the summit. Long avenues,
entirely arched and interwoven with the thick foliage of the laurel,
which here grows to a tree, stretch along the slopes or wind in the
woods through thickets of the fragrant bay. Parterres, rich with flowers
and shrubbery, alternate with delightful groves of the Italian pine,
acacia and laurel-leaved oak, and along the hillside, gleaming among the
foliage, are placed statues of marble, some of which are from the
chisels of Michael Angelo and Bandinelli. In one part there is a little
sheet of water, with an island of orange-trees in the centre, from which
a broad avenue of cypresses and statues leads to the very summit of the
hill.

We often go there to watch the sun set over Florence and the vale of the
Arno. The palace lies directly below, and a clump of pine-trees on the
hillside, that stand out in bold relief on the glowing sky, makes the
foreground to one of the loveliest pictures this side of the Atlantic. I
saw one afternoon the Grand Duke and his family get into their carriage
to drive out. One of the little dukes, who seemed a mischievous imp, ran
out on a projection of the portico, where considerable persuasion had to
be used to induce him to jump into the arms of his royal papa. I turned
from these titled infants to watch a group of beautiful American
children playing, for my attention was drawn to them by the sound of
familiar words, and I learned afterwards they were the children of the
sculptor Powers. I contrasted involuntarily the destinies of each;--one
to the enjoyment and proud energy of freedom, and one to the confining
and vitiating atmosphere of a court. The merry voices of the latter, as
they played on the grass, came to my ears most gratefully. There is
nothing so sweet as to hear one's native tongue in a foreign land from
the lips of children!

CHAPTER XXXV.

A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA.

A pilgrimage to Vallombrosa!--in sooth it has a romantic sound. The
phrase calls up images of rosaries, and crosses, and shaven-headed
friars. Had we lived in the olden days, such things might verily have
accompanied our journey to that holy monastery. We might then have gone
barefoot, saying prayers as we toiled along the banks of the Arno and up
the steep Appenines, as did Benevenuto Cellini, before he poured the
melted bronze into the mould of his immortal Perseus. But we are
pilgrims to the shrines of Art and Genius; the dwelling-places of great
minds are our sanctuar