Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870 -- Travel -- Italy; Italy -- Description and travel; Novelists, English -- 19th century -- Biography
The Grand Duke has a worthier secret passage through the streets, in his
black robe and hood, as a member of the Compagnia della Misericordia,
which brotherhood includes all ranks of men. If an accident take place,
their office is, to raise the sufferer, and bear him tenderly to the
Hospital. If a fire break out, it is one of their functions to repair to
the spot, and render their assistance and protection. It is, also, among
their commonest offices, to attend and console the sick; and they neither
receive money, nor eat, nor drink, in any house they visit for this
purpose. Those who are on duty for the time, are all called together, on
a moment’s notice, by the tolling of the great bell of the Tower; and it
is said that the Grand Duke has been seen, at this sound, to rise from
his seat at table, and quietly withdraw to attend the summons.
In this other large Piazza, where an irregular kind of market is held,
and stores of old iron and other small merchandise are set out on stalls,
or scattered on the pavement, are grouped together, the Cathedral with
its great Dome, the beautiful Italian Gothic Tower the Campanile, and the
Baptistery with its wrought bronze doors. And here, a small untrodden
square in the pavement, is ‘the Stone of DANTE,’ where (so runs the
story) he was used to bring his stool, and sit in contemplation. I
wonder was he ever, in his bitter exile, withheld from cursing the very
stones in the streets of Florence the ungrateful, by any kind remembrance
of this old musing-place, and its association with gentle thoughts of
little Beatrice!
The chapel of the Medici, the Good and Bad Angels, of Florence; the
church of Santa Croce where Michael Angelo lies buried, and where every
stone in the cloisters is eloquent on great men’s deaths; innumerable
churches, often masses of unfinished heavy brickwork externally, but
solemn and serene within; arrest our lingering steps, in strolling
through the city.
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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