lls that hid Florence
herself.

It was already midday when I came to the little city of Montelupo at the
foot of these hills, and, in front of a beautiful avenue of plane trees,
to the trattoria, a humble place enough, and full at that hour of
drivers and countrymen, but quite sufficient for my needs, for I found
there food, a good wine, and courtesy. Later, in the afternoon, climbing
the stony street across Pesa, I came to the Church of S. Giovanni
Evangelista, and there in the sweet country silence was Madonna with her
Son and four Saints, by some pupil of Sandro Botticelli.

It is not any new vision of Madonna you will see in that quiet country
church, full of afternoon sunshine and wayside flowers, but the same
half-weary maiden of whom Botticelli has told us so often, whose honour
is too great for her, whose destiny is more than she can bear. Already
she has been overwhelmed by our praise and petitions; she has closed her
eyes, she has turned away her head, and while the Jesus Parvulus lifts
his tiny hands in blessing, she is indifferent, holding Him languidly,
as though but half attentive to those priceless words which St. John,
with the last light of a smile still lingering round his eyes, notes so
carefully in his book. Something of the same eagerness, graver, and more
youthful, you may see in the figure of St. Sebastian, who, holding three
arrows daintily in his hand, has suddenly looked up at the sound of that
Divine childish voice. Two other figures, S. Lorenzo and perhaps S.
Roch, listen with a sort of intent sadness there under that splendid
portico, where Mary sits on a throne, she who was the carpenter's wife,
with so little joy or even surprise. Below, in the predella, you may see
certain saints' heads, S. Lorenzo giving alms, the death of S. Lorenzo,
the risen Christ.

[Illustration: BADIA AL SETTIMO]

But though Montelupo possesses such a treasure as this picture, for me
at least the fairest thing within her keeping is the old fortress,
ruined now, on her high hill, and the view one may have thence. For,
following that stony way which brought me to S. Giovanni, I came at last
to the walls of an old fortress, that now houses a few peasants, and
turning there saw all the Val d'Arno, from S. Miniato far and far away
to the west, to little Vinci on the north, where, as Vasari says,
Leonardo was born; while below me, beside Arno, rose the beautiful Villa
Ambrogiana, with its four towers at the corners;