hardly the eye or the foot can penetrate. There our own tulip-tree flourishes as in her prime, while the Virgilia lutea, which adorns our Southern States, covers itself with its delicate white veil of blossoms. There, also, the magnolia finds a foreign home; and locusts with abundant coffee-colored flowers, rhododendrons and camellias, the dracæna, the begonia, and many another tropical and exotic plant, lend an additional charm to the natives of the soil.

Conspicuous among the rest is a bunch of the tall and superb grass of the pampas, with its high tufts of feathery blossoms. Near the centre is a lofty tower, from the summit of which is a fine view of the picturesque city. A small pond, with a tiny island of rock-work in the middle, from which bursts forth a fountain, increases the charms of the spot. In it are carp, some of a brilliant scarlet, others of pure white, while some are gayly spotted with both these colors. No one, who has not seen them, can have any idea of the vivid beauty of these burning coals, as they float lazily from side to side, or dart hither and thither with all the vivacity of health and happiness. Lastly, but by no means the least dowered with natural beauties, our own woodbine is there in all the exuberance of abundant leaf and flower, stem and tendril. It is the world's vine, and seems everywhere at home. Like the Wandering Jew, it is ever in motion, urged on by an inevitable power that it understands not. It is called vitalbe (melodious name) by the Italians, and Chiabrera has praised it

in lines as full of grace and beauty as the plant itself. It is certainly a charming object, and whether gracefully gathering its drapery of scarlet and green around the rents made by time in old ruins, shielding some antique statue or inscription from "the windy storm and tempest," clambering over the cottage of the peasant, entwining itself in the hedges or rambling over the rough stone walls of the farms around, where no eye can observe its manifold graces, it is always the same, ever fresh and ever fair. It is always "the wellattired woodbine" of Milton and "the lush woodbine" of Shakspeare. Wherever the traveller goes he finds it, and its tendrils twine around his heart like memories of home.*

*At the time of my visit the Villa Torrigiani was occupied by our Minister, Col. T. Bigelow Lawrence, whose kind attentions and courteous hospitalities to his countrymen have made him so popular both at home and abroad. Our country has not for many years had such able and cultivated representatives in Europe as at the present day.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES.

THE great collections which the wealth and power of the Medici enabled them to accumulate for their own glory and that of Florence are contained in two vast palaces, the Uffizi and the Pitti. But lately the property of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, they have now come into the possession of Victor Emanuel and the constitutional government of United Italy. In the lower stories of the former are contained numerous public offices (from which is derived its name) and the Magliabecchian Library. In the third story, and extending around three sides of a long parallelogram, is the famous gallery, which, as a whole, is the richest in the world. It contains not only a large collection of antique statues and of sculptures and paintings by Italian artists, but a vast variety of ancient vases, bronzes, gems, ivory carvings, and miniatures. Here one may linger for weeks, and daily find new objects to delight the eye and improve the taste.

Near the entrance is a famous painting by Fra Angelico, around which is always gathered a little group of spectators, and of artists engaged in copy

ing it. It was formerly an altar-piece, and represents the Virgin with the infant Christ in her arms. It is enclosed in a large frame, on the broad gold ground of which angels are painted in the act of adoration. On the folding-doors of this are portrayed full-length figures of four saints, and all are finished with that most rare and careful elaboration which the piety and devotion of the artist always led him to bestow upon his works; for if any painter ever labored con amore, it was Fra Angelico, "Il Beato." The angels are particularly admired, and so great is the desire of artists and others to copy them that it is necessary to make application to the authorities for years before obtaining the opportunity. Their features seem to beam with more than mortal saintliness, purity, and love, and such angels were never painted by any artist before or since. They are the bright effulgence of the painter's own pure mind. In their heavenly forms we see the excellence "which God hath in his mighty angels placed." They are playing on various musical instruments: one on the violin, another on the tambourine; one blows a trumpet, another beats a drum, and still another turns the handle of a small organ; while three others elicit the harmony of the horn, the pipes, and the cymbals; two others, having no instrument, only clasp their hands and gaze with rapture upon the Virgin. Yet so serene and holy is the expression, so graceful are the attitudes of this little angelic orchestra, as they cluster round the radiant object of their adora

tion, that there seems nothing incongruous or absurd in the instruments which they are playing.

Not far from this is the famous Tribune, which contains the masterpieces of the gallery in painting and sculpture. Here Madonnas by Raphael and Correggio, Michel Angelo and Andrea del Sarto, adorn the walls, and look down upon the triumphs of ancient sculpture, which, with the tranquillity of "all things whose life is sure," stand around in a magic circle, into which the creations of no modern artist dare intrude.

Facing the principal entrance stands the worldrenowned Venus de' Medici. Of this goddess, who from her marble throne casts so "glorious a beam" about her, who has inspired so much eloquence and such an effulgence of poetry, one can hardly say anything new, and it may appear almost foolishness to write a word. Yet "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," and really not enough can be said or sung in praise of this priceless pearl of beauty, which even ancient artists gazed upon with rapture. The earth for a thousand years has guarded it from the ravages of man and time, that it might be preserved for our age, to be the delight and the despair of modern Art, a precious legacy to us from the past, a symbol of that beauty which never dies. Her form is perfect, and, in the abounding grace and harmonious simplicity of its outlines, offers to the eye the image of that bright ideal which at times the mind of the artist sees, but which at the present day he can never, with all his yearnings, translate