are so poetical and suggestive, that we wonder not that civilized man
has found this an attractive abode for twenty-five centuries.

Florence is stone dead. 'Tis but a polished tortoise-shell, of which
the living inhabitant has long since crumbled to dust; but it still
gleams in the sun with wondrous radiance.

Just at your feet, as you stand on the convent terrace, is the Villa
Mozzi, where, not long ago, were found buried jars of Roman coins of
the republican era, hidden there by Catiline, at the epoch of his
memorable conspiracy. Upon the same spot was the favorite residence of
Lorenzo Magnifico; concerning whose probable ponderings, as he sat
upon his terrace, with his legs dangling over Florence, much may be
learned from the guide-book of the immortal Murray, so that he who
runs may read and philosophize.

Looking at Florence from the hill-top, one is more impressed than ever
with the appropriateness of its name. _The City of Flowers_ is
itself a flower, and, as you gaze upon it from a height, you see how
it opens from its calyx. The many bright villages, gay gardens,
palaces, and convents which encircle the city, are not to be regarded
separately, but as one whole. The germ and heart of Florence, the
compressed and half hidden Piazza, with its dome, campanile, and long,
slender towers, shooting forth like the stamens and pistils, is
closely folded and sombre, while the vast and beautiful corolla
spreads its brilliant and fragrant circumference, petal upon petal,
for miles and miles around.