oever looks on the valley of the Arno from San Miniato, and observes
the Appenine range, of which Fiesole is one, bounding it on the north,
will immediately notice to the northwest a double peak rising high above
all the others. The bare, brown forehead of this, known by the name of
_Monte Morello_, seemed so provokingly to challenge an ascent, that we
determined to try it. So we started early, the day before yesterday,
from the Porta San Gallo, with nothing but the frosty grass and fresh
air to remind us of the middle of December. Leaving the Prato road, at
the base of the mountain, we passed Careggi, a favorite farm of Lorenzo
the Magnificent, and entered a narrow glen where a little brook was
brawling down its rocky channel. Here and there stood a rustic mill,
near which women were busy spreading their washed clothes on the grass.
Following the footpath, we ascended a long eminence to a chapel where
some boys were amusing themselves with a common country game. They have
a small wheel, around which they wind a rope, and, running a little
distance to increase the velocity, let it off with a sudden jerk. On a
level road it can be thrown upwards of a quarter of a mile.

From the chapel, a gradual ascent along the ridge of a hill brought us
to the foot of the peak, which rose high before us, covered with bare
rocks and stunted oaks. The wind blew coldly from a snowy range to the
north, as we commenced ascending with a good will. A few shepherds were
leading their flocks along the sides, to browse on the grass and
withered bushes, and we started up a large hare occasionally from his
leafy covert. The ascent was very toilsome; I was obliged to stop
frequently on account of the painful throbbing of my heart, which made
it difficult to breathe. When the summit was gained, we lay down awhile
on the leeward side to recover ourselves.

We looked on the great valley of the Arno, perhaps twenty-five miles
long, and five or six broad, lying like a long elliptical basin sunk
among the hills. I can liken it to nothing but a vast sea; for a dense,
blue mist covered the level surface, through which the domes of Florence
rose up like a craggy island, while the thousands of scattered villas
resembled ships, with spread sails, afloat on its surface. The sharp,
cutting wind soon drove us down, with a few hundred bounds, to the path
again. Three more hungry mortals did not dine at the _Cacciatore_ that
day.

The chapel of the Medici, whic