But leaving aside all political and financial questions, one may be permitted to enjoy this delightful old city, with its treasures of art, and its rich historical memories. Florence has lately been revelling in its glories of old days in a celebration of the four hundredth anniversary of the birth of Michael Angelo—as a few years since it celebrated the six hundredth anniversary of the birth of Dante. Surely few men in history better deserve to be remembered than Michael Angelo, whose rugged face looks more like that of a hard-headed old Scotchman, than of one who belonged to the handsome Italian race. And yet that brain was full of beautiful creations, and in his life of eighty-nine years he produced enough to leave, not only to Florence, but to Rome, many monuments of his genius. He was great in several forms of art—as painter, sculptor, and architect—and even had some pretension to be a poet. He was the sculptor of David and Moses; the painter of the Last Judgment and the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, and the architect who built St. Peter's. And his character was equal to his genius. He was both religious and patriotic, not only building churches, but the fortifications that defended Florence against her enemies. Such was Michael Angelo—a simple, grand old man, whose name is worthy to live with the heroes of antiquity.
We were too late to enjoy the fétes that were given at this anniversary, and were only able to be present at the performance of Verdi's Requiem, which concluded the whole. This sublime composition was written for the great Italian author Manzoni, and to be sung in the Cathedral of Milan, whose solemn aisles were in harmony with its mournful and majestic strains. Now it would have seemed more fitting in the Duomo of Florence than in a theatre, though perhaps the latter was better constructed for an orchestra and an audience. The performance of the Requiem was to be the great musical event of the year; we had heard the fame of it at Milan and at Venice, and having seen what Italy could show in one form of art, we were now able to appreciate it in another. Months had been spent in preparation. Distinguished singers were to lead in the principal parts, while hundreds were to join their voices in the tremendous chorus. On the night that we witnessed the representation, the largest theatre in Florence was crowded from pit to dome, although the price of admission was very high. In the vast assembly was comprised what was most distinguished in Florence, with representatives from other cities of Italy, and many from other countries. The performance occupied over two hours. It began with soft, wailing melodies, such as might be composed to soothe a departing soul, or to express the wish of survivors that it might enter into its everlasting rest. Then succeeded the Dies Iræ—the old Latin hymn, which for centuries has sounded forth its accents of warning and of woe. Those who are familiar with this sublime composition will remember the terrific imagery with which the terrors of the Judgment are presented, and can imagine the effect of such a hymn rendered with all the power of music. We had first a quiet, lulling strain—almost like silence, which was the calm before the storm. Then a sound was heard, but low, as of something afar off, distant and yet approaching. Nearer and nearer it drew, swelling every instant, till it seemed as if the trumpets that should wake the dead were stirring the alarmed air. At last came a crash as if a thunder peal had burst in the building. This terrific explosion, of course, was soon relieved by softer sounds. There were many and sudden transitions, one part being given by a single powerful voice, or by two or three, or four, and then the mighty chorus responding with a sound like that of many waters. After the Dies Iræ followed a succession of more gentle strains, which spoke of Pardon and Peace. The Agnus Dei and other similar parts were given with a tenderness that was quite overpowering. Those who have heard the Oratorio of the Messiah, and remember the melting sweetness of such passages as "He leadeth me beside the still waters," and "I know that my Redeemer liveth," can form an idea of the marvellous effect. I am but an indifferent judge of music, but I could not but observe how much grander such a hymn as the Dies Iræ sounds in the original Latin than in any English version. Eternal rest are sweet words in English, but in music they can never be rendered with the effect of the Latin REQUIEM SEMPITERNAM, on which the voices of the most powerful singers lingered and finally died away, as if bidding farewell to a soul that was soaring to the very presence of God. This Requiem was a fitting close to the public celebrations by which Florence did honor to the memory of her illustrious dead.
Michael Angelo is buried in the church of Santa Croce, and near his tomb is that of another illustrious Florentine, whose name belongs to the world, and to the heavens—"the starry Galileo." We have sought out the spots associated with his memory—the house where he lived and the room where he died. The tower from which he made his observations is on an elevation which commands a wide horizon. There with his little telescope—a very slender tube and very small glass, compared with the splendid instruments in our modern observatories—he watched the constellations, as they rose over the crest of the Apennines, and followed their shining path all night long. There he observed the mountains in the moon, and the satellites of Jupiter. What a commentary on the intelligence of the Roman Catholic Church, that such a man should be dragged before the Inquisition—before ignorant priests who were not worthy to untie his shoes—and required, under severe penalties, to renounce the doctrine of the revolution of the globe. The old man yielded in a moment of weakness, to escape imprisonment or death, but as he rose from his knees, his spirit returned to him, and he exclaimed "But still it moves!" A good motto for reformers of all ages. Popes and inquisitors may try to stop the revolution of the earth, but still it moves!
There is another name in the history of Florence, which recalls the persecutions of Rome—that of Savonarola. No spot was more sacred to me than the cell in the Monastery, where he passed so many years, and from which he issued, crucifix in hand (the same that is still kept there as a holy relic), to make those fiery appeals in the streets of Florence, which so stirred the hearts of the people, and led at last to his trial and death. A rude picture that is hung on the wall represents the final scene. It is in the public square, in front of the Old Palace, where a stage is erected, and monks are conducting Savonarola and two others who suffered with him, to the spot where the flames are kindled. Here he was burnt, and his ashes thrown into the Arno. But how impotent the rage that thought thus to stifle such a voice! His words, like his ashes, have gone into the air, and the winds take them up and carry them round the world. Henceforth his name belongs to history, and in the ages to come will be whispered by
"Those airy tongues that syllable men's names,
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses."
It is a proof of the decline of Italy under the oppression of a foreign yoke—of the paralysis of her intellectual as well as her political life—that she has produced no name to equal these in four hundred years. For though Byron eulogizes so highly, and perhaps justly, Alfieri and Canova, it would be an extravagant estimate which should assign them a place in the Pantheon of History beside the immortals of the Middle Ages.
And yet Italy has not been wholly deserted of genius or of glory in these later ages. In the darkest times she has had some great writers, as well as painters and sculptors, and in the very enthusiasm with which she now recalls in her celebrations the names of Dante and Michael Angelo, we recognize a spirit of life, an admiration for greatness, which may produce in the future those who may rank as their worthy successors.
Within a few years Florence has become such a resort of strangers that some of its most interesting associations are with its foreign residents. In the English burying ground many of that country sleep far from their native island. Some, like Walter Savage Landor and Mrs. Browning, had made Florence their home for years. Italy was their adopted country, and it is fit that they sleep in its sunny clime, beneath a southern sky. So of our countryman Powers, who was a resident of Florence for thirty-five years, and whose widow still lives here in the very pretty villa which he built, with her sons and daughter married and settled around her, a beautiful domestic group. In the cemetery I sought another grave of one known to all Americans. On a plain stone of granite is inscribed simply the name
THEODORE PARKER,
Born at Lexington, Massachusetts,
In the United States of America,
August 24th, 1810.
Died in Florence
May 10th, 1860.