Of its artistic merits we do not propose to speak in detail. But as a
historical reproduction of an epoch and a life peculiarly difficult of
reproduction, we do not for a moment hesitate to say that it has no
rival, except, perhaps,--and even that at a distance,--Victor Hugo's
incomparably greatest work, 'Notre Dame de Paris.' It is not that we
_see_ as in a panorama the Florence of the Medicis and Savonarola,--we
live, we move, we feel as if actors in it. Its turbulence, its struggles
for freedom and independence, its factions with their complicated
transitions and changes, its conspiracies and treasons, its classical
jealousies and triumphs,--we feel ourselves mixed up with them all. Names
historically immortal are made to us familiar presences and voices. Its
nobles and its craftsmen alike become to us as friends or foes. Its very
buildings--the Duomo and the Campanile, and many another--rise in their
stateliness and their grace before those who have never been privileged
to see them, clear and vivid as the rude northern houses that daily
obtrude on our gaze.
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