hores
of Lake Leman, my visit to the prison of Chilian and other wanderings
across Switzerland, my pleasure in seeing the old river Rhine again, and
my return to Heidelberg at night, with the bright moon shining on the
Neckar and the old ruined castle, I can now say no more, nor is it
necessary, for are not all these things 'written in my book of
Chronicles,' to be seen by you when we meet again in Paris?

Ever yours, FRANK."

_Dec. 16._--I took a walk lately to the tower of Galileo. In company
with three friends, I left Florence by the _Porta Romana_, and ascended
the _Poggie Imperiale_. This beautiful avenue, a mile and a quarter in
length, leading up a gradual ascent to a villa of the Grand Duke, is
bordered with splendid cypresses and evergreen oaks, and the grass banks
are always fresh and green, so that even in winter it calls up a
remembrance of summer. In fact, winter does not wear the scowl here that
he has at home; he is robed rather in a threadbare garment of autumn,
and it is only high up on the mountain tops, out of the reach of his
enemy, the sun, that he dares to throw it off, and bluster about with
his storms and scatter down his snow-flakes. The roses still bud and
bloom in the hedges, the emerald of the meadows is not a whit paler, the
sun looks down lovingly as yet, and there are only the white helmets of
some of the Appenines, with the leafless mulberries and vines, to tell
us that we have changed seasons.

A quarter of an hour's walk, part of it by a path through an olive
orchard, brought us to the top of a hill, which was surmounted by a
square, broken, ivied tower, forming part of a storehouse for the
produce of the estate. We entered, saluted by a dog, and passing through
a court-yard, in which stood two or three carts full of brown olives,
found our way to the rickety staircase. I spared my sentiment in going
up, thinking the steps might have been renewed since Galileo's time, but
the glorious landscape which opened around us when we reached the top,
time could not change, and I gazed upon it with interest and emotion, as
my eye took in those forms which had once been mirrored in the
philosopher's. Let me endeavor to describe the features of the scene.

Fancy yourself lifted to the summit of a high hill, whose base slopes
down to the valley of the Arno, and looking northward. Behind you is a
confusion of hill and valley, growing gradually dimmer away to the
horizon. Before and below you is a