glowing clime. A clime which breathes in zephyrs of aromatic
sweetness, wafted over the fragrant blossoms of the land so redolent
of loveliness, that they would seem to rival the fabled Loto tree,
which springs by Allah's throne, and whose flowers have a soul in
every leaf.

There is a breathing of the arts in the very air of Florence, whose
galleries are crowded with the choicest collections of paintings and
statuary in the world. Here have ever congregated the talent and
beauty of every clime. With the painter, the poet, the sculptor,
here sleep, in the city of the silent, Michael Angelo, Alfieri, and
like spirits, rendering it hallowed ground to the lovers of art.
Proud and lovely city, with thy sylvan Casino spreading its riches
of green sward and noble trees along the banks of the silvery Arno,
well may a Florentine be proud of his birthplace!

It is in Florence, this very paradise of art, that our tale opens.
Here the poor scholar or artist, who seeks to perfect himself by
viewing the glorious works of the old masters, may live like a
prince on the most moderate and frugal means, in a bright and sunny
land, where the heart's blood leaps most swiftly to the promptings
of imagination; where the female form earliest attains its wonted
beauty, and longest holds its sway over the heart; where art and
nature both combine to entrance the soul in admiration; in that land
of the sun-genial Italy; that soft, yet wild country, whose children
learn the knowledge of poetry and art from visible things, while the
rest of the world derive them from books.

It was noonday in Florence, and a group of artists were wending
their way from the grand gallery to their midday meal. It was a