efforts, a broad-shouldered, 
 bearded man was announced, who having shaken 
 hands with the grown-ups, came and seated himself 
 beside the little girl, and her paint-box and pencils 
 and care-worn face. 
 
 " O Mr. Hart," I cried, " do make this nose for me! " 
 
 Whereupon he made it, giving me many valuable 
 suggestions, meanwhile, as to the effect produced by 
 judicious shading. Still, I was discouraged. It was 
 borne in upon me that this was not my branch 
 of art. 
 
 " Mr. Hart," I said, " I think I would like to make 
 noses j/^^r way." 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 "Would you? Then you shall. Come to my 
 studio to-morrow, and you shall have some clay and k 
 board, and try what you can do." 
 
 So the next day I insisted upon availing myself of 
 this invitation. Mr. Hart was then elaborating his 
 machine for taking portraits in marble, in his studio 
 in the upper part of the city. He had always several 
 busts on hand, excellent likenesses. His workmen 
 would be employed in cutting out the marble, while 
 he molded his original thought out of the plastic clay. 
 There has always been a fascination to me in statuary. 
 Mr. Ruskin tells us that form appealed to the old 
 Greeks more forcibly than color. That was in the 
 youth of the race; possibly, the first stage of art- 
 development is an appreciation of form ; in my case, 
 I have not passed into the maturer stage yet. The 
 rounded proportions, curves, and reality of a statue 
 appeal to me as no painting ever did. 
 
 Nevertheless, I made no greater progress in mold- 
 ing than in sketching. I made my hands very sticky ; 
 I used up several pounds of clay ; then I relinquished 
 my hopes of becoming a sculptor. I found it more 
 to my taste to follow Mr. Hart around the 'rooms, to 
 chatter with the workmen, to ask innumerable ques- 
 tions about the " Invention." 
 
 It has been suggested that it was to this invention 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 of Mr. Hart's that Mrs. Browning referred when she 
 wrote of — 
 
 "Just a shadow on a wall." 
 
 from* which could be taken — 
 
 " The measure of a man. 
 Which is the measure of an angel, saith 
 The apostle." 
 
 Mr. Hart wore the apron and the cap that sculptors 
 affect, as a protection from the fine, white dust that 
 the marble sheds : generally, too, an ancient dressing- 
 gown. Costumes in Bohemia, the native land of 
 artists, are apt to be unconventional. 
 
 It was a most wondrous thing to me to watch the 
 brown clay take shapes and beauty under the sculp- 
 tor's touch. I can still see him fashioning a wreath 
 cf grape-leaves round a Bacchante's head ; the leaves 
 would grow beneath his hand, in all the details of 
 tendrils, stems, vemings. It seemed to me he must 
 be so happy, to live in this world of his own creating. 
 I hope that he was happy, the kindly man ; he had the 
 patience and the enthusiasm of the genuine artist, — 
 a patience that had enabled him to surmount serious 
 obstacles before he reached his present position. 
 Like Powers and Rheinhart, he began life as a stone 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 cutter. I wonder what dreams of beauty those three 
 men saw imprisoned in the unhewn stone, to which 
 they longed to give shape, before Fate smiled on 
 them, and put them in the way of doing the best that 
 in them lay 1 
 
 In spite of the fact that neither Painting nor Sculp- 
 ture proved propitious, a great reverence and love of 
 Art was born in me at this time. Possibly a love and 
 reverence all the more intense, because Art became 
 to me, individually, an unattainable thing. I remem- 
 ber passing many hours, at this period, in what would 
 certainly have been durance vile, had I not been fired 
 with a lofty ambition. Mr. Edwin White was sketch- 
 ing in a picture which called for two figures — an old 
 man and a child. The old man was easily obtained, 
 a beautiful professional model of advanced yeais; 
 but the child was not so readily found. I was filled 
 with secret joy when it was suggested to me that 7 
 should be the required model. I was enchanted when 
 the permission was given me to perform this impor- 
 tant service. This was before the time of the long 
 illness to which I referred in the beginning of this 
 paper. The spending every morning for a week or so 
 in Mr. White's studio implied the being excused 
 from French verbs and Italian translations. What a 
 happy life, I thought, to be a model ! I envied the 
 
■ 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 beautiful old patriarch with whom 1 was associated in 
 this picture. Kneeling beside him, as I was in- 
 structed to do, I thought what bliss it would be to be 
 associated with him always, and to go about with him 
 from studio to studio, posing for pictures. 
 
 There must be an inspiration for artists in the very 
 air of Florence. The beautiful city is filled with 
 memorials of the past, painted and carved by the 
 masters passed away. I suppose that artists are 
 constantly aroused to the wish to do great things by 
 the sight of what these others have accomplished. 
 Then, too, the history of the past, the religion of the 
 past, are such realities in Florence. The artist feels 
 called upon to interpret them, not as dead fancies, 
 but as facts. The mythology of the Greeks and 
 Romans meets one at every turn. I, for one, was 
 as intimately acquainted with the family history of 
 Venus, of Ceres, of Pallas, of Persephone, as with 
 that of Queen Elizabeth, of Catherine de Medici, oi 
 Henrietta Maria. Nay, I was more intimate with tliLi 
 delightful elder set. 
 
 The heathen gods reigned sylvanly in the Boboli 
 Gardens, and it was there that I formed a most inti- 
 mate personal acquaintance with them. The Boboli 
 Gardens are the gardens of the Pitti Palace, an im- 
 mense, unlovely pile, the memorial of the ambition 
 
A Child in Florence: 
 
 of the Marquis Pitti, who reared it. He had vowed 
 •Jiat he would build a palace large enough to hold in 
 its court-yard the palace of his hated rival, the Marquis 
 Strozzi. He was as good as his word ; but in carry- 
 ing out his designs he ruined his fortune. The vast 
 palace, when completed, passed out of his hands into 
 those of the Medici, then the Dukes of Florence. 
 Afterwards it became the residence of the foreign 
 rulers of Florence. When I remember the city, 
 Austrian soldiers guarded the great gateway of the 
 Pitti, and marched up and down the court-yards; 
 and the showy white uniforms of Austrian officers 
 were conspicuous in the ante-chambers and guard- 
 rooms. 
 
 But behind the great palace, the fair Boboli Gar- 
 dens spread away. There was a statue of Ceres 
 crowning a terrace, up to which climbed other terraces 
 — an amphitheatre of terraces, in truth, from a fish- 
 pond in the centre — which commanded the city 
 through which the Arno flowed. Many a sunny day 
 have we children — my sisters and I — sat at the 
 base of this statue and gossiped about Ceres, beau- 
 tiful Mother Nature, and her daughter, who was 
 stolen from her by the Dark King. Further down, 
 on a lower slope, was a statue of Pallas, with her 
 
 calm, resolute face, her helmet, her spear, her owl. 
 ;21 
 
FUblMti 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 I remember that Millie and Eva and I were especially 
 fond of this Pallas. I used to wonder why it was 
 that men should ever have been votaries of Venus 
 rather than of her. I have ceased to wonder at this, 
 since then ; but in those days I especially criticized 
 a statue of Venus, after the well-known Venus of 
 Canova, which impressed me as insipid. This statue 
 stood hard by the severe majesty of Pallas, white 
 against a background of oleanders and laurestines. 
 
 Then there was a second fish-pond, in the centre 
 of which was an orange-island, about which tritons 
 and mermen and mermaids were disposed. I can see 
 their good-humored, gay — nay, some of them were 
 even leering — faces, still. Soulless creatures these, 
 we were well aware, and so were sorry for them. 
 The immortal gods, of course, we credited with souls ; 
 but these — with the wood-nymphs, and bacchantes, 
 and satyrs, that we were apt to come upon all through 
 the garden, — these we classed as only on a level a 
 trifle higher than tha-t of the trees, and brooks, into 
 which some of them had been transformed in the 
 course of the vicissitudes of their careers. 
 
 Perhaps it is because the spirit of the old religion 
 so took possession of me in that Italian garden, that 
 to this day the woods, and the dells, and the rocks, 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 seem to me to be the embodied forms of living crea- 
 tures. A Daphne waves her arms from the laurel- 
 tree ; a Clytie forever turns to her sun-lover, in the 
 sunflower. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE two public picture galleries of Florence — 
 the Pitti and the Uffizi — are on either side of 
 the Arno. They are connected by a covered way, 
 which runs along over the roofs of houses, and crosses 
 the jewelers* bridge, so called because upon it are 
 built the shops of all the jewelers in town, — or so it 
 would seem at first sight. At all events, here are 
 nothing but jewelers' shops \ small shops, such as I 
 imagine the shops of the middle ages to have been. 
 But in the narrow windows, and in the unostentatious 
 show-cases, are displayed most exquisite workmanship 
 in Florentine mosaic, in turquoise, in malakite, ex- 
 quisite as to the quality of the mosaic and the charac- 
 ter of the designs in which the earrings, brooches, 
 bracelets, were made up. As a rule, however, the gold- 
 work was inferior, and the settings were very apt to 
 come apart, and the pins to break and bend, after a 
 very short wear. 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 Sauntering across this bridge, one passes, on his 
 way to the UfEzi, various shops in narrow streets, 
 where the silks of Florentine manufacture are dis- 
 played. Such pretty silks, dear girls, and so cheap ! 
 For a mere song you may go dressed like the butter- 
 flies, in Florence, clad in bright, sheeny raiment, spun 
 by native worms out of native mulberry leaves. 
 Equally cheap are the cameos, and the coral, that are 
 brought here from neighboring Naples, and the tur- 
 quoises, imported directly from the Eastern market, 
 and the mosaics, inlaid of precious stones in Florence 
 herself. 
 
 So we come out upon the Piazza, or Square, of the 
 Uffizi. The UfBzi Palace itself is of irregular form, 
 and inclosed by loggiae^ or covered colonnades. In 
 front of the palace stands the David of Michael 
 Angelo, in its strong beauty. Michael Angelo said of 
 this that " the only test for a statue is the light of a 
 public square.*' To this test the David has been 
 subjected for over three hundred years, and still, in 
 the searching light of day, stand revealed the courage 
 and the faith and the strength of the young man who 
 went forth to do battle with the giant, " In the name 
 of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the armies of 
 Israel." And who shall say to how many of us 
 Michael Angelo does not preach, across the centu- 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 ries, a sermon in stone, as we stand before his David ? 
 — as we recall what Giants of Doubt, of Passion, of 
 Pride, we, too, are called upon to battle with in our 
 day? 
 
 In a square portico, or loggia^ giving upon the 
 F'mzza, is a statue of Perseus, another slayer of mon- 
 sters, or, rather, a slayer of monsters in another 
 realm. It was this Perseus to whom Pallas gave a 
 mirror-shield of burnished brass, whom Mercury armed 
 with an adamantine scythe, giving him also wings on 
 his feet. It was this Perseus who slew the Gorgon 
 Princess Medusa. In the statue, the fatal head of 
 Medusa, with its stony stare, is held aloft by the war- 
 rior, who is trampling upon the headless trunk. This 
 head had, in death as in life, the power of turning 
 many men to stone, and was thus made use of by 
 Perseus against other enemies of his. The subject 
 of the stony-eyed Gorgon possessed, apparently, a 
 curious fascination for artists. There is a famous 
 head painted on wood by Leonardo da Vinci, besides 
 this statue by Benvenuto Cellini, in the Uffizi. 
 
 How, as a child, I used to puzzle over the strange 
 fable in both statue and picture ! But, since then, 
 I have had experience of Gorgon natures in real life j 
 natures that chilled and repressed, stupefied all with 
 whom they came in contact ; and I wonder less at the 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 fable, and I pass the word on to you, that you may 
 know, when unsympathetic surroundings chill your 
 heart and blunt your feelings, and subdue your better 
 self, that you are being haunted by Da Vinci's very 
 Medusa, by Gellini's very Medusa, snaky locks, fixed 
 eyes, impassive deadness. 
 
 Into the great Uffizi Palace : up the wide marble 
 stairway, into the long gallery that opens into the im- 
 mense suite of rooms hung with pictures ; the gallery 
 hung with pictures, too, and set with statues. 
 
 How I wish I could make you see with my eyes ! 
 How I wish I could be to you something more than a 
 mere traveler, telling what / have seen ! That long 
 corridor, windows on one side, statues and pictures on 
 the other, always seems to me like a nursery for love 
 of art. At the far end are the quaint pictures of 
 Giotto and Cimabue. Then the reverent, religious 
 paintings of Fra Angelico. Oh, those sweet-faced, 
 golden-haired angels I Oh, the glimpse into the land 
 seen by faith, inhabited by shining ones ! Oh, the 
 radiance of those pictures ! The gold back-grounds, 
 the bright faces, the happy effect of them ! The ar- 
 tists believed' ih^m with all their souls, as Ruskin has 
 said ; so they painted pictures which recall the refrain 
 of Bernard de Cluny's Rhyme of the Celestial Country. 
 Presently pictures by Perugino, Raphael's master, and 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 — quite at the other end of the gallery — the portrait 
 of Raphael, painted by himself. This picture is on 
 an easel, and stands apart. Are you familiar with 
 Raphael's beautiful, calm, young face .? It is a face 
 which has passed into a proverb for beauty and 
 serenity. A velvet cap is pushed ofi' the pure brow j 
 the hair is long and waving ; the eyes are large and 
 dark and abstracted. I always stood before this pict- 
 ure as before a shrine. 
 
 All the way down the gallery are statues and busts. 
 There are the Roman emperors, far more familiar to me 
 through their counterfeit presentments than through 
 the pages of history. Augustus, Diocletian, Trajan : 
 to us girls they were studies in hair-dressing, if in 
 nothing else. Some of them with flowing locks, some 
 with close, short curls, some with hair parted in the 
 middle and laid in long, smooth curls, like a woman. 
 Of such was Heliogabulus, and of such was Vitellius. 
 
 One morning — soon after we came to Florence — 
 »ve started off upon a quest — through the Uffizi — 
 Millie, Eva and I, and our elders. The object of 
 our quest was no less a goddess than she called of 
 the Medici. 
 
 I remember that we wandered down the long gallery 
 I have described, and through room after room. It 
 was the fancy of our mamma, and the uncle who was 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 taking care of us all, to find their way about for them- 
 selves. For instance : if we had been told that a 
 certain picture, by a certain master, was to be found 
 in a certain palace, we roamed in and out around the 
 other pictures until the picture revealed itself to us. It 
 was surprising how seldom we were deceived in this 
 method of ours. We would pass by dozens of pict- 
 ures by inferior artists, completely unmoved; then, 
 suddenly, a thrilling vision of beauty would glow upon 
 us, and we would acknowledge ourselves to be in a 
 royal presence-chamber. 
 
 Such a presence-chamber is the Tribune in the 
 Uffizi palace. We came upon many marble Venuses 
 before we arrived in this Tribune, a large, octagon 
 room, with a domed ceiling, blue, flecked with gold 
 stars; but we passed them all by — until finally we 
 entered the reverent stillness which is kept about the 
 Venus of Venuses. We recognized her at once. 
 There she stood, in that silent room, the light subdued 
 to a judicious mellowness — beautiful with the fresh, 
 smiling beauty of perpetual youth ; beautiful with the 
 same beauty that gladdened the heart of the Greek 
 artist who carved her, hundreds of years ago; so 
 many hundreds of years that the marble has in con- 
 sequence, the rich cream-color of old ivory. 
 
 In this same Tribune hangs the portrait of a beau- 
 
KAPliAEL. 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 tiful young woman, called the Fornarina. Of her only 
 this is known, that she was the beloved of Raphael, 
 and that she was the daughter of a baker in Rome. 
 Fornarina means little bakeress, or, perhaps we 
 should say, baker-girl. But this Fornarina might be 
 a princess. An "ox-eyed Juno'' princess, dark and 
 glowing, with a serene composure about her that one 
 remembers as her most striking characteristic. 
 
 Raphael's lady-love. Millie and I knew more 
 about her than was ever written in books. Not relia- 
 ble gossip — gossip of our own invention, but gossip 
 that delighted our hearts. 
 
 Other pictures by Raphael hang here, too. How 
 distinctly I recall them. How vivid are all the works 
 of this great painter ! The critics say that one who 
 excelled in so many things, excelled also in expression. 
 Yes. It is this which gives to his pictures the dis- 
 tinctness of photographs from life. They are dra- 
 matic. They take you at once into the spirit of the 
 scene represented. They are full of soul, and herein 
 lies the great difference between Raphael's works and 
 those of other schools, the Venetian, for instance. 
 The painters of Venice aimed at effects of color; 
 Raphael used color only in order to express a loftier 
 thought. 
 
 Are you tired of the Uffizi ? Come with me, for a 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 few minutes, before we go, into the Hall of Niobe. 
 Words fail me to relate with what mingled emotions 
 of sympathy, distress and delight we children used to 
 haunt this hall, and examine each sculptured form in 
 turn. The story goes that Niobe incurred the dis- 
 pleasure of Diana and Apollo, who wreaked their 
 vengeance upon the mother by killing her fourteen 
 children. At the head of the hall stands Niobe, con- 
 vulsed with grief, vainly imploring the angry brother 
 and sister to show compassion, and at the same time 
 protecting the youngest child, who is clinging to her. 
 But we feel that both intercession and protection will 
 be in vain. On the other side of the hall are her sons 
 and daughters. Some already pierced with arrows, 
 stiff in death ; some in the attitude of flight, some 
 staggering to the ground. It is an easy matter for the 
 imagination to picture the supreme moment when, be- 
 reft of all her children, the mother's heart breaks, and 
 she is turned to stone. The legend relates that that 
 stone wept tears. Nor was it a difficult matter for 
 me to take this on faith. What is more, many is the 
 time I have planted myself before the very marble 
 Niobe in the Uffizi, firmly expecting to see the tears 
 flow down her cheeks. 
 So we come out upon the streets of Florence again. 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 Fair Florence, the narrow Arno dividing her, the pur- 
 ple Appennines shutting her in the Arno's fertile 
 valley. Flower-women stop us on the streets, and 
 
 offer us flow- 
 ers. Flower- 
 women who 
 are not as 
 pretty as they 
 are wont to be 
 at fancy-dress 
 parties; they 
 are apt to be 
 h e avy and 
 mid -die -aged, 
 i n fact, one 
 of them, the 
 handsomest of 
 the band, has 
 a scar on her 
 face, and a tinge of romance attached to her name. 
 It is whispered about that her lover's dagger inflicted 
 the scar, in a fit of jealousy. Once I myself saw a 
 look flash into her eyes, when something was said to 
 offend her by a passer-by on the street, which sug- 
 gested the idea that she might have used her dagger 
 
 La Fornarina of the Uffizi, at Florence. 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 in return. It was the look of a tiger aroused. And 
 after that I never quite lost sight of the smothered 
 fire in those black eyes of hers. 
 
 I used to wonder why I saw so few pretty faces in 
 Florence. Moreover, how lovely the American ladies 
 always looked in contrast with the swarthy, heavy 
 Tuscan women. As a rule, that is. Of course, there 
 were plain Americans and handsome Tuscans; but 
 our countrywomen certainly bear off the palm for deli- 
 cacy of feature and coloring. Still, the Tuscan peas- 
 ant-girls make a fine show, with their broad flats of 
 Leghorn straw ; and when they are married they are 
 invariably adorned with strings of Roman pearls about 
 their necks. So many rows of pearls counts for so 
 much worldly wealth. 
 
 I stroll on, stopping to look in at the picture stores, 
 or coming to an enraptured pause before a cellar-way 
 piled up with rare and fragrant flowers, such as one 
 sees seldom out of Florence — the City of Flowers. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ONE summer we lived in a villa a short distance 
 outside the gates of Florence. For Florence 
 had gates in those days, and was a walled city, kept 
 by Austrian sentinels. That was the time of the 
 Austrian occupation. Since then, Solferino and 
 Magenta have been fought, and the treaty of Villa- 
 franca has been signed, and now, " Italy's one, from 
 mountain to sea ! " — 
 
 " King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
 
 And his flag takes all heaven with its white, green and red." 
 
 But then the Florentines bowed their necks under 
 a hated foreign yoke, scowling when they dared at a 
 retreating " maledetto Tedesco '^ (cursed German). 
 
 The phrase "white, green and red" recalls to me 
 the fire-balloons we used to send up from our villa 
 garden, on the summer nights of long ago. We had, 
 for our Italian tutor, an enthusiastic patriot, who had 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 fought in the Italian ranks in '48, and who was looking 
 forward to shouldering a musket soon again. It 
 aiforded him intense gratification to send the national 
 colors floating out over Florence. Our villa was built 
 on a hill-side, commanding a fine view of the Val 
 d'Arno, and of the City of Flowers herself, domed, 
 campaniled, spired. The longer the voyages made 
 by our balloons, the higher rose the spirits of our 
 Signor Vjcenzo. He regarded these airy nothings, 
 made by his own hands, of tissue paper and alcohol, 
 as omens of good or ill to his beloved country. 
 
 I suppose he was a fair type of his countrymen 
 intensely dramatic, with a native facility of expression. 
 One notices this facility of expression among all 
 classes. The Italians have an eloquent sign-language 
 of their own, in which they are as proficient as in the 
 language of spoken words. It is charming to see 
 two neighbors communicating with each other across 
 the street, without uttering a syllable, by the means 
 of animated gestures. It seems a natural sequence 
 that they should be a people of artists. 
 
 Such long rambles as my sisters and I and our 
 
 maid Assunta took, starting from the villa ! Assunta 
 
 was the daughter of a neighboring countryman of the 
 
 better sort, who cultivated a grape vineyard and an 
 
 olive field, besides keeping a dairy. We had a way 
 22 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 of happening by in the evening in time for a glass of 
 warm milk. Assunta^s mother supplied cm table 
 with milk and butter daily, moreover; butter made 
 into tiny pats and done up daintily in grape leaves, 
 never salted, by the way; milk put up in flasks 
 cased in straw, such as are also used for the native 
 wine. Was it the unfailing appetite of childhood, or 
 was that milk and butter really superior to any I have 
 ever tasted since ? What charming breakfasts recur 
 to me ! Semele, as we called our baker's rolls ; a 
 golden circle of butter on its own leaf; great figs 
 bursting with juicy sweetness ; milk. 
 
 How good those figs used to taste for lunch, too 
 when we would pay a few crazis for the privilege of 
 helping ourselves to them off the fig-trees in some 
 podere (orchard, vineyard), inclosed in its own stone 
 wall, on which scarlet poppies waved in the golden 
 sunlight, beneath the blue, blue skies. Am I waxing 
 descriptive and dull? Well, dear girls, I wish you 
 could have shared those days with me. Roaming 
 about those hill-sides, my sisters and I peopled them 
 with the creatures of our own imaginations, as well 
 as those of other people's imaginations, to say nothing 
 of veritable historical characters. We read and 
 re-read Roger's Italy, Do you know that enchanting 
 book ? Can you say by heart, as Millie, Eva and I 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 could, "Ginevra/' and "Luigi," and "The Brides of 
 Venice " ? I wonder if I should like that poetry now? 
 I loved it then. Also, I date my knowledge of Byron 
 to that same epoch. We children devoured the de- 
 scriptions in "Childe Harold," and absorbed "The 
 Two Foscari,'* which otherwise we would perhaps 
 have never read. Byron was the poet of our fathers 
 and mothers ; but in these early days dramatic and 
 narrative poetry was more intelligible than the mysti- 
 cism of Tennyson and the Brownings, so enchanting 
 to me now. 
 
 One evening, some friends who occupied a neigh- 
 boring villa invited mamma to be present at the read- 
 ing of a manuscript poem by an American poet, 
 Buchanan Read. I was permitted to go, too, and 
 was fully alive to the dignity of the occasion. Mr. 
 Read was making a reputation rapidly ; there was no 
 telling what might be in store for him. The generous 
 hand of brother artists in Florence all cheered him 
 on his way, and accorded to him precisely that kind 
 of sympathetic encouragement which his peculiar na- 
 ture required. The group of interested, friendly 
 faces in the salon at Villa Allori rises up before me as 
 I write, on the evening when Mr. Read, occupying a 
 central position, read aloud, in his charming, trained 
 voice. 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 I remember that, in the pauses of the reading, Mr. 
 Powers, who was present, amused one or two children 
 about him by drawing odd little caricatures on a stray 
 bit of note paper, which is, by the way, still in my 
 possession. Doubtless Mr. Powers' reputation rests 
 upon his statues, not his caricatures ; yet these par- 
 ticular ones have an immense value for me, dashed 
 off with a twinkle in the artist's beautiful dark eyes. 
 
 There was also present on this occasion a beautiful 
 young lady, for whom Mr. Read had just written 
 some birthday verses, which he read to us, after 
 having completed the reading of the larger manu- 
 script. Those birthday verses have haunted me ever 
 since, and this, although I cannot recall a word of 
 the more ambitious poem. 
 
 Mr. Powers had lived for so many years in Florence 
 that he was by right of that, if by no other right, the 
 patriarch of the American colony there. He and 
 his large family were most intensely American, in 
 spite of their long expatriation. His was emphatically 
 an American home^ as completely so as though the 
 Arno and the Appenines had been, instead, the 
 Mississippi and the AUeghanies. This was no doubt 
 due to the fact that Mrs. Powers was preeminently 
 an American wife and mother, large-hearted and 
 warm-hearted. She never forgot the household tradi- 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 civQS of her youth. She baked mince-pies and 
 pumpkin-pies at Christmas and Thanksgiving, and 
 dispensed these bounties to her countrymen with a 
 lavish hand. Then, too, the Powers lived in a house^ 
 and not in an apartment^ or, as we say, on a flat. 
 The children ran up and down-stairs, and in and out 
 their own yard, which lay between the dwelling-house 
 and the studio, just as American children do. And 
 in this genial, wholesome home an artist grew up in 
 the second generation. A son of Mr. Powers is now 
 making name and fame for himself in his father's 
 profession. 
 
 It has been said that the beautiful face of the 
 eldest daughter of this family is suggested in her 
 father's ** Greek Slave." I looked up to her then 
 with the respect which a child feels for an elder girl, 
 "a young lady in society." I can appreciate now 
 and admire, even more than I did then, the extreme 
 simplicity and unconsciousness which so well accorded 
 with her grand, classic beauty. She was the good 
 fairy at a Christmas Tree Festival, to which all the 
 American girls and boys in Florence were bidden, on 
 the twenty-fifth of December. We were all presented 
 with most exquisitely made bonbonnieres, chiefly of 
 home manufacture. We were feasted on doughnuts 
 which brought tears to some of our eyes; dear 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 American doughnuts, that might have been fried in 
 the land of the free. We had French candy ad 
 libitum; but there was also on exhibition a pound or 
 so of genuine American stick candy, such as we see 
 by the bushel in this country, and which had been 
 brought over from the United States by a friend 
 recently arrived, at Mrs. Powers' special request. 
 We examined this stick candy with patriotic enthu- 
 siasm. We ate little bits of it, and thought it infinitely 
 better than our candied fruits and chocolate creams. 
 Doubtless this little incident here recalled will account 
 for the fact that I always associate peppermint stick 
 candy with the flag of the Union. It is an unfortu- 
 nate caprice of mind ; but, nevertheless, the national 
 stripes always rise before me when I see these red 
 and white sticks. 
 
 I am inclined to the belief that exiles make the 
 best patriots. We American children stood up fiercely 
 for our own native land, whenever the question as to 
 national superiority arose between ourselves and 
 English, French, or Italian children, — especially the 
 English. With these we fought the Revolutionary 
 war all over again, hotly, if injudiciously. And I am 
 confident that we had a personal and individual sense 
 of superiority over them. No doubt we were endowed, 
 even at that early age, with the proverbial national 
 
A Child in Florence, 
 
 conceit. Some one had told me that every American 
 was a sovereign, and that I was consequently a prin- 
 cess in my own right. This became a conviction 
 with me, and greatly increased my self-importance. 
 How glorious to be the citizen of a country of such 
 magnificent gifts of citizenship ! 
 
 But to return to Mr. Powers. His statue of Cali- 
 fornia was on exhibition at this time. This is, to my 
 mind, the most noble and impressive of his works. 
 The strong, resolute face, of classic outlines, and of 
 the sterner type of beauty, bears a distinct resem- 
 blance to the sculptor's second daughter, although 
 by no means a portrait. It has been told me 
 that one of the fathers of our American church, 
 traveling in Italy, suggested an important alteration 
 in this statue. California originally carried in her 
 hand a bar, supposed to represent a bar of solid gold. 
 The idea occurred to the bishop that were this 
 smooth bar — which might mean anything — made 
 to represent a nugget of gold in the rough, the point 
 of the story would be far more effectively told ; and 
 on this idea the bishop spoke. The sculptor was 
 impressed directly, and with all the unaffected sim- 
 plicity of real genius he thanked his critic for the 
 hint. California now displays her symbolic nugget ; 
 and, moreover, about her head is designed a fillet of 
 bits of ore in the rough. 
 
A Child in Florence. 
 
 The America of Powers is another impiessive and 
 beautiful female form. A vision of the sculptor comes 
 before my eyes, standing in front of this statue, and 
 talking it over with a party of visitors. Such a beau- 
 tiful, simple-mannered man — with his mild dark eyes 
 and serene face! He wore the usual blouse and 
 linen apron, and the cap of the sculptor. He held his 
 chisel in his hand as he conversed. Some of his 
 audience did not agree with him in the peculiar politi- 
 cal views he held. But Mr. Powers would not argue, 
 and what need t Had he not preached his sermon in 
 stone, and eloquently ? 
 
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 and events. A massive volume of over 700 pages, printed on fine calendered paper. 
 Illustrated with three hundred original drawings of personal exploits. :^nglish cloth, 
 emblematic design in gold and colors, $2. 50* 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of the advertised price. 
 
 THE WERNER COMPANY, Publishers, - Akron, 0. 
 
JbN 23 1899 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: ncr 
 
 ^^ - 2001 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 
 
 1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Towr>ship, PA 16066 
 (724) 779-2111