Florence and Northern Tuscany with Genoa: With Sixteen Illustrations in Colour by William Parkinson and Sixteen Other Illustrations, Second Edition

In Short

This book serves as both a historical guide and a travelogue through the rugged northern coast of Italy and the heart of Tuscany. Tracing a path from the maritime power of Genoa through the battle-worn plains of Pisa and Lucca, the narrative culminates in an exhaustive exploration of Florence. By blending personal observation with scholarly research into the lives of saints, soldiers, and artists, the text captures the tension between Italy’s glorious, often violent, past and the encroaching modernity of the early twentieth century. It remains a vital document for those interested in the cultural heritage of the region, written with a romantic sensibility that finds beauty in the decay of old towers and the enduring legacy of the Italian spirit.

The Story

The narrative begins in Genoa, a city defined by its relationship to the sea and its history of turbulent independence. The author reflects on the legacy of Christopher Columbus, a native son who, despite being largely ignored by his own city, remained deeply loyal to it. The story quickly moves from the bustling, crowded streets of the modern port—noted for its "pungent, invigorating, tonic strength"—to the quiet, ruins-strewn landscapes of the Lunigiana. This region provides the stage for the rise of figures like the fierce Castruccio Castracani, whose ambition to unify Tuscany reflects a broader, recurring dream of Italian dominion.

As the journey progresses, the narrative descends into the plains to explore Pisa, a city whose ancient roots reach back to the Pelasgians and Etruscans. The author portrays Pisa not as a static museum, but as a place of former pride, humbled by its own internal betrayals and the persistent aggression of Florence. The history here is one of war, mercenary captains, and the shifting loyalties of city-states. The tale of Pisa’s decline is colored by the author’s perspective on the inherent tragedy of cities that refuse to unite, leading to their inevitable subjugation by more powerful rivals like Florence.

The narrative arc then turns firmly toward Florence, the intellectual and artistic engine of the Renaissance. The author meticulously traverses the city, visiting the Baptistery, the Duomo, and the great monastic foundations like San Marco and Santa Croce. Throughout this section, the prose shifts from historical survey to meditative reflection. We witness the rise of the Medici, the fanatical religious fervor sparked by Savonarola, and the slow, inevitable transformation of the republic into a despotism. The account does not shy away from the human cost of these changes, nor from the irony that a society so dedicated to the pursuit of transcendent beauty could also be defined by political cruelty and factional hatred.

The journey concludes with excursions into the surrounding hills and mountains, visiting Fiesole, Vallombrosa, and the Casentino. Here, the author finds a respite in the "gracious, faithful, and true" countryside, far from the noise of the market-place. In the final chapters, the historical scope narrows to focus on the individual genius of artists like Mino da Fiesole and the enduring spiritual influence of St. Francis of Assisi. The book ends not with a simple arrival, but with a lingering sense of melancholy, as the author contrasts the "modern world" of trams and telegraphs with the "ancient Latin beauty" of the cities that once stood for the resurrection of man.

How It Unfolds

The maritime beginning The journey opens in Genoa, juxtaposing the city’s opulent, flower-like palaces against the raw, bustling humanity of its modern working class. This sets a tone of contrast that persists throughout the book: the tension between the immortal beauty of the past and the often base reality of the present.

The path of the conquerors Moving through Sarzana and the rugged coast, the author traces the exploits of medieval warlords and free companies. These chapters detail how regional power was won through force and political maneuvering, highlighting the instability of the Tuscan landscape before Florentine hegemony.

The Pisan decline The account of Pisa focuses on the city's transition from a proud maritime republic to a humbled client state. The author uses the city’s national games and tomb architecture as focal points to explore a culture that was, in his view, a beacon of the early Renaissance that burned too briefly.

The Florentine obsession A significant portion of the book is dedicated to the churches and palaces of Florence, organized by location and artistic significance. The narrative slows down here, lingering on the details of frescoes, altarpieces, and the political machinations of the Medici family.

The monastic retreats The final movement leads the reader away from the urban center into the surrounding hills. This section serves as a meditation on the rural life that supported the city’s prosperity, offering a final reflection on the nature of civilization and the legacy of the Latin world.

The People

The book is populated by figures who embody the contradictions of the Italian character. Columbus appears as a mystical dreamer, a man whose global vision was rooted in an unwavering, sentimental attachment to his native Genoa. His letter to the Bank of St. George reveals a man who, despite his fame, viewed himself as a servant of his home city. Castruccio Castracani represents the "intolerant great man," a ruler whose ambition for power was matched by a ruthless clarity of purpose. Through him, the author examines the sixteenth-century desire for a unified, strong Italy—a dream that often required the sacrifice of local freedoms.

Cosimo de' Medici is portrayed as the quintessential political survivor, a man who used "judicious munificence" to establish a hereditary dynasty under the guise of civic service. He is the architect of the Renaissance, yet the author acknowledges his role in the moral decline of the republic. Contrasting with this cold calculation is Savonarola, the friar who turned the city into a religious theater. His rise and fall represent the volatility of the Florentine populace, who oscillate between the pursuit of art and the zealotry of a moral crusade.

Finally, the reader encounters the spirit of St. Francis of Assisi, who appears as the antidote to the hatred and ambition of the politicians. His deep, simple love for humanity is presented as the foundational force of the Renaissance, standing in silent opposition to the "barbarism" that the author perceives in his own modern era. These figures are not static icons; they are used to debate the meaning of greatness, the corruption of power, and the possibility of a life dedicated to beauty.

In Its Own Voice

"Although my body," he writes, "is here, my heart is always with you."

In a letter from Seville to the Bank of St. George, Columbus expresses his enduring, melancholic loyalty to the city that had rejected him.

"From the roofs where they seem to live, from the high narrow windows, the warren of houses that would be hovels in the North, but here in the sun are picturesque, women look down lazily and cry out, with a shrillness peculiar to Genoa, to their friends in the street."

The author describes the vibrant, unceremonious daily life of the Genoese populace as he enters the city at twilight.

"For she who slept so long has awakened at last, and around her as she stands on the Capitol, there cluster full of the ancient Latin beauty that can never die, the beautiful cities of the sea, the plain, and the mountain, who have lost life for her sake, to find it in her."

In a concluding reflection, the author envisions the rebirth of a unified Italy, drawing upon the collective history of the cities he has just traversed.

What It's Really About

At its core, this work is a polemic against the materialism of the early twentieth century, which the author views as a "barbarism" that has severed humanity from its roots. The central argument is that the Renaissance was not merely a movement of art, but a spiritual and cultural awakening that was uniquely Latin in its expression. By examining the rise and fall of the Italian city-states, the author asks whether civilization can survive without a foundation in beauty, discipline, and the "Latin Church." He views the industrial age, with its "orderly disorder," as a betrayal of the ideals championed by figures like St. Francis and the great masters of the Florentine school. The book is an attempt to recover a lost sense of purpose by immersion in the physical and historical remnants of a world that prioritized the creation of "beautiful things."

Why Read It Today

This book is best suited for the patient reader who enjoys the cadence of early twentieth-century prose and a romantic, albeit heavy, approach to history. It is a work of deep sentiment; the author is unabashedly in love with the Italian past and deeply suspicious of the modern world. If you appreciate detailed descriptions of art and architecture, and if you are willing to overlook the author's occasionally sweeping, period-typical judgments, you will find a rewarding companion here.

The reading experience is like walking through a gallery with a guide who is prone to stopping, gesturing at a painting, and then launching into a lament about the state of contemporary society. The length and the deliberate, often flowery style may be daunting to those accustomed to modern, punchy travel writing. However, the author’s keen eye for the landscape—the way the light hits an olive grove or how a mountain range gestures toward the sky—is genuinely transportive. You will walk away with a profound sense of the "ancient Latin beauty" that the author prizes, and perhaps a new skepticism toward the "steam-engines and telegraphs" that he so distrusts. It is a book for those who want to feel the weight of history in every stone of a cathedral and who understand that, in the author's view, the pursuit of beauty is the most important human endeavor.