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nucleus to Italian nationality, and placed | proved after his accession a model prince. a barrier between the encroaching foreign He had not received priest's orders, and intruders north and south. Even with a on being dispensed from his vows, marforeign dynasty reigning in Florence ried Christina of Lorraine, granddaughter Tuscany was, with Piedmont, the hope of of Catherine de' Medici and Henry II. of enslaved Italy, as she is still, with Pied- France. She had both amiability and mont, the moral backbone of Italy free strength of character, and the marriage and independent. was in all respects a happy one. Cosmo's face grows very familiar to the French connection, which proved politvisitor to the Florence galleries, chiefly ically rather a disadvantageous one, was from the canvas of Angelo Allori (Bron- strengthened by another union less fortuzino); but does not impress one as bear-nate in its history, that of Marie, niece of ing any great stamp of either intellect or Ferdinand, daughter of Francis I. and character. The features though regular Joan of Austria, with Henry of France are insignificant, and the brow somewhat and Navarre. During Ferdinand's reign contracted; while the face owes its com- occurred, in 1605, the brief pontificate of monplace good looks chiefly to the rich Leo XI., the fourth and last Medici pope. coloring given by dark-chestnut hair, clear He had been many years Archbishop of healthy skin, and eyes brown and well Florence, and came of the branch of the opened, but simply negative as to expres- house known as the line of Giovenco, The poise of the head is, however, collateral to that of the grand dukes from singularly graceful, and the proportions an early period in the family history, and of the chest and shoulders manly and which has proved longer-lived if less brilrobust, so that the grand duke no doubt liant, inasmuch as it still survives in presented on the whole an imposing ap- Naples and in Tuscany. pearance, not ill suited to the important part he played in the world.

sion.

The fine equestrian statue of Ferdinand opposite the Church of the Servites is by Pietro Tacca, from a model by Gian Bologna, and was cast from captured Turkish guns, according to the inscription on the saddle-girth, “Dei metalli rapiti al fiero Trace? On the pedestal is the device adopted by him, a swarm of bees surrounding their queen, with the motto, "Maiestate tantum.”

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Nothing shows more clearly the firm grasp with which Cosmo swayed the helm of State than the disorganization into which both internal and foreign affairs fell under his successor. Within eighteen months of Francis' accession there occurred a hundred and eighty-six cases of murder or grievous woundings; and the gibbet with its ghastly load was to be If scientific discovery were destined to scen at every street corner of Florence, take, in the new era, the place occupied while the feeble ruler got into difficulties by reawaked artistic and literary culture with all the principal foreign powers, and in the old, as the highest form of mental nearly came to an open breach with the activity-the latest goal of human progemperor, though showing him a degree of ress the Medicean princes were obsequiousness to which his father had quick as their burgher ancestors to seize never condescended. In literature the the spirit of the coming time. What the second grand duke is best known through elder Cosmo and Lorenzo had been to the romantic story of Bianca Capello, the Donatello and Ghiberti, to Poliziano and fair Venetian, whom he married on the Buonarroti, Ferdinand II. and his brother death of his first wife, Joan of Austria, Leopold were to the scientific investiand whose misdeeds have furnished sub-gators of their day-to Redi, Rinaldini, ject matter for many a tragedy. Truly Viviani, and Galileo. Their father, Costragic were the almost simultaneous mo II., the first Ferdinand's son and deaths of the grand duke and his duchess, successor, had not been backward in which occurred unexpectedly and within forwarding the pursuit of knowledge, and two days of each other at Poggio a Cai- in his honor Jupiter's satellites, discovano, in October, 1587. ered in his reign, had been called the In Ferdinand, who succeeded his broth-"Medicean planets;" but his sickly er, the energetic stamp of Cosmo was health and the anxious pressure of foreign renewed; and though he had not his father's consummate ability in shaping his foreign policy, he was more popular at home, as he ruled in happier times and with a milder sway. As a cardinal he had won golden opinions in Rome, and

politics during the twelve years he was on the throne, debarred him from great activity in any other field. The name of Cardinal Leopoldo is especially associated with the foundation of the Accademia del Cimento, which, though its own existence

was brief, had enduring results, from the spur it gave to scientific research in Tuscany. It was designed to carry out Galileo's great principle of basing knowledge on experimental proof, and investigated such problems as the propagation of sound, light, and heat, atmospheric pressure, magnetism, electricity, and similar phenomena. Its acts are set forth in a masterly treatise by its secretary, Lorenzo Magolotti. Science was Ferdinand's passion, and there is in the Museum of Natural History in Florence a curious collection of instruments (amongst them the thermometer) invented and constructed either altogether by him, or under his immediate supervision. This prince, whatever the shortcomings of his later years, deserves to be favorably remembered for the example of devotion set by him during the terrible visitation of the plague in 1630. While all the more opulent citizens either fled or secluded themselves in their dwellings, he, then twenty years of age, remained with his brother in the palace, visiting the poor, and doing all in his power to relieve the general distress. His people never forgot it to him, and he was beloved all his life.

It is a melancholy task to trace the decadence of a great race, as in the two last generations of the Medici, in which the old stamp seemed to fail by degrees before its final extinction. The financial genius of the wise old merchant-prince of the fourteenth century, so long the inheritance of his house, abandoned his last descendants. Ferdinand II. finally withdrew from all the banks and commercial undertakings which the previous grand dukes had not thought it beneath their dignity to prosecute; and in his and the two following reigns the public debt increased rapidly while the public resources diminished.

The vitality of the State thus languished with that of the ruling house, and Tuscany, helpless and impoverished, without any voice in the decision of her own future. became the apple of discord of European diplomacy. From the time that the failure of the grand-ducal line became inevitable, the rapacity of Spain and Austria set every engine at work to secure the prey, while a host of minor candidates appeared, with small chance, indeed, of making good their pretensions. Among these was a Medici, the Prince of Ottaiano, head of the branch of Giovenco's line, settled in Naples, from which Pius IV. had also been descended. His claim was not without a plausible foundation,

as Charles V.'s settlement of the crown on Alexander, with remainder to his next of kin, on failure of direct male issue, might be held to imply a further reversion to collaterals. Austria, however, finally disallowed Ottaiano's claim, and had his proclamation publicly destroyed.

The efforts of the last two Medicean grand dukes were for five and twenty years directed to secure the ultimate independence of the State, and to bequeath to the Senate and people of Florence the sovereignty originally received from them. The question was, however, complicated by the joint possession of Siena, undoubtedly a fief of the empire, and the ingenuity of German lawyers was taxed to the uttermost to find a pretext for including Florence in the same category, straining historical precedent in that direction, even from a date as remote as the time of Charlemagne. The hope of Cosmo III. was to secure the succession to his daughter, Anna Maria, widow of the Elector Palatine, but as she was childless, the expedient would have been but a temporary one. Both he and his son were singularly unfortunate in their marriages. Marguerite Louise, daughter of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, the princess selected for the last Cosmo during his father's lifetime, had formed an attachment to her cousin Charles of Lorraine, and came to Florence in 1661, a despairing bride. Her passionate and eccentric temper led to scenes in the palace which were the scandal of town and country. On one occasion she attempted to put an end to her life by abstaining from food, and on another was detected and stopped, when trying to escape in disguise from Pisa in company with a band of gipsies. After thirteen years of dissension a separation was agreed to, and Marguerite returned to her native country; though it seemed reluctantly in the end, as it was thought she would have remained had not her mother-in-law prevented the last interview with her husband, which she had sought. Her subsequent career in Paris was a constant source of annoyance to the grand duke, and even embroiled him with the court of France, while his domestic misfortune added to the national gloom and reserve of his disposition, and helped to make him unpopular with his subjects.

Gian Gastone's marriage with Anna Maria of Sachsen Lauenburg, the young widow of the Count Palatine, was a still more miserable story. Far less attractive than Marguerite Louise, and equally unamiable, with rude tastes and a violent

A Tuscan proverb, in doggerel rhyme, sums up the popular verdict, as to the respective merits of the two dynasties, on a very practical issue:

temper, her society was not calculated to | kinsmen. This is not the occasion to render her lonely castle in Bohemia an discuss the course of the Italian Revoluattractive residence to the young Floren- tion; but when the grand duke of Tustine prince, who escaped from it secretly cany, in 1852, in compliance with Metterwithin a year of his marriage, and fled to nich's declaration “that he would have no Paris. His father compelled him to re- Constitution below the Alps," abrogated turn; but no real reconciliation was ever the reform, on the faith of his princely effected, and he returned eventually to word to observe which he had been Florence, without his wife, whom he received back by his subjects in 1849, he never saw again. As his marriage failed forfeited all claim to sympathy for the fate equally with that of his elder brother he brought upon himself. The times, Ferdinand, who died before his father, to however, were difficult, and retribution give the desired heir to Tuscany, the ex- was not slow to overtake him. By a curitinction of the reigning family became ous irony of fortune, the revolutionary only a question of time, and owing to the movement in Florence, in 1859, first bebroken health of Gian Gastone, was looked gan outside the Porta San Gallo, in front for many years before it actually occurred. of which stands the only conspicuous maSome years before his death the much- terial record of the rule of the Hapsburg vexed question of the Tuscan succession in the city-the florid triumphal arch seemed at last finally settled in favor of erected in 1738, to commemorate the enDon Carlos, Infant of Spain, who through try of the grand duke Francis II. his mother, Elizabeth Farnese, granddaughter of Ferdinand II., had the best claim in the female line. He was received in Florence as the heir, and the people were contented with the arrangement; but when, some years later, he acquired the kingdon of the Two Sicilies, the balance of power in Italy, and the jealousies of other States, necessitated a readjustment of the peninsula.* Francis of Lorraine, descended from Catherine de' Medici, through her eldest daughter Claude, then received Tuscany in exchange for his hereditary duchy, transferred eventually to France, and a fresh oath of allegiance had to be taken by the Tuscan Senate. The dying grand duke sarcastically wondered if Francis would be the last son the great powers would ask him to acknowledge; "they had formerly made him guardian to an Infant, while placing him under tutelage himself," and no doubt he thought more changes might be in store for him. He had, however, seen the last, and his death on the 9th July, 1737, was only memorable from the long chain of associations it closed.

Tuscany had, for some time before, virtually ceased to have an independent existence, and was thenceforward governed as an Austrian province, where the first interests to be consulted were those of Vienna.

With the house of Lorraine, dynastic considerations were ever paramount; nor did its members at any time become so naturalized in Tuscany as to shake off the authority of their Imperial

The ex-king of Naples, as his representative, still

bears the title of hereditary grand duke of Tuscany, and quarters the palle in his shield.

Sotti i Medici

Un quattrin faceva per tredici.
Dacche abbiamo la Lorena
Se si desina non si cena.

Under the Medicean sway,
Farthings were as francs to-day.
Since Lorraine has been set up,
If we dine we cannot sup.

Those who are familiar with Baron von Reumont's "Life of Lorenzo de' Medici" will be prepared for the crudition and research of the present volumes; in which, in addition to his clear and impartial narrative of events, he gives a complete résumé of the manners, literature, artistic and scientific progress, with the more striking social changes of each successive epoch. He has done his work with a thorough earnestness that leaves nothing to be desired, and has contributed a valuable addition to historical literature.

CELIA:

AN IDYLL

From Temple Bar.

BY MRS. G. W. godfrey, auTHOR OF "MY QUEEN."

IV.

AND the days pass on. The May-blossoms have fallen, the leaves are growing thick upon the boughs, the primroses and violets have lived their little day, and lie dead and scentless beneath their leaves;

the sweet June roses that cluster round Celia's porch are thrusting out little tender buds, and all the flowers in Celia's garden are bursting into blossom under the first warm sun of early summer, and yet Adrian Carlyon lingers on.

Little by little the talk of going in a day or two seems to have died away. There are voices heard now in his deserted house, where a bevy of neat-handed servants have turned dust and confusion into order and brightness; voices in the neglected gardens, where gardeners are bringing beauty and blossom in the place of weeds and decay. And over it all Carlyon reigns content, or seemingly content. The restlessness that seemed as an evil spirit that possessed him has been stifled, at least for the time. Healthy outdoor pursuits and a quiet life have chased some of the weary sadness from his face. There is more brightness in his eyes, a kindlier smile on his lips.

All these things Trevelyan, being his nearest neighbor and thrown much in his company in these days, notes gladly; notes, too, that the half-promise given him on Celia's behalf has been kept to the letter. Carlyon might be a hundred miles away for all the girl sees of him during the days that she works at her copy in his picture-gallery. And the picture being done and carried home, he does not ask her to begin another or to come to his house again. So far he keeps his word.

And Trevelyan, being by nature the least suspicious of men, and believing that it is in truth as Carlyon has said, that the girl's simplicity has no charm for him, lets all his fears sink to rest.

It does not seem strange to him that, in the long days spent sketching in the woods and among the fields and lanes with his pupil, Carlyon should generally, if not always, find some excuse to join them, sometimes sketching too, sometimes bringing with him some new poem or magazine and reading to them, sometimes rambling away in search of fresh "bits," leading them whether they will or no to follow him. It has come to be quite natural that in the long, quiet evenings, sweetest and freshest of all the year, spent in the quaint old vicarage garden, on the terraces with the peacefullest of west-country views stretched out before them, or in the old mother's luxurious little room, he should be one of them. Trevelyan knows that Carlyon loves any company better than his own-would sooner pass the evening in any of the

cottages near by than in his own big pasthaunted house.

The fact that he comes as often on the evenings when Celia is not there is enough to set his fears at rest, if he had any. But he has none. Having once held out the right hand of fellowship, having once given trust, he is not one to distrust lightly; and in truth all that is good and best in Adrian Carlyon's nature seems to be uppermost in these days.

Contact with Trevelyan's honest, kindly nature, so slow to think evil, so quick to believe in all good, seems to shame some of the rapid cynicism, the weary scepticism of all things good and truc, out of him. His smiles are brighter, his sneers rarer; the brilliancy and buoyancy of nature, once his chiefest charm, come back to him in great measure in the clearer light of a healthy life and purer associa tions. The most captious critic could not complain of his manner to Celia. There are no more semi-respectful glances, halfmocking flatteries; those he keeps for the women for whom he has some admiration, and no liking.

For Celia, little, rustic, half-despised Celia, he has grown to feel a genuine liking, a tender sympathy, that are perfectly honest and kindly in their way. He would like to make her life happy, to shower pretty toys upon her, to treat her like a pretty, petted child; and yet he is full of a half-pitying, half-deferential admiration of her proud and simple life. She holds a place in his regard that no woman has ever held yet; for her he has a fondness, perfectly passionless, a tenderness that he might feel for a child, a far-off, uncomprehending respect that he might feel for the unworldliness and purity of a saint.

And yet he is not altogether open in his dealings with her, and with Trevelyan. He has grown so fond of the child that he is almost jealous of the place Trevelyan holds in her life, inclined to cavil (mentally) at his right to call himself her guardian. Having kept his promise to Trevelyan, he holds himself in no way further bound to enlighten him as to the full extent of his intimacy with Celia.

It has grown so pleasant to him to waylay her in the woods as she goes to and from her painting-lessons on her visits to Mrs. Trevelyan on the days when there is no out-door sketching-to meet the smile of greeting on the beautiful face. And he is not one to deny himself the pleasures that come easily in his way.

The shortest path from his house to the vicarage lies past the gate of Celia's orchard, and on the evenings when he goes there, and Celia does not, it is easy and pleasant to linger by the little gate until he catches sight of her white dress among the trees; pleasanter still if, perchance, she, seeing him, comes to him with her frank greeting, to lean there talking to her.

He does not tell her how often he waits, and waits in vain. To Celia these meetings are all pure chance, and he does not enlighten her. He does not even tell himself how far he has grown to count on them, for the whiling away of these idle summer days. And if he does not speak of them to Trevelyan, it is because he chooses to tell himself that it is no business of Trevelyan's.

And to Celia, poor, little, sweet-eyed Celia, there has come a new shyness; the pleasure of these meetings lies too deep in her heart for talk about them to come lightly to her lips. The consciousness of some new, strange happiness dawning on her life makes her more silent than her wont. Her laughs grow rarer, softer. There is a new light in her eyes, the steady shining of a great happiness; the rare flush, lovelier than the blush which lies at the heart of the young roses, comes oftener to her pale cheek, comes at a look, at a word; the firm, proud lips have lost their strength in a new sweetness. For each day that dawns she thanks God with a new fervor. Each night she lays her pretty head upon her pillow with a smile of perfect content, a little pæan of thanksgiving in her heart. She does not call it love. She has been too far removed in her hard and simple life from the follies and amusements of youth for her fancies to "turn lightly to thoughts of love," only she is filled with a passionate gratitude for Carlyon's passing kindness, which all the devotion of Trevelyan's life has never inspired.

They, Trevelyan and her mother, having suffered themselves from love, have thought to fill the child's life with other aims and thoughts to take the place of love; and having trained her to place beauty on so high a pedestal, have but made her more appreciative of this man's grace of form and manner, and the charm of the handsome face she has known from a child.

So we, fighting blindfold against fate, accomplish our own destinies. Trevelyan, with his forty years, his plain, honest face and self-contained manner, his great

heart full of honest love, has the devotion of his life, his years of tender, thoughtful care, accepted with the unconscious ingratitude of a child; and the other, with a little careless kindness, a few soft words and tender looks, wins the place which he would give half the remaining years of his life to fill.

So the days go by, and each one Celia counts with a glad and passionate gratitude over which the very angels might weep pityingly. So the hours go by, throwing only their passing shadows on Celia's moss-grown sun-dial, leaving a shadow never to be effaced on Celia's life.

Now and again, as in the very height of a fair summer day, one remembers with a shudder that winter, with its frosts and bitter winds, must come again soon; so Celia with a sudden pain at her heart remembers that Carlyon may go away again - nay, will go away assuredly some day again. But when one is young and very happy, it is difficult to believe in the unhappiness of the future, and Celia does not know how soon the cruel time that she dreads is coming upon her.

One day in mid-June Trevelyan, having been called away in the early morning to see a dying parishioner, and kept away all day, makes his way to Celia's cottage on his return. It is not often that a day passes without his seeing her, and now he wants to explain to her the cause of his absence.

He goes up the little garden-all abloom with homely flowers. Celia is not there. The house door stands wide open, and he looks into Celia's little sittingroom, a dainty little room, for all its poverty. There is not a single costly ornament in it, the ceiling is so low that he could well-nigh touch it with his hand, but for all that it seems to him full of the grace of Celia's presence, and as pretty a room as he knows. The walls are painted by her own hands, here and there are a few of his touches; the pretty chintz covers made by her; the little brackets on which stand two statuettes - his presents he and she made together one winter's day. Over the fireplace hangs one of his own pictures, painted before the day of his rash vow. There are big bowls of flowers everywhere, her book, her easel; but she is not there.

He looks into the little kitchen, where firelight glimmers on the rows of shining plates on the milk-white little dresser. Old Tabitha is resting from her honest labors with folded arms and nodding head. The cat by her side opens one sleepy eye

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