Hawkwood Greatly Distinguished Himself In
Italy By His Valour And Conduct, And Died A Very Old Man In The
Florentine Service.
He was the son of a Tanner in Essex, and had
been put apprentice to a Taylor.] The baptistery, which stands by
it, was an antient temple, said to be dedicated to Mars.
There
are some good statues of marble within; and one or two of bronze
on the outside of the doors; but it is chiefly celebrated for the
embossed work of its brass gates, by Lorenzo Ghiberti, which
Buonaroti used to say, deserved to be made the gates of Paradise.
I viewed them with pleasure: but still I retained a greater
veneration for those of Pisa, which I had first admired: a
preference which either arises from want of taste, or from the
charm of novelty, by which the former were recommended to my
attention. Those who would have a particular detail of every
thing worth seeing at Florence, comprehending churches,
libraries, palaces, tombs, statues, pictures, fountains, bridge,
etc. may consult Keysler, who is so laboriously circumstantial in
his descriptions, that I never could peruse them, without
suffering the headache, and recollecting the old observation,
that the German genius lies more in the back than in the brain.
I was much disappointed in the chapel of St. Lorenzo.
Notwithstanding the great profusion of granite, porphyry, jasper,
verde antico, lapis-lazuli, and other precious stones,
representing figures in the way of marquetry, I think the whole
has a gloomy effect. These pietre commesse are better calculated
for cabinets, than for ornaments to great buildings, which ought
to be large masses proportioned to the greatness of the edifice.
The compartments are so small, that they produce no effect in
giving the first impression when one enters the place; except to
give an air of littleness to the whole, just as if a grand saloon
was covered with pictures painted in miniature. If they have as
little regard to proportion and perspective, when they paint the
dome, which is not yet finished, this chapel will, in my opinion,
remain a monument of ill taste and extravagance.
The court of the palace of Pitti is formed by three sides of an
elegant square, with arcades all round, like the palace of
Holyrood house at Edinburgh; and the rustic work, which
constitutes the lower part of the building, gives it an air of
strength and magnificence. In this court, there is a fine
fountain, in which the water trickles down from above; and here
is also an admirable antique statue of Hercules, inscribed
LUSIPPOI ERGON, the work of Lysippus.
The apartments of this palace are generally small, and many of
them dark. Among the paintings the most remarkable is the Madonna
de la Seggiola, by Raphael, counted one of the best coloured
pieces of that great master. If I was allowed to find fault with
the performance, I should pronounce it defective in dignity and
sentiment. It is the expression of a peasant rather than of the
mother of God. She exhibits the fondness and joy of a young woman
towards her firstborn son, without that rapture of admiration
which we expect to find in the Virgin Mary, while she
contemplates, in the fruit of her own womb, the Saviour of
mankind. In other respects, it is a fine figure, gay, agreeable,
and very expressive of maternal tenderness; and the bambino is
extremely beautiful. There was an English painter employed in
copying this picture, and what he had done was executed with
great success. I am one of those who think it very possible to
imitate the best pieces in such a manner, that even the
connoisseurs shall not be able to distinguish the original from
the copy. After all, I do not set up for a judge in these
matters, and very likely I may incur the ridicule of the
virtuosi for the remarks I have made: but I am used to speak my
mind freely on all subjects that fall under the cognizance of my
senses; though I must as freely own, there is something more than
common sense required to discover and distinguish the more
delicate beauties of painting. I can safely say, however, that
without any daubing at all, I am, very sincerely - Your
affectionate humble servant.
LETTER XXIX
NICE, February 20, 1765.
DEAR SIR, - Having seen all the curiosities of Florence, and hired
a good travelling coach for seven weeks, at the price of seven
zequines, something less than three guineas and a half, we set
out post for Rome, by the way of Sienna, where we lay the first
night. The country through which we passed is mountainous but
agreeable. Of Sienna I can say nothing from my own observation,
but that we were indifferently lodged in a house that stunk like
a privy, and fared wretchedly at supper. The city is large and
well built: the inhabitants pique themselves upon their
politeness, and the purity of their dialect. Certain it is, some
strangers reside in this place on purpose to learn the best
pronunciation of the Italian tongue. The Mosaic pavement of their
duomo, or cathedral, has been much admired; as well as the
history of Aeneas Sylvius, afterwards pope Pius II., painted on
the walls of the library, partly by Pietro Perugino, and partly
by his pupil Raphael D'Urbino.
Next day, at Buon Convento, where the emperor Henry VII. was
poisoned by a friar with the sacramental wafer, I refused to give
money to the hostler, who in revenge put two young unbroke stone-horses
in the traces next to the coach, which became so unruly,
that before we had gone a quarter of a mile, they and the
postilion were rolling in the dust. In this situation they made
such efforts to disengage themselves, and kicked with such
violence, that I imagined the carriage and all our trunks would
have been beaten in pieces. We leaped out of the coach, however,
without sustaining any personal damage, except the fright; nor
was any hurt done to the vehicle.
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