He laid himself back in my arms,
smiling, singing to himself, and dancing his feet. I hope he will
retain some trace in his mind of the perpetual exhilarating picture of
Italy. It cannot but be important in its influence while yet a child,
to walk in these stately gardens, full of sculpture, and hear the
untiring music of the fountains.
Christmas-eve we went to the Annunziata, for midnight mass. Though the
service is not splendid here as in Rome, we yet enjoyed it;--sitting
in one of the side chapels, at the foot of a monument, watching
the rich crowds steal gently by, every eye gleaming, every gesture
softened by the influence of the pealing choir, and the hundred silver
lamps swinging their full light, in honor of the abused Emanuel.
But far finest was it to pass through the Duomo. No one was there.
Only the altars were lit up, and the priests, who were singing, could
not be seen by the faint light. The vast solemnity of the interior
is thus really felt. The hour was worthy of Brunelleschi. I hope he
walked there so. The Duomo is more divine than St. Peter's, and worthy
of genius pure and unbroken. St. Peter's is, like Rome, a mixture of
sublimest heaven with corruptest earth.
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