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VIII.

FLORENCE AND SOME NOTABLE

FLORENTINES.

GREAT city is a great poem, a poem whose story unfolds through the ages, and whose characters are striving and suffering human hearts. Unheard often amid the rattle of its busy streets there are plaintive undertones of rarest music. Beneath its outer life there is an inner one, in which Tragedy and Passion, Pity and Enterprise, Wrong and Sorrow, are the daily actors. If, moreover, the city has a history, if it has passed through those sharp transitions which wring the hearts of nations as they wring the hearts of men; if it kindle with the memories of a glorious past, or, amid present sorrow, glows with the prophecy of a more glorious future, the melody becomes more audible and strong-the voice has louder tones to soothe or to inspire; and a ramble through the streets of such a city, or a visit to its shrines, becomes at once a profit and a pleasure.

With this intent let me lead you for a while to what, until lately, was the capital of the new Kingdom of Italy-beautiful for situation, affluent in annals of the former time, far renowned in song; and let us

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"Muse in hope upon the shore

Of golden Arno, as it shoots away

Through Florence' heart beneath her bridges four."

There are some pictures, world-wide in their reputation, the first sight of which disappoints the eye, and it is only by the study of their various parts that you grow into a perception of their wondrous beauty. Of such is Florence. Its river is the golden Arno" only by a strong poetical licence, and its narrow streets, unfinished churches, and massive, prison-like houses, look sombre to a stranger after the artistic symmetry of Milan, and the superb palaces of Genoa. Each day's sojourn, however, lessens the impression of disappointment, until it is not difficult to emulate the Tuscan enthusiasm for "Firenze la bella." The loveliness of Florence does not consist so much in separate gems as in the exquisite harmony of the whole. If you wish to see it to perfection, fix upon such a day as Florence owes the sun, and climbing the hill of Bellosguardo, or past the stages of the Via Crucis to the Church of San Miniato, look forth upon the scene before you. You trace the course of the Arno from the distant mountains on the right, through the heart of the city, winding along the fruitful valley toward Pisa. The city is beneath you, "like a pearl set in emerald." From the midst of it rises Brunelleschi's dome, high above all the minor spires which flash back the noontide rays. Hard by is the beautiful campanile lifted by Giotto, "like an unperplexed fine question heavenward." The hill behind the city is Fiesolé, of which Milton sings:

"The moon, whose orb

Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
At evening from the top of Fiesolé."

This is where Milton and Galileo met-neither of them then blind, but both heirs of such darkness as only purges the vision of the inner eye; patricians of the nobility of Genius, whose meeting was grander than of monarchs on some field of the Cloth of Gold. On the extreme right, dimly discernible, is the sanctuary of Vallombrosa, hidden in its wealth of beech and pine some twenty miles away. Far to the left is Pistoja, with the pillar of Catiline, and the majestic Apennines close up the view. All colours. are in the landscape, and all sounds are in the air. The hills look almost heathery. The sombre olive and funereal cypress blend with the graceful acacia and the clasping vine. The hum of insect and the carol of bird chime with the blithe voices of men; while dome, tower, mountains, the yellow river, the quaint bridges, spires, palaces, gardens, and the cloudless heavens overhanging, make up a panorama on which to gaze in trance of rapture, until the spirit wearies from the exceeding beauty of the vision.

Florence is said to have sprung out of the ruins of the ancient Fiesolé. It is supposed to have been originally the place where the markets of Fiesolé were held, the commercial spirit of the age being not slow to perceive that there were fewer facilities for barter on the mountain summit than on the fertile plain. In pursuance of the wise policy of the time, a policy upon which after ages have been unable to improve, it was speedily colonized from Rome. The dwellings

of the traders gathered other dwellings round them. It was politic to dwell in company, both for accommodation and for defence. By cultivation, also, the earth is cleared from many noxious vapours, the air is purified by the kindling of household fires, and so places formerly unhealthy become fitted for the habitation of men. In the sixth century the new city was destroyed by Totila, king of the Ostrogoths. It remained in ruins for two hundred and fifty years, when it was rebuilt by Charlemagne. From this time it grew in numbers and influence; not rapidly, because of the oppression of its many rulers. Its history for a long series of years is but a record of the alternate triumphs and misfortunes of Guelph and Ghibelline, Bianchi and Neri, Cerchi and Donati -foolish partisans, who fretted for supremacy during their little hour, and heeded not that the city languished beneath the sickness of their perpetual distemper while the great world was moving on. As we read these stormy Florentine annals, and remember that those of other nations can furnish parallels, it is humiliating to think how long great nations linger in the swaddling-bands and primers of their childhood. The logic of the fist is a very juvenile branch of study, and is resorted to only until boys. and nations become wise enough for the logic of the brain.

The history of Florence does not need to be followed until, about the end of the fourteenth century, Cosmo de Medici appeared upon the stage. He was born on the day of St. Cosmo, in the year 1389. His early years were full of trouble, and

the discipline prepared him for the government. He learned in captivity and exile the prudence which gained him a fortune, and which enabled him to wield an influence over a distracted State, admired both by friends and enemies for his consummate skill. He was as generous as he was wealthy, and as moderate as he was powerful. At the head of the State he remembered that he was one of the people; a mighty ruler, he had sagacity to see that the strength of his power lay in the discretion with which he used it; and amid a people so given to change as to be proverbs of inconstancy, he held his position until a generation had faded by his side. He encouraged the learned to make Florence their home, for he had that prescient wisdom which foretold by how much the glory of letters transcends and will survive the glory of war. Some of his sayings are notable, as indicating a sprightly mind, with some portion of the gift of prophecy. The rebels who had been banished gave him to understand that they "were not dreaming." He said he believed it, for he had " robbed them of their sleep." Rinaldo, his great rival, to warn him that he must not consider himself secure, sent him the enigmatical message that "the hen has laid." His only reply was that "she did ill to lay so far from her nest." After his own return from banishment he was told by some citizens that he was injuring the city by driving out of it nobles and monks. His answer was: "It is better to injure a city than to ruin it; two yards of rose-coloured cloth will make a gentleman, and it requires something more to direct a government than to play with