jump to navigation

Ass’s Milk and ‘at least some of the Browning Poems’ 30/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , , , , ,
add a comment

c. 1890

In Florence the family was again held back from going on to Rome. In London the baby had been ill, in Florence she was very ill. The patience of Dr. Taylor and his wife was great and their faith strong; yet this was a most trying and anxious time for them. To be ill at home is bad, but to be ill in a foreign land, among strangers and hearing strange tongues, is far worse. The best English-speaking doctors of the city were called in, and they were kind and helpful. The child was put on ass’ milk, the ass coming around every day to be milked at the very front door of the hotel. God was merciful, and the child lived.

While some of the beauties of the city and some of her well-known historic spots were seen, still even the children in the pension as well as Dr. Taylor and his son had less heart and interest in picture galleries and other famous spots almost innumerable, because they were devoted to Susy and at least stayed around, anxious to help if in any way they could. Yet they did have a peep at least at some of the wonders and glories of Florence. There were the Uffizi and Pitti galleries, strung out in a strange way on a strange bridge that spanned the Arno. In these galleries are great pictures that once seen go with one through life, such for example as the Madonna della Seggiola, by Raphael, and La Bella by Titian. Of course each visitor has his favorites. The children loved the Boboli Gardens, while Dr. Taylor rejoiced in the Baptistery, in Giotto’s campanile, and in the Duomo.

In the one or two days after the baby was out of danger, and before they set out for Rome, Mrs. Taylor had some glimpses of the pictures and points of interest in the city. Dr. Taylor and his wife had many a chat as they waited and watched about their great and difficult task in this new and largely unknown land; yet they did not fail to think and talk about many of the great men, such as Dante, Savonarola, Giotto, the Medici, and others who had helped to make Florence beautiful and famous. They managed also to read at least some of the Browning poems.

The Old Centre under Sentence of Death 22/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
comments closed

c. 1884

Old Florence is fast disappearing. The characteristic narrow streets, where the midday sun only shines down through an irregular sky-line of picturesque eaves and gargoyles nearly meeting overhead, are, one by one, being widened into grand, new streets which take a gay Parisian aspect. Grim old palaces put on new faces, and only their general solidity and name preserves the aroma of antiquity. Now a square, ironbeamed market-place has arisen, which is to substitute that quaint, bewildering, parti-coloured, semi-mediaeval conglomeration of human life and curiosities which has for century on century been the mercantile heart of Florence. The old market, and its twin sister the Ghetto, are both doomed to destruction they are, in fact, to be offered as a sacrifice to the modern deity, Hygiene. It is right and just that this should be so, but before they disappear from our midst some slight picture of the old Florence, which will never be seen again, should be preserved.

The Ghetto and Mercato Vecchio stand side by side, a mass of lurid tenements, with black walls and small windows, piled story upon story in narrow streets almost cavernous in their darkness, and propped house against house by flying buttresses high in air and gloomy archways nearer earth. Among these dismal abodes are larger and more imposing houses, with remains of ancient towers, and sculptured arms and ensigns of extinct guilds on their time-worn facades: these are the old palaces where the potentates of the Middle Ages and the rich burghers of the commonwealth lived in state, for this district which is now given over to squalid poverty was once the very city of Florence.

There is this difference between the last fate of what we have called twin sisters. The Ghetto keeps all her abject mysteries shrouded from the light of day, for no one dares to penetrate her gloomy cellars and the cavernous alleys which hide in these days, not the despised Jews, but all the wretched, hopeless population whose doings, morally and actually, shun the light of day; while the old market close by is still the chief artery of modern life, and is crowded from morn till eve with a never ceasing stream of buyers and sellers.

In the Ghetto are squalid old men and women who have never seen the sunlight, and who look on rain as a strange phenomenon, for they have passed a life in the dark cellars, from whence they dare not emerge. All the countless families draw their water from one well in the midst of a dark piazza., and this piazza, seems to have represented the outer world to most of them. It has long ceased to be the prison of the Jews, who were confined within its gates in 1571 by Cosimo I for in these days the Jews are a great power in the city. But misery, crime, and want lurk there instead.

The old market keeps better company. The archbishop’s palace is in its precincts, a church stands at each corner, and in its narrow streets are the decaying palaces of the Tornaquinci, Vecchietti, Amieri, Neri, Medici, and half the names glorious in Florentine story. A dim memory lingers of a marvellous palace built by the Tosinghi, about A.D. 1100, the tower of which was covered with rows of little Lombard galleries with white marble colonnettes like the tower of Pisa this has passed away, but less ancient beauties remain.

There is the Vecchietti palace, where John of Bologna’s black demon grins in endless hideousness, at the corner where the Devil himself galloped by, on a black horse when exorcised by St. Peter Martyr. It was in this house that John of Bologna was sheltered when he came as a foreign artist to study in Florence, and its owner was his most liberal patron. But the Vecchietti palace has older memories than these. There lived the Cavolaia, or cabbage seller, who in mediaeval times had made a fortune by selling the produce of her podere in the old market, and at her. death ordered the bells of the cathedral and All Saints’ Church to be rung for her soul from All Saints’ Day to the end of Carnival. Her bones are said to be in the tomb of Bishop Ranieri in the Baptistery, though history does not explain how they got there.

The Amieri palaces form quite a district of the Mercato; their half-demolished towers date from Ghibelline times, and the last Amieri, Bernardo di Nicolo, is known to fame as the father of Genevra, whose story is one of the quaintest legends of Florence. Refused the lover of her choice, and betrothed by force to Francesco Agolanti, she afterwards fell a victim to the plague in 1400. Believed to be dead, she was placed in the family vault in the cemetery by the cathedral. She awoke from her swoon on a bright moonlight night, and, bursting her bandages, escaped from her ghastly prison, and, clad in her shroud, went to her husband’s house. He exorcised her as a spirit, and refused to open his door. Her father did the same, and no one would afford shelter to her resuscitated person but the family of her first lover. The marriage with Agolanti was decreed by the tribunals to be annulled by her death and burial, and she was by this curious quip released to begin a happier life with Rondinelli, her first love. To this day the street she trod on that moonlit night is called Via della Morte.

Another interesting house in the old market is that of the Castiglioni, which has some fine old sculptured doorways and chimney-pieces. Dante Castiglione was a famous person at the time of the siege of Florence, 1529, not so much for his prowess in war as for a duel he and Martelli fought, against Bandini and his second in rivalry for the smiles of a belle named Marietta de’ Ricci. As the combatants belonged to the two opposite parties who were striving for supremacy in Florence, the duel (or double duel there being four combatants) assumed a political importance, and was taken by the superstitious Florentines as an omen of the fate of the war.

Other interesting buildings are the houses which were once head-quarters of the different guilds. Here is the striped shield of the Linaioli or flax merchants; there, the arms of the Calimala or wool-dressers. Now one sees the lamb and banner of the guild of wool (Arte della Lana), then the (vaio) ermine of the Pellicceria or furriers. In one of these latter, Benvenuto Cellini lived. As for works of art, has not the old market one of Luca della Robbia’s loveliest conceptions, in the relief of the Madonna and Child of the lunette of the Church of S. Piero Buonconcilio? The purest faced Madonna and most delicious baby which that master of infantile modelling ever conceived. And boasted it not once of Donatello’s statue of Abundance on its central column? And has not our good old Vasari built a Greek peristyle without a temple to shelter the vendors of unsavoury fish?…

Florence 1887. Since this was written, the reluctant Florentines have been driven by force of municipal law to use the iron-bound modern market-place in San Lorenzo; and the six hundred families crowded into that human hive of misery called the Ghetto have been turned out into more healthy abodes, in disused convents or model houses for the poor, where it is hoped that new influences and fresh air will bring new moral and physical health to them. The empty Ghetto has been the exploring ground of artists and physiologists; it has been the scene of carnival gaiety, when the artists with their magic brushes transformed it into the ‘City of Bagdad’, and illuminated its darkest mysteries and gloomiest caverns with electric light. This year it is to undergo another transformation under these artists’ hands, and to represent ‘Cinque-Cento Florence’, with Donatello at work in his studio; after which both Ghetto and Mercato are to fall under the reforming touch of improvement. Florence will lose its most characteristic remnants of mediaevalism, and gain in a sanitary and moral aspect.

Flower Market in the Mercato Nuovo 20/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , ,
comments closed

c. 1890

Usually a bustling crowd pervades the loggia during the hours of noonday. Now the arches are hung with knitted or woven woollen shawls, pale blue, white, vermilion, and striped stockings; and the populace chaffers over prices in the possible purchase of these luxuries. Now the market of straw is held here, golden bundles cut in lengths, and whole sheaves piled up on all sides, with the ruddy country folk standing in groups, their cloaks and coats of many seasons faded to yellowish-green and russet tints, and the women and girls plaiting long strips, their fingers moving with the mechanical rapidity of knitting, as they hover about in the crowd. A few loose straws float in the basin of water at the feet of the Boar, and some children launch a fleet of wild poppies as boats, while their seniors discuss the price of grain. The Flower City of late years, by a happy inspiration, has elected to hold a weekly sale of sweet or rare plants in the loggia. Where could a more beautiful setting be found for a flower-show in any capital?

Our Boar is embedded in bloom, and the sunshine strikes sparks of lustrous gold from the bronze head and shoulders. His aspect is full of benevolence. If he is kin to the wild boars hunted in the Maremma by king or courtier, his tusks do not savagely wound assailants. The contadini may recognize in him a cousin to the lean black pigs, acorn-fed, driven down the Casentino from the Apennines, where the shepherds and the mountaineers make the humble utensils out of pine and beech wood, the ladles, bowls, broom-handles, pepper-boxes, and sieves that go forth over all Italy, Germany, and the Orient in emulation of the French industry of the Vosges. In March weather the columns of the loggia are heaped with pink hyacinths, daffodils, and carnations, starring silvery-gray tendrils of leaves. Another morning the branches of white lilies of waxen  perfection of cup and hue, imitated in silver-work on church altars, and carried by Carlo Dolci’s angel of the Annunziation in the picture of the Pitti Gallery, load the air with a sickly sweetness of heavy perfume. Again, the anemones, crocus, primrose, and violet hold a luxuriant riot of possession of the historical loggia or the homely lilac makes a bower of soft, snowy bloom. The loiterers who frequent the Mercato on such occasions, lured hither by the flowers, like the honey-seeking bees and wasps, have a certain interest to the speculative and philosophical mind, if man’s noblest study be truly mankind.

The Character of the Florentines 18/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , ,
comments closed


c. 1900

With so many attractions it is not strange that Florence is a greatly admired city, and that its foreign colony is large. Concerning the climate some one has said that in the winter and summer one would not wish to live there, but in the spring and autumn one could not wish to live elsewhere. Florence might be called, perhaps has been called, the capital of ‘bric-a-brac-dom’, so numerous are the shops with old coins and curios, so often has a ‘find’ been secured for a mere song. Rome has been called the mother of mosaic, but the mosaic of Florence, made of a few large stones, has a beauty of its own and is by some preferred. It is a specialty of the city, as are artistic furniture and picture frames; but the city has besides neither manufactures nor commerce worth naming, and there is much poverty among the people. The modern Florentine in many traits resembles the Athenian, being quick and subtle in thought, eager for novelty, and endowed with speech ready, piquant, and pure. Many of the foreigners without regular employment come themselves to resemble the Athenians of old, who ‘spent their time in nothing else but either to tell or to hear some new thing’, and many a sharp shaft of wit has been directed against them. On the other hand, day, who dwelling in a city so suggestive, have not failed diligently to gather and illustrate her treasures of history and of art, and to become to the less favored interpreters of Italy’s glories and need; while noble women, not a few, moved only by love, labor for the moral and material welfare of the people.

Il giro in Florence 15/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
comments closed

c. 1880

We have spent two mornings in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries, one in each. The latter is now called the ‘Palatine’. When I was here in 1870 admittance was free as air, whereas now, as in every museum or ancient building, a franc each is the fee. But these galleries are always crowded and, indeed, the sum is very small as compared with prices in America, and considering the richness of the collections. There are pictures in these galleries which I can shut my eyes and see, and which are a great joy to me. This time we have given more attention than ever before to Fra Angelico and Botticelli the latter on account of an article on his works in a late Harper. But your sisters have for some time been reading up for this week, which is, as the theatre people say, their ‘benefit’, and which they richly deserve. I do wish them to get the best of Italy so that in case of their removal to America they may have stored in their memories precious pictures in abundance of this land of art and beauty.

One morning was given to Santa Croce, the Westminster Abbey of Italy, and yesterday morning to San Marco, with the wonderful frescoes of Fra Angelico in the convent there, now a government museum, and the cell from which Savonarola went forth to die. It never seemed so real to me before. An hour was given also to the church of San Lorenzo, with its double-starred new sacristy and Medici chapel. Tomorrow we must go to the Academy of the Belle Arti. Of course, we have given due attention to the Duomo and Giotto’s Tower and the Baptistery. The Duomo is now resplendent in its facade completed only last year. At the Baptistery we witnessed an infant sprinkling (what a contradiction in that place!), and at San Lorenzo witnessed a bridal procession issue as we entered. There was a wealth of lovely bouquets fastened to the doors of the carriages, but the bride seemed neither young nor beautiful. Two afternoons we have sauntered on Lung’ Arno, looking at the pretty bric-a-brac in this capital of brica-bracdom, and one bright clear afternoon we rode in a carriage on the famous and beautiful ride over the hills of San Miniato, enjoying a lovely view of the city, river and encircling hills. This paper was made at Ponte di Lima, about three miles from Cutigliano, where also the government stamp paper is made.

Boston to Florence! 11/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , ,
comments closed

Poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes (obit 1894) sent to The Philological Circle of Florence for its meeting in commemoration of Dante, January 27, 1881, the anniversary of his first condemnation.

Proud of her clustering spires, her new-built towers,

Our Venice, stolen from the slumbering sea,

A sister’s kindliest greeting wafts to thee,

Rose of Val d’ Arno, Queen of all its flowers!

Thine exile’s shrine thy sorrowing love embowers.

Yet none with truer homage bends the knee.

Or stronger pledge of fealty brings than we.

Whose poets make thy dead Immortal ours.

Lonely the height, but ah, to heaven how near!

Dante, whence flowed that solemn verse of thine

Like the stern river from its Apennine

Whose name the far-off Scythian thrilled with fear;

Now to all lands thy deep-toned voice is dear.

And every language knows the Song Divine!

The shopkeeper of Fiumalbo 05/01/2011

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , ,
add a comment

c. 1890

I was interrupted by the arrival of some friends from Fiumalbo, who always come once a year to pass a day with us. One of them was Rosa Donati, called La Bianca, keeper of the shop where everything is sold in Fiumalbo, from books of devotion to confectionery (of which last she brought us a handsome specimen of her own making, a curious cake which nobody else knows how to make, composed of rice, sugar, and almonds). Her husband is the carpenter, a very poor, humble, hard-working old man, of whom she told us a story yesterday, which made me think that he had really a good deal more idea of ‘honour’ than most of the gentlemen who talk about it, and fight about it. He inherited a (for him) considerable property  – 12,000 francs –from a cousin. But what we did not know was, that the cousin made nearly all this money by buying the confiscated Church property for about a tenth of its value. And all this the old carpenter has returned to its original use as nearly as he can, by giving it to his parish priest to use for religious purposes while he lives, and leave to his successor when he dies. So there is a carpenter that I think St. Joseph need not be ashamed of!

Watermelon Street 25/12/2010

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , , ,
add a comment

c. 1890 Watermelon Street is the old name for Via Ricasoli, Via del Cocomero

Across the way is the shop of the rosy and smiling vegetable-woman. Her door is stocked with a tempting array of red tomatoes, strings of pearly onions, tufts of celery and radishes, almonds in the green pod, as well as peas and beans, to be eaten raw by the initiated. Salads in all varieties of the crisp, bitter, and curling leaf abound. The salad is as indispensable to the Florentine as to the Greek.

The vender of wood and charcoal occupies a cavernous cellar of our palace wall. Why not? All must live, and each gain his bread in his own way. The carbonajo is a short stout man of forty years of age, robust and vigorous, with a humorous nose turned up at the tip, little, twinkling eyes, and a nature as sound as his own olive and chestnut logs, which he extols with abundant gesticulation. Dusky myrmidons come and go at his bidding, bearing on their backs the bags of charcoal sent down from the Apennines for that primitive altar dedicated to culinary rites, the Florence kitchen.

The man of charcoal has his grievances, like the rest of the world. In his case they assume the shape of modern Viennese iron stoves, capable of burning coke and coal, Parisian inventions to warm humanity with a petroleum lamp, Piedmontese calorifers, with smart brass doors and valves, warranted to consume their own smoke, in lieu of the cavernous, open chimney that formerly devoured fuel with a giant’s appetite, and gave no sign, scarcely deluding shivering mortals with a sensation of transient warmth. In the matter of private history our carhonajo is a widower, and whether from the public reprehension which would attach to him in the opinion of his own circle if he took a second wife, or because his first experience of matrimony was unsatisfactory, he expresses scorn and defiance of womankind.

His son, a small boy with a frosty nose and a wooden expression of countenance, is returned to him at four o’clock in the afternoon from the public school of the quarter, and loiters about the premises, receiving awkward, masculine cares, in the matter of shoe-tying and collar-adjusting, from his fond parent, is played with by the dusky myrmidons at leisure moments, and petted by the Street of the Watermelon, with the kindness so invariably bestowed on children by the Florentines.

The coal-dealer is rigid in the observance of all holidays. He is ready at any time to close his door, place his felt hat jauntily over his left ear, take his little son by the hand, and seek the Arno bank, if any spectacle, such as dragging the current of the river for the corpse of a suicide, invite his interest. Failing result of such gruesome dredging, he contents himself with basking in the sun with his back to the parapet, and inspecting the feathers on the hats of the ladies, the jewels sparkling in their ears, the rich furs, as the file of brilliant equipages passes in the drive of the afternoon to the Cascine. Who so proudly elated as the son of the widower, on such occasions? A fig for stay-at-home, coddling mothers and sisters, if one can walk abroad with the father, making shrill, infantile comments on men and things, so patiently and indulgently responded to by the daddy (babbo) in the streets.

The dealer in old books has a musty little shop beyond our palace wall. A stray volume of Petrarch or Ariosto, bound in shrunken, yellow parchment, may be here discovered beneath piles of cheap prints, sheets of music, the red guidebooks picked up by thrifty servants in hotel and pension, the faded albums of the school of keepsake poetry, embellished by the Countess of Blessington, scattered by the decease of old English ladies who had brought the household gods of provincial homes, the mahogany furniture and Wedgwood tea-pots of the auction sales, to Italy. The dealer is a tall thin man of studious aspect, and a uniform, powdery grayness of hue in hair, beard, complexion, and raiment, as if the sun had forgotten to pay him a visit in his dark nook, where he handles little pictures of saints painted on copper, crumbling leaves of woodcuts suggestive of Albert Durer, and portions of dilapidated missals that gleam with gold tracery and softly blended colors on illuminated pages, like fragments of rainbows amid neutral-tinted papers.

As a Florentine, does the gray and shadowy old man share the usual eccentricities of the bibliopole? Has he the excellent memory necessary to the true librarian, a quality to be ranked with that of the king, who never forgets the face of a subject presented to him, the actor, the barber, the club porter, the cabman? Is he entitled to a place between Magliabecchi and the famous old woman, La Mère Mansut of the Latin quarter of Paris? The former regretted that he did not own a copy of the Cosmogony of the historian Zouaras, and once mentioned incidentally that the work in question, bound in white vellum, with red edges, was in the library of the Grand Signior at Constantinople, in the left-hand corner of the third shelf from the ceiling, in the southern kiosque, facing the Golden Horn, in the palace of the old seraglio. The latter, shrewd and lineal descendant of generations of second-hand booksellers, could rummage out from some dark recess of her humble abode an almost forgotten specimen of antique lore at a moment’s notice. Opposite, there is a taciturn antiquarian, whose shop-window affords only transient and oblique glimpses of ivory carvings, enamelled tea-spoons, amber, Venetian lamps, tapestry, and majolica, so often is it closed. A mysterious and silent, if not saturnine, person is the antiquarian, with many business interests in other portions of the town. He would have been accepted as an astrologer or a necromancer in an earlier century…

The Street of the Watermelon is silent. The sound of passing vehicles, the strident clamor of the lace and shoe pedler, the plaintive, minor note of the knife-grinder, pierce the stillness only to die away to quiet once more. ‘He who is contented enjoys life’, says the proverb, reputed to be so venerable that it has grown a white beard.

Reader, come and dwell in the Street of the Watermelon!

The Duomo Completed! 23/12/2010

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , , ,
add a comment


I write to you on the great festa day. The bells have just been ringing, all over the city, in token that the Duomo is unveiled; and the work begun six hundred years ago is finished. I am writing to you alone, here in my little room. Edwige has gone off for a first sight of her beloved church; she is entirely wild, and, after the many troubles of her life, behaves as if she were not more than sixteen. I had meant to stay at home until the excitement was over, having little heart for any sort of gaiety after all that I have lost the past winter; but she, after trying every sort of argument yesterday to induce me to go and look at the decorations in the Piazza, finally said in a grieved tone, ‘If the Signorina did not go to look at the Duomo, shewould not be a true Florentine’, which terrible threat finally sent me down there, though the streets swarming with people like a hive of bees. But it was a grand sight!

It seemed as if all the towns in the neighbourhood had emptied themselves into Florence, and everybody so proud and happy, it was a pleasure to see. Even the poorest tried to dress a little better than usual, just because they were Florentines, and this was their festa (and Edwige put on her new silk handkerchief, that she never wore before, ‘for love of the Duomo’). Banners on all the houses, gay draperies from windows and balconies; the palaces hung out their rich silks and brocades, and the poor always managed to find a bright coloured table-cloth, or something to look gay. I went into the church; it was hung with thousands of candles, prepared for today’s illumination. People were passing in and out, but there was no service going on. Many were on their knees, giving thanks, I suppose. But I will not lose time in writing what you will see in all the papers. There was much that was touching, and solemn, even a little sad. Especially so to me, the revival of the old times, never dead in Florence shown by many of the shopkeepers placing over their doors the banners once belonging to their particular arts. It brought more tears than smiles, to see the grand old banner of the wool trade hanging over a pile of blankets and coarse flannel, at a shop door in Borgo S. Lorenzo because it was not done in a masquerading spirit, but one knew the dealer in woollens wanted to believe, and make others believe, in his relationship to the great people of the old time. And other things were altogether gay, among the rest to see the visitors from the country (some of them in the most extraordinary dresses; I saw two young girls in dresses, evidently home-made, of the red Turkey cotton generally used for linings to quilts) enjoying their very light meals in the open air, at the doors of cafes and restaurants, decorated with plants in full blossom.

Bonciani borrowed all the best of the plants on the terrace, to make what he called a ‘prospettiva’ at the door of the hotel. A young girl yesterday in my room made the rather singular remark, ‘How hard it must be for people to die while the festas are going on!’ To which Edwige replied, ‘It does not make any difference; people have to die just the same. But there will never be such another festa for a hundred years. I suppose then there will be a centennial because now people have centennials for everything; but we shall not be here to see it.’ She sighed at the idea that we should not see the centennial of the Duomo, then her face suddenly brightened and she said, ‘But perhaps they have centennials in the other world. And perhaps we shall see it if we have a good place there.’

The Statue of Lorenzo de’ Medici by James Ernest Nesmith 21/12/2010

Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , , , ,
add a comment

James Ernest Nesmith (obit 1898) was a nineteenth-century New England poet. This poem was published in 1894 in Philoctetes and Other Poems and Sonnets.

Mark me how still I am – The sound of feet

Unnumbered echoing through this vaulted hall,

Or voices harsh, on me unheeded fall,

Placed high in my memorial niche and seat,

In cold and marble meditation meet

Among proud tombs and pomp funereal

Of rich sarcophagi and sculptured wall,

In death’s elaborate elect retreat.

I was a Prince, this monument was wrought

That I in honor might eternal stand;

In vain, subdued by Buonarroti’s hand.

The conscious stone is pregnant with his thought;

He to this brooding rock his fame devised,

And he, not I, is here immortalized.