328 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



in the silvery Arno, barred with many a 

 stately bridge, bordered on either hand 

 by the broad, plain edging of the Lung' 

 Arno promenade. With the measured 

 tramp of the soldiers and the squeal of 

 their angry-sounding bugles — and the sol- 

 dier is always in evidence in Florence, 

 even in times of peace — we may well 

 imagine ourselves back in medieval times. 

 The illusion of the medieval is even 

 greater by night, when the bridges set 

 twinkling coronets over the sparkling 

 stream, and the mysterious military fig- 

 ures marching past might be the halber- 

 diers and pikemen of Lorenzo II Mag- 

 nifico, instead of the Bersaglieri of Vit- 

 torio Emmanuele III. 



THE GREAT GUILDS 



The Ponte Vecchio, with its queer, cov- 

 ered, second-story passageway between 

 the two palaces, is a pure delight, its 

 little houses looking so insecurely slapped 

 against its sides that they seem always 

 threatening to come off and drop into the 

 stream (see page 330). 



The inside of the bridge is equally cu- 

 rious, with its beguiling shops of jewelry 

 and precious stones. Since the fourteenth 

 century it has been occupied by the Guild 

 of the Goldsmiths, one of the original 

 societies of Florentine labor and science. 

 These guilds were the prototypes of our 

 labor organizations and played a promi- 

 nent part, not only in politics, but in the 

 artistic development of the city as well. 

 This interest of the working people was 

 one of the great reasons for the suprem- 

 acy of Florence in the field of art. 



THE PALAZZO VECCHIO AND SAVONAROLA 



In the old, battlemented Palazzo Vec- 

 chio, which still rears its created head in 

 the pride of militant beauty, we may say 

 that Florentine history was made from 

 the beginning of the fourteenth century 

 down to the unification of Italy under 

 Victor Immanuel II of Sardinia. It 

 stands on the Piazza of the Signoria, the 

 great forum of the people. To one side 

 is the Loggia dei Lanzi, a splendid, open, 

 vaulted rostrum or platform, now an 

 open-air museum of sculpture. Among 

 the figures is the beautiful, if somewhat 

 affected, Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini, a 

 master work that has been copied all over 



the world. It was in this piazza that the 

 austere monk, Girolamo Savonarola, who 

 towers above the most splendid figures 

 who have peopled Florence, gallantlv died 

 by fire. 



The most charming and attractive 

 mural decorations in Florence are the fig- 

 ures and groups of glazed white terra- 

 cotta, usually on a blue ground, largely 

 the work of the della Robbia family. 

 They star the walls of churches, palaces, 

 chapels, with their sympathetic, floating 

 figures, and from the spandrels of the 

 battered, grimy old Hospital of the Inno- 

 centi — the first real Renaissance struc- 

 ture — a lovely band of Andrea della Rob- 

 bia's swaddled infants gaze out, extend- 

 ing tiny hands in mute supplication to the 

 hard-hearted. Luca della Robbia worked 

 well in both bronze and marble before he 

 began his work in clay, as his exquisite 

 singing and dancing boys, panels once on 

 the choir screen, and now in the cathedral 

 museum, attest (see page 329). 



SUNSET IN FLORENCE 



Though the sun of the Florentine re- 

 public set nearly four centuries ago, the 

 sun of Nature still continues to set over 

 the city as it did in the days of her glory. 

 Cross the river, and wind slowly up the 

 lovely, rose - hedged, tree - embowered 

 Male dei Colli to the Piazza Michelan- 

 gelo, high above the city, to see the Mas- 

 ter Painter spread his wonder-palette at 

 the close of day. The sun steals down 

 toward his cool bed in the silent Arno 

 above the bridges and the dusty town. 

 The bluish green of the river fires with 

 molten gold — bridges and towers and 

 roofs are etched sharply black under the 

 flaming canopy of the heavens. For a 

 moment Florence glows and darkens with 

 the spell of a more than earthly transfor- 

 mation. 



Then the shadows lengthen, deepen. 

 The dim and distant hills fade into ob- 

 scurity. The Genius of the Dark throws 

 his azure mantle over city and plain, and 

 Florence lies wrapped in the subtle in- 

 tegument of night. Out in the gardens 

 the sparrows twitter sleepily, a chill little 

 wind ruffles the smooth cheek of the 

 Arno, the edges of the clouds are tipped 

 suddenly with silver, and a flood of 



