e)_, he astonished the waiter by calling for
_horse. "Cavallo"!_ he roared--"_Portez me cavallo!_" "Cavallo!"
repeated the waiter, with the characteristic Italian shrug. "_Non
simangia in Italia, signore_" (It is not eaten in Italy, signore). Then
followed more execrable Italian, and the waiter brought him something
which elicited "_Non volo! non volo!_" (I don't fly! I don't fly!) from
the American, and "_Lo credo, signore_" from the baffled waiter, much to
the amusement of people at the adjacent tables.

I liked my new quarters very much. They consisted of two goodly-sized
rooms, carpeted with thick braided rag carpets, and decently furnished,
olive oil provided for the quaint old classic-shaped lamp, and the rooms
kept in order, for the astounding price of thirty francs a month. Wood I
had to pay extra for when I needed a fire, and that indeed was
expensive; for a bundle only sufficient to make a fire cost a franc.
There were few days, however, even in that exceptional winter, which
rendered a fire necessary. The _scaldino_ for the feet was generally
sufficient, and this, replenished three times a day, was included in the
rent.

One of my windows looked out on olive-gardens and on the old church San
Miniato, on the hill of the same name. Mr. Hart, the sculptor, told me
that those rooms were very familiar to him. Buchanan Read, I think he
said, had occupied them, and the walls in many places bore traces of
artist vagaries. There were several nice caricatures penciled among the
cheap frescoes of the walls. All the walls are frescoed in Florence.
Think of having your ceiling and walls painted in a manner that
constantly suggests Michael Angelo!

After some weeks spent in looking at the art-wonders in Florence, I
visited many of the studios of our artists. That of Mr. Hart, on the
Piazza Independenza, was one of the most interesting. He had two very
admirable busts of Henry Clay, and all his visitors, encouraged by his
frank manner, criticised his works freely. Most people boldly pass
judgment on any work of art, and "understand" Mrs. Browning when she
says the Venus de' Medici "thunders white silence." I do not. I am sure
I never can understand what a thundering silence means, whatever may be
its color. These appreciators talked of the "word-painting" of Mrs.
Browning.

They sit on their thrones in a purple sublimity,
And grind down men's bones to a pale unanimity.

I suppose this is "word-painting." I can