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name of the two-shilling piece, is derived either from the city or the flower.

The roll of illustrious men is a long one, natives of the place or of the territory, intimately connected with its fortunes, who contributed to win for it the distinction of being styled the Athens of Italy. The list includes painters, sculptors, architects, poets, philosophers, and other literati, as Dante, Michael Angelo, Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Galileo, and Alfieri. Their monuments are in the church of Santa Croce, the Pantheon and Westminster Abbey of Florence. This grand old church, built towards the close of the thirteenth century, has recently received a new façade, chiefly through the munificence of one of our countrymen, Mr. Sloane, long a resident in Tuscany. It was uncovered with state ceremony, May the 3rd, 1863, being the five hundred and seventieth anniversary of the laying of the foundation stone, when the consecration was attended, as the historian relates, by "all the good citizens of Florence, both men and women, with great rejoicing and solemnity."

The father of experimental science, Galileo, was interred by ducal orders in Santa Croce, in January, 1642. A majestic memorial symbolizes his great achievements. His last days were passed in the environs of the city, near the hill of Arcetri, where most of those lunar observations are said to have been made to which Milton alludes when saying

that Satan's shield

"Hung o'er his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
At evening from the top of Fiesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers or mountains, in her spotty globe."
The hill-seated Fiesole, here referred
to, antedated Florence, which lies extend-
ed at its base, and may be regarded as
its offspring. It was a trading station
in the old Roman times; but, being of
difficult access, traveling merchants, pre-
ferred remaining with their goods in the
plain below, where a few rude store-
houses formed the original nucleus of the
present city, which did not emerge from
obscurity till the age of Charlemagne.
In the fourteenth century flourished
Boccaccio,

"Him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue,
That music in itself, whose sounds are song,
The poetry of speech."

The Italian language, based mainly upon the ancient Latin, is generally soft and musical, but is not homogeneous. It embraces a great number of dialects, very widely differing from each other, caused by the inffusion of different foreign elements in particular districts, and partly by long-standing political divisions and varying interests. Of these the Tuscan is deemed to be the purest and the most harmonious idiom. It is, consequently, the language of the educated classes, irrepective of locality, and has been for a long period the ordinary vehicle of literature. Boccaccio, born in a neighboring town, and buried in the place of his birth, was contemporary with the great disaster of Florence, the plague of 1348. His prose contains a vivid description of the progress of the pest and its awful havoc. Imported from the Levant, it ravaged most of the Italian cities, but was specially notable in Florence from the number of the victims, 100,000, and the large proportion of them who belonged to the high-born class.

In the preceding age Florence gave birth to the most distinguished of her sons-Dante. Six centuries will have elapsed since the date of his birth, 1265, when his statue, to which Turin has subscribed handsomely, will be erected in the historical piazza before Santa Croce. Happily his principles, uncompromisingly hostile to the temporal power of the popedom, have gained firm establishment through the length and breadth of Italy, though a feeble show of opposition is occasionally manifested. On the first visit of Victor Emanuel to Florence the archbishop met his sovereign at the door of the cathedral, conducted him into the building, and intoned the Te Deum in his presence. For this he received a written, though privately transmitted, reproof from Rome, and has since avoided any outward sign of favor to the liberal cause. Even the edifice itself has been made to exemplify, antagonistic principles. On the anniversary of the restored Italian nationality its aspect has been Ghibellin without and Guelphic within. Brilliantly has the cupola been illuminated in honor of the festival, as the exterior is under the control of the civil authorities, while the interior, subject to the sole jurisdiction of the clergy,

as if possessed by a blind, deaf, and dumb spirit, has resounded with no voice of thankfulness, and been resigned for the time to solitude and gloom.

The cathedral of Florence, a splendid edifice, was founded in 1298, and carried on by various architects, the last of whom, Brunelleschi, conceived the grand cupola, and saw it nearly completed before his death, in 1446. This was so much admired by Michael Angelo as to be taken as a model for that of St. Peter's at Rome. A light and elegant campanile, or bell-tower, detached, according to the fashion of the age, rises by the side of the building. In front appears the octagonal Baptistery of San Giovanni, the most ancient of the public structures extant. All three edifices are completely coated with a varied mosaic of black and white marble. The cathedral has an English interest. At the west end, above a side-door, a figure on horseback appears, painted in fresco, representing Sir John Hawkwood, who was buried at the expense of the state, and thus honored by a public order. His name is not recognizable in the one used in the inscription-Giovanni Aguto-but it is rendered distinct by explanation that the latter word has the meaning of Falcone del Bosco. A notice of him takes us back to the age almost immediately subsequent to that of Dante.

Few men have been more notorious in their day, both feared and eulogized, than Sir John Hawkwood. All Italy was familiar with his name, and rang with the fame of his exploits. He held lands and castles, served and defied popes, seized counts, corresponded in a masterful tone with princes, and received a proposal from the Greek emperor, John Palæologus, to come to his aid against the Turks. A road, said to have been constructed by him for military purposes, still exists in the district of Faenza, and bears his name in its Italianized form— the Strada Aguto. Yet of the man himself all the information is very meagre. He was of humble origin, the son of a tanner, born at Sible Hedingham, in Es

sex.

A fine cenotaph once existed in the church of his native village. Fuller describes it, though not extant in his time, as "arched over, and, in allusion to his name, rebussed with hawks flying into a

wood." The tanner's son was bound apprentice to a tailor in the city of London, but, being of adventurous spirit, he became a soldier of fortune. Entering the service of Edward III. he proved himself a valiant soldier, fought at Crecy, received the honor of knighthood, and particularly distinguished himself at the battle of Poictiers. Upon peace being concluded, Hawkwood, now Sir John, did not relish a return to his own country as a landless knight. He therefore turned his attention to Italy, then distracted by civil dissentions, put himself at the head of a number of his own countrymen, and proceeded thither as a Captain of Free Lances, in 1361. He served various paymasters; and foes did not fail to apply the lines of Lucan to him— "Nor faith, nor honor, warms the hireling's breast: For him he fights whose pay is deemed the best."

But he was no vulgar mercenary, and refused the offer of the Venetians to proceed against Padua because its prince

was his friend. At last his sword was placed at the disposal of the Florentines, loaded with riches and honor, at a very among whom he died, says Froissart, advanced age, in 1394." Hence the monumental fresco-painting in the cathedral, executed by Uccelli, by order of the republic.

Every contemporary Italian writer, whether friend or foe, speaks with admiration of Sir John Hawkwood as a military commander, especially with reference to the skilful disposition of his troops, his stratagems in battle, and his wellconducted retreats. Mr. Hallam awards to him the honor of being the "first real general of modern times, and the earliscience of Turenne and Wellington." A est master, however imperfect, in the poet wrote verses in his praise :

“O Hawkwood, England's glory, sent to be, The bulwark to the pride of Italy,

A tomb just Florence to thy work did raise, And Jovius rears a statue to thy praise." Some notices have recently been recovered from the Venetian archives of of this remarkable chief, and of his countrymen who followed his banner. One of the latter answered to the wellknown name of Colin Campbell. Another is described as "the valiant man, the Englishman, William Gold, constable." He distinguished himself so greatly

at the siege of Chioggia as to be enrolled by the Doge Contarini in the list of citizens of the republic. A grant is also extant, setting forth the service done by him, for which the doge decreed him an annual pension for life of "five hundred ducats of good gold." Englishmen have not been wanting in Italy in our own time, both serving on the battle-field without pay in the cause of liberty, and protesting with the pen against past misgovernment as peaceful residents in the fair cities of the country. Inscriptions in English on many sign-boards indicate their presence and number in beautiful Florence. An English church, built by subscription, opened in 1844, is in the Via Maglio. Our great poetess, Mrs. Browning, better known by her maiden name, Miss Barrett, at a recent period sang her last song by the banks of the Arno; and there also has since passed away from the living an old man eloquent and lettered, Walter Savage Landor, the subject of many errors and eccentricities, but, from first to last, through fourscore years, the friend of Italian freedom.

One thing remains to be noted, and it is the best of all, not only in itself, but in its bearing on the future strength and greatness of Italy. The Word of God is no longer a prescribed book in Florence, and full religious toleration is allowed by the constitution. "Who could have thought," writes one, "that in a city where a few years ago the prison door closed on those who were only guilty of reading that prohibited book, the Bible, we should now, in full security, be printing Bibles, Testaments, and a large evangelical literature, and consecrating to the preaching of the gospel the first Italian Christian church erected here for many a century, and held in possession-like the building of which it is a part—under the royal signature, by the decendants of the Israel of the Alps?" The reference is to the Waldensian church, and college, and to a printing-press, established under royal authority, in a portion of the premises of the Palazzo Salviati. But others, besides the Vaudois pastors, are engaged in the same field, not without encouraging results. Of the higher fruits of their labors this is not the place to speak; but there is an influence at work which has greater power than statesmen always

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The prince of Erin's daughter sweet
Was peerless in her beauty's fame,
For her he sought a partner meet,
Enora was the maiden's name.

By many sought, she all disdain'd,

And none would choose who came to woo, Her favor till Prince Efflamm gain'd, Renown'd for birth and beauty too,

But he had vow'd in pious mood,
To seek a desert wild and drear,
There to abide in solitude

Far from the bride he held so dear.
And, even on his wedding night,
When all within the palace slept,
He rose and left that lady bright,

And softly from her chamber crept:
Slid down the stair and wakened none,
Then fast and far he journey'd on,
Followed by his hound alone.

But, when he reach'd the shore, in vain
He sought a bark to cross the main;
There was no vessel lingering nigh,
And dark the night, and dark the sky,

But with the moon his hopes awoke,

A little chest it seem'd to show-
A little chest, pierced thro' and broke,
Tossed on the waters to and fro.

He dragged it towards him, got therein,
Then launched it, 'mid the wild waves' din;
And, long before the morning's light,
He hail'd the Breton coast in sight.

That was a time, so legends say,
That monsters made the land their prey;
Savage and hideous beasts were there,
And more at Lannion than elsewhere.

Arthur, of Brittany the lord,
Slew many with his wondrous sword-
Arthur, a king of famous name,
Who has no equal since in fame.

When leap'd Saint Efflamm from the flood,
He saw the king in furious strife,
His steed beside him, snorting blood,
Strangled, but struggling still for life.
Before him rear'd a beast of dread,

One red eye in his forehead gleam'd,
Green scales all o'er his shoulders spread,
A two years' bull in size he seemed.

A tail of iron, twisted tight,

Jaws stretching wide, from ear to ear, Arm'd with sharp, pointed teeth, that white As the fell wild boar's tusks appear.

Three days on ceaseless conflict bent,
Not one the other could subdue,
Until the king was almost spent,

When to the shore St. Efflamm drew.

When Arthur saw the saint, he cried,
"A drop of water, pilgrim spare!"
"Ay, by God's help," the Saint replied,

64

Thou shalt have water at thy prayer."

And thrice he struck the mountain height

Thrice, with his staff, and forth there burst A fountain, sparkling pure and bright,

Whence Arthur quenched his burning thirst

The monster he attacked again,

Then in the throat his sword thrust deep; The beast sent forth one cry of pain,

And, headlong, floundered o'er the steep.

The victor said, with courteous air,
"Come with me to my palace fair:
Henceforth thy fortunes are my care."

"Nay, gentle king, it is not meet:
Here will I rest my pilgrim feet,
This mountain is my last retreat."

II.

Amazed, at morn, awoke the bride, To find no husband by her side"What evil could to him betide!"

And, even as brimming streamlets flow, Enora wept whole floods of woe; Deserted-left!-abandon'd so!

All day, the livelong day she wept,
All night a ceaseless moan she kept,
Till wearied out, at length she slept.

Then came a blissful dream, that gave
Her husband lovely as the morn:
"Come, follow me," he said, "and save
Thy soul, and weep no more folorn;
Oh, come, my solitude to share,
And let us spend our lives in prayer.”

And, in her sleep, she thus replied:
"Where'er thou art I follow thee;
Like thee, recluse will I abide,

And our souls' weal my care shall be."

Aged bards have sung the lay,

How the bride blest angels bore Across the ocean, far away,

And laid her by the hermit's door.

When she awoke, with falt'ring hand

Thrice she knock'd, and gently said: "Thy wife, thy dear one, here I stand, Brought by angels to thy aid."

He knew her voice, of tender tone-
He saw, and hail'd her as his own;
Her hand in his he took, and there
Her welcome gave with many a prayer.

Close to his own he built a cell,
Where grew the broom, for her to dwell,
Shelter'd from storms, upon the mount,
Behind the green rock, near the fount.
There lived in peace the holy pair,

And great the miracles they wrought;
The weak would to their cells repair,

The sick their prayers and succor sought.
One night the sailors saw the sky
Open, and heard such melody
As must be heavenly angels' song!
Full of joy they listened long.

Next day a mother, sore distrest,
Her infant on her barren breast,
Came, Enora's help to pray-

But knocked in vain, the door was closed, Look'd through a chink, and lo! reposed In death the holy Lady lay!

Bright as sunshine was her face,
Filled with glory was the place,
And by her knelt, all shrined in light,
A radiant child in vesture white.

Straight to St. Efflam's cell she sped;
The door stood wide-the Saint was dead.

That no one should such truths forget-
Which never in a book were set-
These marvels were in verses strung,
Which in the church shall long be sung.

THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

Two of our public libraries—the Astor, of New York, and the Redwood, of Newport-contain a complete set of the Gentleman's Magazine, so remarkable as a continuous publication. The history of a book is often as interesting as the book. itself, and this is eminently true of the Gentleman's Magazine.

This world-renowned magazine was founded by Edward Cave, whose life, written by Dr. Johnson, and now contained among his biographies, first appeared in its volumes. The first number was issued in 1731, under the title of "The Gentleman's, or Monthly Intelligencer, by Sylvanus Urban, Gent." The publication, a novel one at that period, secured the fortune and immortality of its projector. For many years he endeav

ored to enlist printers and publishers in the undertaking, but without success. "That they were not restrained by virtue from the execution of another man's design,” says Dr. Johnson, “was sufficiently apparent as soon as that design began to be gainful; for in a few years a multitude of magazines arose and perished." The original purpose of Cave was to condense the more important articles, which appeared in the weekly newspapers, into a monthly collection-"a method," he states in his advertisement, "much better calculated to preserve those things that are curious than that of transcribing." Hence the title-page of the early volumes is ornamented with a device, typical of this purpose, viz: a hand grasping a boquet of flowers, under which are the words, "E Pluribus Unum," afterwards adopted as our national motto. The very word magazine also expressed the same general design, and this word was then for the first time introduced into the language to express a literary collection, or repositary." Johnson, in the first edition of his dictionary, published in 1755, after giving the previous definitions of the word, as, 66 a store house," 66 66 an arsenal," an armory," adds, "of late this word has signified a miscellaneous pamphlet from a periodical miscellany named the Gentleman's Magazine, by Edward Cave." That part of Dr. Johnson's life, which records his connection with this magazine, is the most pathetic and interesting of his history. His aid was required and given in every department of the periodical-poetry, prose, criticism, abridgement, and replies to correspondents. His sturdy sense, together with his varied acquisitions in every department of knowledge, gradually led its proprietors from the low field of compilation and selection into the higher one of original composition. "London, a poem," appeared in its columns in May, 1738. The reports of the proceedings in Parliament-if they can with propriety be so denominated-also formed a marked feature of the magazine, and aided in extending its influence and circulation. It is well known that, owing to the erroneous opinions which then prevailed, the publication of such reports subjected the offender to severe penalties. Seven years after the first number

of the magazine was issued, the House of Commons had adopted a resolution "that it is an high indignity to, and a notorious breach of the privileges of this House for, any news writer in letter or other papers (as minutes or under any other denomination) or for any printer or publisher of any printed newspaper, of any denomination, to presume to insert in said letters or papers, or to give therein any account of the debates or other proceedings of this House, or any committee thereof; as well, during the recess as the sitting of Parliament, and that the House will proceed with the utmost severity against such offenders." Notwithstanding these threats and the dangers incurred, a large part of this maga zine was devoted to such reports, which for some years were furnished by Johnson. Without hearing the speakers (see them he could not), often with little else than a memorandum of their names, and a meagre note or two of the line of argument, given to him by CAVE, or any one who had stood in the gallery of the House of Commons, he wrote out the debates; sometimes making speeches for those who had not made them, and “always taking care," as he said to Boswell, "not to let the Whig dogs have the best of it." Thus, many speeches, made familiar to us by frequent declamation in our school boy days, which we then regarded as the eloquence of English statesmen, were invented by Johnson. The reply of Pitt to Walpole, beginning with the words, "The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honorable gentleman has with such spirit and decency charged upon me," is a case in point.

Once in company with Lord Loughborough, Dr. Francis, and Mr. Foote, the conversation turning on this "Reply," it was praised with much warmth by those present. Dr. Johnson, who had remained silent, and contrary to his habit not even seeking to participate in the conversation, at length astonished the company by saying, "that speech I wrote in a garret in Exeter street!" When he was informed that Dr. Smollett was writing a History of England, he wrote to him, cautioning him not to rely on these debates, given in the Gentlemen's Magazine, as they were not authentic; but the work of his own imagination!

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