higher up and shading off into golden or amber. We looked back as we ascended the Val d'Arno, and had a full view of Florence, which we left with regret, though with a prospect of returning after we had seen Rome and Naples, whither we hastened for fear of the later summer heats, which are said to be unwholesome. From this point, the city and its towers, its river and bridges, its domes and spires and campanile, is all beauty, for we do not see too much. The country all about is exquisitely picturesque, and now in all the perfection of June-too lovely to leave thus, not half seen. We had not travelled many miles before one of our horses the one that Antonio and his boots rode-fell down, not breaking the poor fellow's leg, thanks to the boots and other leathers. But how mortified he was, and perhaps in his superstitious heart appalled, too, at this evil omen! Truly we did not any of us like this beginning. The horse was a good deal bruised, too, and it did not appear certain, at first, that he would be able to proceed. But some spirits were procured with which his master bathed him, and after some little delay we jogged on, Antonio looking very low-spirited. The contrast between F.'s inefficiency and one's ideal of a courier is most ludicrous. Where is the factotum, with a resource for all emergencies, a helping hand for whatever may further the journey? It is wronging Sancho Panza to compare this puff-ball to him. LEVANE. BREAKFAST at Levane is no great affair, but we managed to get some lettuce, which made the bread and butter seem tolerable-though it was not. Somebody talks of "smuggling” things down one's throat, by the aid of spices and high seasoning; a very useful art in some parts of Italy, it seems. This villaggio is Italianissimo, to-day. It consists of one long paved street, built of heavy stone houses; and spread along that street are numerous parcels of hay, which the inhabitants-the female portion more especially—are turning about on the stones-"making hay" on the pavement, as soberly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Now and then comes a woman from the field (for the hay must not be supposed to grow in the highway,) loaded with a huge pack of it, under which you hardly see her; and this she deposites on the street and goes to tumbling it about, sometimes with the help of her children, but never of her husband; who, however, encourages her with his presence, as he stands smoking in the door. Little ones with a garment apiece show their enjoyment of the bustle by running in and out among the sweet-scented litter, and all is gaiety and good humor, for Italian women never resent being unsexed or made beasts of burden. Besides hay, Levane produces an extraordinary crop of beggars, tattered to the last supposable extent, but not low-spirited, though at the moment of the whine by which they seek to attract your attention, the corners of their mouths are drawn down into crying order. "Date mi qualche cosa!" says a saucy urchin of fourteen, holding out a palm wrinkled with dirt, and putting on for the moment a dolorous look. "Date mi qualche cosa!" said I, holding my hand out as imploringly. He burst out a laughing and ran off. Others, who seemed more needy, we fed with biscuits from the windows of our dining-room, throwing now and then a baioc' to some specimen of failing eld. I noted that Levane was particularly distinguished for pretty roley-poley children, and young men in the gayest of striped pantaloons, generally with a broad band of scarlet down the sides, à la militaire. All the men that have caps at all, wear military caps, sloping off at the top, so as to give an idiotic expression to the head, but bound with scarlet and boasting a tassel or two. The hay-making was at its height when some great drops of rain fell. In a trice all the hay got up and walked into the houses, each bundle with a woman under it-so that even as we looked, the flag-stones, that had just been covered as for a royal procession, were bare again, and the bustling crowd had vanished. Some poor creatures came hurrying in, burdened from the field, and some laughing girls with a skirt thrown over the head and perhaps a little brother by the hand. All this while the men stood calmly smoking as before, only resting a little more within the door while the rain fell. The flurry was over in a moment, for the rain only spotted the pavement. Whether the hay was all brought out again to meet the sun I know not, for we drove off just then; but I dare say those patient drudges began again, and went through the same routine without a murmur. AREZZO. WHOSO would travel in this memory-naunted region with all that belongs to it, must have in the carriage with him, besides Childe Harold, the Lays of Ancient Rome, whose ring can set the blood tingling even at home -and here will bring the glorious past visibly before us, or rather transport us at once into its living spirit. At least these poems make us feel as if we were breathing the spirit of the past; and if it is something else that we breathe-something created by the genius of the poetthe sense of pleasure is the same. As we drive along by "sweet Clanis," or "Where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers," we see the whole gathering of that gorgeous army of Lars Porsena "The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain, From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest Of purple Appennine.” We live in the midst of the glorious tumult. We see the landscape with the very eye of the poet, for we have given ourselves up to him, because his eyes are gifted to see what ours might not have discovered. It is impossi ble to overrate the added pleasure which we derive from the landscape when the poet goes with us, step by step. Blessings on those whose genius has thrown a supernatural lustre over earth's beauty! Here is this city of Arezzo-a romantic old placegirded with Etruscan walls-full of curious things-we care more to know that it was the birth-place of Petrarch, than for any other circumstance in its history, although that is in many respects one of no common interest. "If through the air a zephyr more serene And the sensible Arretians have distinguished his birthhouse with an inscription, that no passer-by need be ignorant of their glory. They signalize thus every house within their walls which has been honored by the birth or the residence of greatness. Mecænas was born here, and the good Vasari, who has thrown so much light on all that exalts his beloved Italy above the nations of the earth; indeed the old town is noted for having been the maternal nest of eagle-winged genius of all flights. It is a beautiful little city; romantic even in its outward aspect, and without knowing a word of its history, as I said before. It hangs on a hill-side, and its principal street rises somewhat toilsomely to the high esplanade where stands its fine old cathedral. Our resting place was an inn like an old castle, with a great Italian garden behind it, whose walks were thickly bordered with orange and lemon trees, full of fruit and blossoms, and whole rows of myrtles and geraniums. The largest myrtle I ever saw stood in one corner, and a beautiful tall arched |