In Keeping With The Tombs Among The Cloisters, Is The Museum Of
Natural History, Famous Through The World For Its
Preparations in
wax; beginning with models of leaves, seeds, plants, inferior
animals; and gradually ascending, through separate organs of the
Human frame, up to the whole structure of that wonderful creation,
exquisitely presented, as in recent death. Few admonitions of our
frail mortality can be more solemn and more sad, or strike so home
upon the heart, as the counterfeits of Youth and Beauty that are
lying there, upon their beds, in their last sleep.
Beyond the walls, the whole sweet Valley of the Arno, the convent
at Fiesole, the Tower of Galileo, BOCCACCIO'S house, old villas and
retreats; innumerable spots of interest, all glowing in a landscape
of surpassing beauty steeped in the richest light; are spread
before us. Returning from so much brightness, how solemn and how
grand the streets again, with their great, dark, mournful palaces,
and many legends: not of siege, and war, and might, and Iron Hand
alone, but of the triumphant growth of peaceful Arts and Sciences.
What light is shed upon the world, at this day, from amidst these
rugged Palaces of Florence! Here, open to all comers, in their
beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient Sculptors are immortal,
side by side with Michael Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rembrandt,
Raphael, Poets, Historians, Philosophers--those illustrious men of
history, beside whom its crowned heads and harnessed warriors show
so poor and small, and are so soon forgotten. Here, the
imperishable part of noble minds survives, placid and equal, when
strongholds of assault and defence are overthrown; when the tyranny
of the many, or the few, or both, is but a tale; when Pride and
Power are so much cloistered dust. The fire within the stern
streets, and among the massive Palaces and Towers, kindled by rays
from Heaven, is still burning brightly, when the flickering of war
is extinguished and the household fires of generations have
decayed; as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the
strife and passion of the hour, have faded out of the old Squares
and public haunts, while the nameless Florentine Lady, preserved
from oblivion by a Painter's hand, yet lives on, in enduring grace
and youth.
Let us look back on Florence while we may, and when its shining
Dome is seen no more, go travelling through cheerful Tuscany, with
a bright remembrance of it; for Italy will be the fairer for the
recollection. The summer-time being come: and Genoa, and Milan,
and the Lake of Como lying far behind us: and we resting at Faido,
a Swiss village, near the awful rocks and mountains, the
everlasting snows and roaring cataracts, of the Great Saint
Gothard: hearing the Italian tongue for the last time on this
journey: let us part from Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs,
affectionately, in our admiration of the beauties, natural and
artificial, of which it is full to overflowing, and in our
tenderness towards a people, naturally well-disposed, and patient,
and sweet-tempered.
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