The same may be remarked also of the monument of Canova, directly opposite, the design of which is almost the same as that of Archduchess Christiana at Vienna. It is a huge pyramid of white marble, and at the right, passing towards its open door, is a procession of life-size figures in marble, representing, I suppose, Art, Religion, Genius, &c. The first, a figure completely shrouded in its white marble drapery, is bearing a funeral urn; next comes a youthful figure ascending the steps, bearing a torch; next to this comes a male and female, walking together in an attitude of grief; bearing a festoon of flowers, and following them two boys with torches. At the left of the open door of the monument rests the winged lion in a crouching attitude, with paws crossed upon a book, and below him a colossal figure of an angel, seated upon loose, flowing drapery thrown upon the marble steps, and leaning, with half-bowed head, upon his extinguished torch. This last figure is most naturally and effectively posed, and, with one of its feet hanging carelessly down from the lower step over the pedestal, and the drapery fluttering beneath it, has an exceedingly natural air, and the figure is beautiful and graceful as one might suppose an angelic visitant would be.
There are many other monuments rich in historic interest in this fine old church. There is that of Francesco Foscari, whose name has been rendered immortal by Byron; and opposite it the tomb of another doge—a colossal structure, forty feet high and twenty-seven feet wide, decorated with a profusion of sculpture, including nineteen full-length figures; the monument of Simeone Dandolo, who was one of the judges of Marino Faliero; the elegant monument in rich marble of Jacopo Pesaro, who died in 1547, and near it a picture over the Pesaro altar, the property of the Pesaro family, representing the Virgin and Child, seated within a magnificent temple, with St. Peter, St. Francis, and other saints standing near, while numerous members of the Pesaro family were kneeling at different points. It was a grand and elegant painting, said to be one of Titian's best works. The little chapels opening out of the church were rich in beautiful pictures, monuments, and sculpture—votive offerings, or to perpetuate the memory of members of some of the great, but now extinct or almost forgotten, Venetian families. Those who have a desire to view the tombs and monuments of the old doges will find many of them in the Church of Santi Giovannio e Paolo, including the splendid one of Andrea Vendramin, who died in 1479.
This great church is three hundred and thirty-one feet long, one hundred and forty-two feet wide in the transepts, and one hundred and twenty-three feet high. Here, on entering at the left, we saw the space that was occupied on the wall by Titian's masterpiece, Peter Martyr, recently destroyed by fire. Owing to some repairs that were to be made in this part of the church, this priceless painting was removed to one of the side chapels for greater safety, which soon after took fire, and was totally destroyed, with all its rich decorations and pictures, the Titian among the rest.
The Santa Maria della Salute, an elegant church, with its great dome supported inside by eight pillars, between which open seven chapels, is beautifully decorated; and here we saw Tintoretto's picture of the Marriage at Cana, Titian's Descent of the Holy Spirit, and the elegantly-sculptured high altar.
We become wearied with paintings at the churches, and saints, martyrs, and Madonnas are at last so monotonous that one ought to take a vacation between a visit to the churches and the Academy of Fine Arts, in which I cannot begin to enumerate the beautiful paintings. Titian's Assumption of the Virgin is one glorious work, however—rich in color and elegant in execution; Tintoretto's Adam and Eve, another; the Fisherman presenting the Ring to the Doge, very fine; and the great picture, by Paul Veronese, of Our Saviour in the House of Levi, an immense painting covering one entire end of a hall,—I should think thirty feet or more long by twenty in height,—a very animated composition; Titian's St. John in the Desert, and Tintoretto's Crucifixion, with the Three Marys, besides an indefinite number of saints, martyrs undergoing tortures, Madonnas, holy families, Virgins, &c., in various styles of art are here.
All the guide-books tell us that Florence is the fairest city of the earth, that it is Florence the Beautiful; so old Genoa is called Genoa Superba; and, in fact, local pride gives many of these old cities grandiloquent or flattering titles, the present significance of which the tourist fails to see. Florence owes its reputation for beauty more to its beautiful surroundings and its charming environs than to any beauties of its own, being in the centre of a sort of pretty valley, as it were, with gentle elevations surrounding it, and the picturesque peaks of the Apennines rising in the distance. From the hill of Fiesole the visitor gets a most charming view of hill, valley, mountain, and plain, and of the city beneath, with the Arno twisting its silver thread through it. The country all around is picturesque in the extreme, with exquisite bits of landscape taking in vineyards and country houses, villages and church spires, gently sloping hill-sides, and distant mountain peaks assuming many strange hues in the sunlight. But the streets of the city itself are generally narrow, and with but little architectural display. The great palaces look like fortresses, and built, as perhaps they were, for the strongholds of royalty.
Our first walk carried us to the Piazza del Gran' Duca, and here rose the huge square, massive-looking building, the Palazzo Vecchio, with great, projecting battlements, and the tall, mediæval-looking watch-tower rising up at one corner, so familiar from the many pictures that have been drawn of it. Right about in this vicinity are many superb works of art in the open air—an equestrian statue of Cosmo I., the Fountain of Neptune, with the god in his car drawn by sea-horses, with nymphs, sea-gods, and tritons sporting about the margin of the basin; and on one side of the door of the palace stands a colossal group of Hercules slaying Cacus, while on the other is a statue of David by Michael Angelo.
This reminds me that we hear this great artist's name at every turn in Florence, see his portrait in every picture store, and prints of his works in the window of every print shop; for are we not in Florence, the birthplace of Angelo—not only of Angelo, but of Dante, Petrarch, Galileo, Boccaccio, Leonardo da Vinci, the artist, and Benvenuto Cellini, the wondrous worker in metals? But I am forgetting the beautiful works of art that stand all about one here in the open street, which I stood gazing at in silent admiration.
In a sort of grand arcade, or "loggia," as it is called, which looks like a house with the two lower stories taken out, and formed into three great arched porticos, is a broad stone platform, gained by an ascent of half a dozen broad steps, and in it some fine statuary. One of the most prominent is a fine colossal bronze, one of Perseus with the head of Medusa; a grand figure executed by Cellini, representing the helmeted figure standing with one foot upon the fallen monster, while with one hand he holds aloft the decapitated head, and the other grasps his sword. The pedestal of this statue is elegantly ornamented. In each of its four sunken panels are small figures of mythological deities. Next comes a marble group of a helmeted warrior bearing away a female figure in his arms, entitled the Rape of the Sabines, Hercules slaying a Centaur, Judith slaying Holofernes, and the Dying Ajax, supported by a Greek warrior. There are also six colossal female statues, and a couple of grandly-sculptured lions. We were full tilt on the way to visit the Uffizi Gallery when these groups arrested us, and were a new sensation—sculpture after so much painting, and a good preparation for what we were to see in that celebrated gallery.
At our first visit here, impatient, we pressed on to the room known as the Tribune, which contains some of the greatest works of art in the world. Those that every looker-in at a city shop window has seen copies of are here in the original. The room is lighted from the top; but it does not appear the most favorable place for an exhibition of these great works. First greeting the visitor as he enters the door is the celebrated Venus de' Medici, one of the most graceful and elegant statues in the world, the pure, modest beauty of which is wonderful. The easy grace of attitude, the modest beauty of the face, and perfect symmetry of the whole figure are faultless. Its height, five feet two inches, was less than I supposed it would be, and the hands, which are a modern restoration, are bad, as all writers agree.