I doubt if there is a palace in Europe more monumental than the Pitti Palace. I have not seen one that leaves such a simple, grandiose impression.

Hippolyte Taine, Italy: Florence, p. 151.

The façade of the Pitti is 475 [sic. Should read 490] feet in extent, three stories high in the centre, each story 40 feet in height, and the immense windows of each 24 feet apart from centre to centre. With such dimensions as these, even a brick building would be grand; but when we add to this, the boldest rustication all over the façade, and cornices of simple but bold outline, there is no palace in Europe to compare to it for grandeur, though many may surpass it in elegance. The design is said to have been by Brunelleschi, but it is doubtful how far this is the case, or, at all events, how much may be due to Michelozzi, who certainly assisted in its erection, or to Ammanati, who continued the building, left incomplete at Brunelleschi’s death, in 1444.

James Fergusson, History of the Modern Styles of Architecture, p. 85.

Brother heart to the mountain from which it is rent.

John Ruskin.

Pietro di Cortona, Fedi and Marini, the last of the painters of the decadence, cover the ceilings with allegories in honor of this reigning family. Here is Minerva rescuing Cosmo I. from Venus and presenting him to Hercules, the type of great works and heroic exploits; he in fact, put to death or proscribed the leading citizens of Florence, and he it is who said of a refractory city that he “would rather depopulate it than lose it.” Elsewhere, Glory and Virtue are leading him to Apollo, the patron of arts and letters; he, in fact, furnished magnificent apartments and pensioned the writers of sonnets. Farther on, Jupiter and the entire Olympian group are all astir to receive him; he, in fact, poisoned his daughter, caused his daughter’s lover to be killed and slew his son who had slain a brother; the second daughter was stabbed by her husband, and the mother died on account of it; these operations re- commence in the following generation: assassinations and poisonings are hereditary in this family.

Hippolyte Taine, Italy: Florence, p. 153.

Here the Madonna holds the Infant tranquilly in her arms, and looks down in deep thought. Although slightly and very simply painted, especially in the nude, this picture excels all Raffaelle’s previous Madonnas in that wonderful charm which only the realisation of a profound thought could produce. We feel that no earlier painter had ever understood to combine such free and transcendent beauty with an expression of such deep foreboding. This picture is the last and highest condition of which Perugino’s type was capable.

            Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 415.

The Madonna Gran-Duca marks the growing transition from the first to the second manner of Raffaelle. The Virgin has all the pensive sweetness and reflective sentiment of the Umbrian school, while the Child is loveliness itself. We think of Perugino still, but we think of him as suddenly endued with a purer, firmer outline, and more refined sentiment.

J. S. Harford, Life of Michael Angelo, vol. 1, p. 323.

When Raphael was asked where he found the model of his virgins, he replied, like a Platonist—that it was in reality:—“in a certain idea.”

Emile Montégut, Poètes et artistes de l’Italie, p. 288.

This picture proclaims him a colourist.

Crowe and Cavalcaselle, Raphael: His Life and Works, vol. 2, p. 230.

A circular picture, painted about 1516. The Madonna, seen in a side view, sits on a low chair holding the Child on her knee; he leans on her bosom in a listless, child-like attitude; at her side S. John folds his little hands in prayer. The Madonna wears a many-coloured handkerchief on her shoulders, and another on her head, in a manner of the Italian women. She appears as a beautiful and blooming woman, looking out of the picture in the tranquil enjoyment of maternal love: the Child, full and strong in form, has a serious, ingenuous, and grand expression. The colouring is uncommonly warm and beautiful.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 453.

It is the expression of a peasant rather than of the mother of God. In other respects it is a fine figure, gay, agreeable, and very expressive of maternal tenderness.

Tobias Smollett, Letter XXVIII.

There is nothing else approaching the sweetness of the head of the Virgin, the majesty of the infant Jesus, and the unction and ardent devotion of St. John. Every thing about these two children is prophetic. The one revolves in his thought the destinies of the world: the other is already consecrating his to its service.

Count de Falloux, Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine, p. 213.

The Madonna della Sedia leaves me, with all its beauty, impressed only by the grave gaze of the Infant.

George Eliot, George Eliot’s Life as Related in Her Letters and Journals, vol. 2, p. 223.

The high-minded old man is here represented seated in an arm-chair in deep meditation. The small, piercing, eyes are deeply set under the open, projecting forehead; they are quiet, but of extinguished power. The nose is proud and Roman, the lips firmly compressed; all the features are still in lively, elastic tension; the execution of the whole picture is masterly. There are several repetitions; one is in the gallery of the Uffizi, representing the Pope in a red dress. A good copy is also in the Berlin Museum; another at Mr. Miles’s of Leigh Court.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 389.

Seated in an arm-chair, with head bent downwards, the Pope is in deep thought. His furrowed brow and his deep-sunk eyes tell of energy and decision. The down-drawn corners of his mouth betoken constant dealings with the world. Raffaelle has caught the momentary repose of a restless and passionate spirit, and has shown all the grace and beauty which are to be found in the sense of force repressed and power at rest. He sets before us Julius II. as a man resting from his labours, and brings out all the dignity of the rude, rugged features. The Pope is in repose; but repose to him was not idleness—it was deep meditation. A man who has done much and suffered much, he finds comfort in his retrospect and prepares for future conflicts.

Mandell Creighton, A History of the Papacy, vol. 4, pp. 175–76.

In the portrait may be seen the Pope’s eyeglass, the “specillum” through which, according to Pellicanus, he used to watch processions, the “cristallum concavum,” which, according to Giovio, he used when hunting. His bad sight was proverbial. After his election, the Roman wits explained the number MCCCCXL., engraved in the Vatican, as follows ”Multi caeci cardinales creaverunt caecum decimum Leonem. [Many blind cardinals created the blind Leo X.]

Jacob Burckhardt. The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy, vol. 1, p. 158 (note 1, edited somewhat by Hare).

Bernardo Dovizi had been chosen by Lorenzo de’ Medici to be his son’s tutor in early days. He showed himself faithful to the trust confided to him, and his tact and skill were of great value in securing Giovanni’s election to the Papacy. . . . His reputation as a courtier is largely due to his comedy La Calandra, in which a brother and sister disguise their sexes, a framework for scenes in which considerations of decency have little place. Bibbiena’s private life was according to the morality of his play. His house was shared by a concubine, who bore him three children. Leo, who witnessed the performance of La Calandra in the Vatican, was not shocked by this breach of ecclesiastical vows, but satisfied his sense of decorum by not creating Bibbiena a Cardinal till after his concubine’s death.

Mandell Creighton, History of the Papacy, vol. 6, pp. 198–99.

Raphael, Madonna del Baldacchino, c. 1506-08

The Madonna and Child are on a throne; on one side stand S. Peter and S. Bruno; on the other, S. Anthony and S. Augustine; at the foot of the throne two boy-angels hold a strip of parchment with musical notes inscribed on it; over the throne is a canopy (baldacchino), the curtains of which are held by two flying angels. The picture is not deficient in the solemn majesty suited to a church subject; the drapery of the saints, particularly that of S. Bruno, is very grand; in other respects, however, the taste of the naturalisti prevails, and the heads are in general devoid of nobleness and real dignity. In the colour of the flesh this picture forcibly reminds us of Fra Bartolommeo. Raffaelle left it unfinished in Florence; and in this form, with an appearance of finish which is attributable to restorations, it has descended to us.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 422.

This picture remains a puzzle. Raffaelle left it unfinished on his journey to Rome; later, when his growing fame called fresh attention to the picture, the painting was continued we know not by whom. At last Ferdinand, son of Cosimo III., had it touched by a certain Cassana, with an appearance of finishing chiefly by means of brown glazings. The remarkably beautiful attitude of the Child with the Madonna (for instance, that of the hands), the figures on the left, arranged in the grand style of the Frate (S. Peter and S. Bernard), belong surely to Raffaelle; perhaps also the upper part of the body of the saint on the right, with the pilgrim’s staff; on the other hand, the bishop on the right might be composed by quite another hand. The two beautifully improvised Putti on the steps of the throne belong as much to the style of the Frate as of Raffaelle; of the two angels above, the more beautiful one is obviously borrowed from the fresco of S. Maria della Pace at Rome, from which it appears that the first finisher did not touch the picture till after 1514.

Jacob Burckhardt, Cicerone, p. 134–35.

Raphael, Vision of Ezekiel, c. 1518

It contains the First Person of the Trinity, in a glory of brightly illuminated cherubs’ heads, His outstretched arms supported by two genii, and resting on the mystical forms of the ox, eagle, and lion; the angel is introduced adoring beside them. Dignity, majesty, and sublimity are here blended with inexpressible beauty; the contrast between the figure of the Almighty and the two youthful genii is admirably portrayed, and the whole composition so clearly developed, that it is undoubtedly one of the master-works of the artist. Michelangelo, who had also given a type of the Almighty, represents Him borne upon the storm; Raffaelle represents Him as if irradiated by the splendour of the sun; here both masters are supremely great, similar, yet different, and neither greater than the other.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 449.

Truly, it is a vision. Torrents of light dazzle the spectator. He feels as if he were seized by the arms of fire that upbear the prophet. It is not merely the coloring which astonishes you. There is in the drawing of this little picture, an energy, a boldness, and a richness which are incomparable. It is indeed Jehovah, the true God of the Old Testament, who is revealed to Raphael, —more poet than painter here. It is a strophe repeated from the divine songs.”

Count de Falloux, Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine, pp. 213–14.

Bernardo Dovizi had been chosen by Lorenzo de’ Medici to be his son’s tutor in early days. He showed himself faithful to the trust confided to him, and his tact and skill were of great value in securing Giovanni’s election to the Papacy. . . . His reputation as a courtier is largely due to his comedy La Calandra, in which a brother and sister disguise their sexes, a framework for scenes in which considerations of decency have little place. Bibbiena’s private life was according to the morality of his play. His house was shared by a concubine, who bore him three children. Leo, who witnessed the performance of La Calandra in the Vatican, was not shocked by this breach of ecclesiastical vows, but satisfied his sense of decorum by not creating Bibbiena a Cardinal till after his concubine’s death.

Mandell Creighton, History of the Papacy, vol. 6, pp. 198–99.

The Maries also, having ceased to weep, are contemplating the departed Saviour with an expression of reverence and love which is singularly fine.⁵Alternate translation: The Marys, having stopped weeping, look on the dead with wonder and love.

Giorgio.Vasari,  Lives, Blashfield trans., vol. 2, p. 320.

Fra Bartolommeo. Christ Risen, with the Evangelists, c. 1515; ordered for Salvatore di Giuliano Billi, and first placed in the S. Annunziata de’ Servi.

This picture combines the composition of Michelangelo with a trace of Venetian colouring, but, besides the unpleasantness of the subject, it is unattractive to the spectator by the obvious sacrifice of all freshness of life for a style of art which, after all, Sebastian never entirely acquired.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 437.

Titian, Portrait of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici, 1532-33, as a Magyar noble. Legate to Charles V. Poisoned 1535, aged 25.
Paolo Veronese, Portrait of a Man (formerly identified as Daniele Barbaro), c. 1550-60—“Le Patricien à Venise.”
Rubens, The Four Philosophers, 1611.  Himself, his brother Philip, and the philosophers Lipsius and Grotius one of the finest portrait-pictures of the master.

At Florence only can one trace and tell how great a painter and how various Andrea was. There only, but surely there, can the spirit and presence of the things of time on his immortal spirit be understood.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, Essays and Studies, p. 352.

Titian (Pieve di Cadore 1488/90–1576), The Penitent Magdalene, 1531–35
Titian,  Portrait of a Young Man, 1540  

That formidable young man in black, with the small compact head, the delicate nose, and the irascible blue eye. Who was he? What was he? “Ritratto virile” is all the catalogue is able to call the picture. I should think it was. Handsome, clever, defiant, passionate, dangerous, it was not his fault if he had no adventures.

Henry James, Italian Hours, p. 406.

The beautiful “Venus”, which now decorates the [Tribune] gallery of [the Uffizi], has “truly surprised all the inhabitants of this city, who ran in crowds ” to admire it.…In this elegant statue, which was called the “Venere Italica”, the nude is large and very pure, and the head among the most beautiful of Canova’s Olympians. The goddess just emerging from the water, which seems to drip from her delicate limbs, appears even more delicate and softer. Slightly bent over and her knees bent, she presses her cloth to dry her young breast, and which, falling back into well-composed folds, covers the rest of the person, minus the right and left leg from the knee down. This act of drying seemed to the purists of classicism too common and vulgar and disdainful of the ideal nobility of a goddess…

Vittorio Malamani, Canova, Milano: U. Hoepli, 1911, pp. 166–67.

It is difficult sometimes to decide whether Giorgione meant to represent a real portrait, or an ideal head, or a genre subject, so well did he understand to give his figures that which especially appealed to the comprehension and sympathies of his spectators. We see this in his “Concert,” in the Pitti Palace, representing two priests playing the piano and the violoncello, with a youth.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 432.

Of the undisputed pictures by Giorgione, the grandest is the Monk at the Clavichord. The young man has his fingers on the keys: he is modulating in a mood of grave and sustained emotion; his head is turned away towards an old man standing near him. On the other side of the instrument is a boy. These two figures are but foils and adjuncts to the musician in the middle; and the whole interest of his face lies in its concentrated feeling—the very soul of music passing through his eyes.

J.A. Symonds, Renaissance in Italy: The Fine Arts, (1899), p. 269

Titian (1488/90–1576), Portrait of Pietro Arentino, 1545
Titian, La Bella, 1536-38—Eleonora Gonzaga (della Rovere).Her portrait and her husband’s may be seen again in the Uffizi.

A ripe beauty in a gold-embroidered dress, with violet-and-white padded sleeves, and a gold chain.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 450.

Cristofano Allori, Judith with the Head of Holofernes, 1610-12

The most finished picture of Allori represents Judith with the head of Holofernes; she is a beautiful and splendidly attired woman, with a grand, enthusiastic expression. The countenance is wonderfully fine and Medusa-like, and conveys all that the loftiest poetry can express in the character of Judith. In the head of Holofernes it is said that the artist has represented his own portrait, and that of his proud mistress in the Judith.

Franz Theodor Kugler, Handbook of Painting, vol. 2, p. 588.

The Judith is pale with the passion and the crime of her cruel night’s work—most terrible of heroines, with such exhaustion and excitement in her face as no one but Allori, of all her painters, has ventured to put there.

“Two Cities—Two Books,” Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, DCCV, p. 91.

On Sunday, I went to the highest part of the Garden of Boboli, which commands a view of most of the city, and of the vale of Arno to the westward; where, as we had been visited by several rainy days, and now at last had a very fine one, the whole prospect was in its highest beauty. The mass of buildings, especially on the other side of the river, is sufficient to fill the eye, without perplexing the mind by vastness like that of London; and its name and history, its outline and large picturesque buildings, give it grandeur of a higher order than that of mere multitudinous extent. The hills that border the valley of the Arno are also very pleasing and striking to look upon; and the view of the rich plain, glimmering away into blue distance, covered with an endless web of villages and country-houses, is one of the most delightful images of human well-being I have ever seen.

John Sterling’s “Letters.”

Jean-Baptiste Corot, View of Florence from the Boboli Gardens, 1835 (Louvre)

You see below, Florence, a smokeless city, its domes and spires occupying the vale; and beyond to the right the Apennines, whose base extends even to the walls. The green valleys of these mountains, which gently unfold themselves upon the plain, and the intervening hills covered with vineyards and olive plantations, are occupied by the villas, which are, as it were, another city—a Babylon of palaces and gardens. In the midst of the picture rolls the Arno, through woods, and bounded by the aerial snow and summits of the Lucchese Apennines. On the left a magnificent buttress of lofty, craggy hills, overgrown with wilderness, juts out in many shapes over a lovely vale, and approaches the walls of the city. Cascine and ville occupy the pinnacles and abutments of those hills, over which is seen at intervals the ethereal mountain-line, hoary with snow and intersected by clouds. The vale below is covered with cypress groves whose obeliskine forms of intense green pierce the grey shadow of the wintry hill that overhangs them. The cypresses too of the garden form a magnificent foreground of accumulated verdure; pyramids of dark leaves and shining cones rising out of the mass, beneath which are cut, like caverns, recesses which conduct into walks. The cathedral with its marble campanile, and the other domes and spires of Florence, are at our feet.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, “View from the Pitti Gardens,” The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, vol. 3, pp. 50–51.

Boboli Gardens (sig photo)

We have wandered up to the grassy terrace through alleys of over-arching ilex. A confused murmur from the bells of Florence throbs in the sunny air. The horse-chestnuts are in their full glory; the grass is ripe for the mower; bees are in the clover and bugle; and lovers arm-in-arm are talking beautiful things. In the distance, between us and the grey-blue mountains, stretches the gentle green ridge of Bello Sguardo, with its dark row of guardian cypresses, and white and pink villas overcanopied with Banksian roses to be. Below lies the town white with tawny roofs, cloven by the arrow-like Arno, and beyond it is the woodland Cascine. The tall tower of San Spirito stands up close to us, and the swifts are whirling around it.

St. Clair Baddeley.