om surrounding heights to Florence, which lay in a golden haze
characteristic of Italian Junes in this latitude. Powers, the sculptor,
had promised to engage lodgings for us, but he had not expected us
so soon, and meanwhile we put up at a hotel near by, and walked out a
little in the long evening, admiring the broad, flagstone pavements and
all the minor features which made Florence so unlike Rome. The next day
began our acquaintance with the Powers family, who, with the Brownings,
constituted most of the social element of our sojourn. Powers had an
agreeable wife, two lovely daughters, and a tall son, a few years older
than I, and a pleasant companion, though he could not take the place of
Eddy Thompson in my heart. He was clever with his hands, and soon began
to make fishing-rods for me, having learned of my predilection for the
sport. There were no opportunities to fish in Florence; but the rods
which Bob Powers produced were works of art, straight and tapering, and
made in lengths, which fitted into one another--a refinement which was
new to me, who had hitherto imagined nothing better than a bamboo pole.
Bob finally confided to me that he straightened his rods by softening
the wood in steam; but I found that they did not long retain their
straightness; and, there being no use for them, except the delight of
the eye, I presently lost interest in them. Then Bob showed me how to
make blow-pipes by pushing out the pith from the stems of some species
of bushy shrub that grew outside the walls. He made pellets of clay from
his father's studio; and I was deeply affected by the long range and
accuracy of these weapons. We used to ensconce ourselves behind the
blinds of the front windows of Powers's house, and practise through the
slats at the passers-by in the street. They would feel a smart hit and
look here and there, indignant; but, after a while, seeing nothing
but the innocent fronts of sleepy houses, would resume their way. Bob
inherited his handiness from his father, who seemed a master of all
crafts, a true Yankee genius. He might have made his fortune as an
inventor had he not happened to turn the main stream of his energy in
the direction of sculpture. I believe that the literary art was the only
one in which he did not claim proficiency, and that was a pity, because
Powers's autobiography would have been a book of books. He was a
Swedenborgian by faith, but he also dabbled somewhat in spiritualism,
which was havi