Docomber 10, 1865. ] 



JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AJ?D COTTAGE GARDENEB. 



505 



world. Then tho soldier, fairly beaten, pa.'ises muttering on- 

 wards — happily on the same beat, for a little further ou I espy 

 .<i bank of white Thyme, with here and there a plant of Orchis 

 morio and Oplirys arauifera. I charge again, am again re- 

 pulsed, and Hgaiu victorious, brincjiug away not only the Orchis 

 and Thyme, but other flowers, and amongst them the Lychnis 

 flos-cuculi (not a bit like our English lia^ged Robin, in spite 

 of the Professor), and the Triiolium stellatum. Then I pass 

 ou, still sniiUng and thanking the soldier for hi.^ extreme 

 politeness to a stranger, till I tiud a nuiot nook, where undis- 

 turbed I gather Adonis autumnali^. Vicia sativa, and a pure 

 white Orchis, with many another tiny riower not very remark- 

 able, perhaiis, save as growing beneath that cloudless sky of 

 such bright blue that it makes one's eye wink to look at it. 



And after wandering up and down the long green alleys, 

 peering through gratings into or.angeries. and watching sedate 

 little Italian children in their quiet walk by the side of their 

 gesticulating parents, I sit down and gaze on the large mass of 

 buildings that contain such a world of treasures within their 

 walls. 



I have never seen any picture gallery that could be at all 

 compared with that of the Pitti Palace. The rooms in them- 

 selves ore so charming, so like rooms in which one coiUd sit 

 down and make oneself at home ; and amidst all the pictures 

 there is not one that inspires you with horror — they are all 

 beautiful, all gems. Fancy being at home with Raphael's 

 Madonna del Seggiola, with the divine '■ Man of Sorrows " of 

 Cigoli, with Fra Bartolomeo's Pieta, and with thnt now addition 

 made to the galleries, since the hurried flight of the good old 

 Grand Duke, Raphael's Madonna del Gran Duca, one of Ra- 

 phael's happiest embodiments of the Mother of the Lord. 

 There may be no great depth of feeling, save, indeed, in the 

 Mother's satisfied look of peaceful love and the Child's tender 

 trustfulness, but yet it is irresistibly attractive. 



One of the gi'eat charms of this gallery is the unquestioned 

 way in which you enter and walk about, lounging from room 

 to room and seat to seat ; and it is pleasant to feel that the 

 privilege of enjoying these glorious works of art, unquestioned, 

 is accorded to the lowest artisan, no other ticket of admission 

 being required than the wish that p;-ompt3 you to enter. Ten 

 years ago, sitting in the entrance haU was a Tuscan soldier 

 warming himself over an enormous brazier of charcoal, and 

 inviting you to do the same ; but the brazier disappeared with 

 the soldier, and the entrance hall felt a little cold. 



Returning from the Pitti to the Luugarao we pass over the 

 Ponte Vecchio, that wonderful street of jewellers' shops, built 

 over the river which flows lazily along beneath. In the centre 

 of the bridge there is a break in the shops, and an empty space 

 left, where j'ou may lounge at eventide, and watch the sun 

 setting behind banks of cloud far away up the river. As he 

 recedes he casts back a mantle of fire, which, lighting on float- 

 ing clouds, reflects itself iu the waters, while to the soft blue 

 of the west is given a rosy flush. 



My favourite walk in Florence used to be that which, passing 

 over the Ponte Vecchio, led me up the steep ascent of the Via 

 Crucis to St. Miniato, situated amidst groves of Cypress and 

 Olive trees. As you rest at each station beneath its wooden 

 cross, fresh views of extreme beauty burst upon you, till the 

 whole of the fairest city of Italy. I had nearly said of the 

 world, lies spread out at your feet, and you can define churches 

 and palaces with minute exactness — the round domes of the 

 Cathedral and St. Lorenzo, the square towers of the Palazzo 

 Vecchio (the grand-ducal tower), and the Campanile, and the 

 churches of St. Croce and St. Maria Novella, so celebrated 

 each in its separate way. In St. Croce lies the dust of Michael 

 Angelo, so great as sculptor, painter, and architect, with many 

 another name known to fame. St. Lorenzo guards the won- 

 drous chapel of the Medici, where Michael Angelo has wrought 

 tho " Night and Morning," which guard the solemn beauty of 

 his matchless " II Penseroso." The gates of the baptistery 

 of the Cathedral have been likened to the gates of Paradise, so 

 perfect is their workmanship ; while th.e inlaid coloured marble 

 faijade of St. Maria NoveUa could hardly be excelled in beauty. 

 To the right, the windows looking 0!i the river, is another 

 palace — the Ufizzi, which contains a justly celebrated gallery 

 of art, the greatest gems being the sculptui'ed Venus de Medici 

 and Raphael's Madonna del Cardellino. 



Ten years ago, and the fields around and below the little 

 church of St. Miniato — eaUed by Michael Angelo '• Bella Vil- 

 laneUa," or pretty countrj* lass — were full of Violets. Hyacinths, 

 and Anemones ; the gates used to stand invitingly open, and 

 many a time h.ave I wandered there gathering my basketful of 



spring's fairest flowers, while my eye wandered far away over 

 the glorious scenes on every side. Rut alas ! I found all 

 changed. The fair fields were being converte<t into a huge 

 necropolis ; and the church with its inlaid marble floor was 

 full of graves, tawdry ribbon-docked immtyrtfUei lying untidily 

 about, hiding even the slab on which is written, " These stones 

 are given to Christ, who is prayed never to depart from them." 



I shudder when I think of that necropolis. Half built, its 

 hundreds of yav.-ning graves stared horribly on every side. I 

 tried to get away, but they fascinated mo. Who would tenant 

 them .' One by one they would close, over which of the in- 

 habitants of that fair city, who were unthinkingly awaiting 

 their individual summons below ? Like a devastating monster 

 with open jaws ready to devour all who approach, these dread- 

 ful jijts seemed to wait open-mouthed for the unthinking people. 

 Yes, a burial-place in all its terrible nakedness, unhallowed by 

 the sacred dust, by a cross, by aught that speaks of immor- 

 tality, is a hideous sight. By the way of the Cross I had 

 ascended to St. Miniato, and I knew that to all who followed 

 that sacred way the grave would lose its victory, and that many 

 a tired heart would look up to the little church upon the hill 

 as a quiet haven where the weary would find rest. 



It was pleasant to get away from this, my once favourite 

 spot, and to stand on the Ponte Vecchio, watching a little child 

 at play by the river's side, and listening to the hum of voicea 

 which spoke of life and life's happiness. 



Less altered in its present from its past is the Cascine, where 

 Austrian bands used to play to crowds of gay people who 

 drove, or rode, or walked by the Amo's side. I found it much 

 as I had left it. The silvery Birches waved in the air, tho 

 crowds were gathered, and the bands playing ; nor did the 

 music sound less sweet to me when I remembered that the 

 soldiers who played were Italian, and that I was listening to 

 their music in the capital of Italj'. 



And the flowers, let me not forget to mention them. I open 

 my book, and the first specimen that greets my eye is the 

 Aristolochia, a strange sort of Woodbine foliage, with a Pitcher- 

 plant-looking flower. The next is a pretty white Symphytum 

 Zeyheri. I hope I shall be excused if I spell the name wrongly, 

 for I confess it is new to me, as I myself should have called 

 the little specimen orientale. And then I come to the Cycla- 

 men eiU'opfBum. In some parts of the Cascine the ground is 

 covered with the pinlc sweet blossoms and the darkly veined 

 leaves of this pretty flower, whose bulbs are so difficult to 

 arrive it ; the fibre-like creeping stem running far away under 

 ground, and being of so fine a nature that a hasty pull severs 

 the frail thread and loses the clue to the bulb. I managed, 

 however, to secure a small packet of them, which I hope will 

 flower some day. I only foimd these Cyclamens growing 

 beneath the shade of brushwood. Contrasting with this pink 

 bloom were masses of the brilliant deep blue Anchusa offici- 

 nalis ; while here and there I came on the grand Orchis pjTa- 

 midalis, with its full rich spike of crimsonish flowers and 

 bright imspotted leaves. The shrubs were covered with Wood- 

 bine, which trailed from hough to bough, scenting the air ; and 

 all the time I was gathering the flowers the carriages went 

 rolling by, enlivened every few minutes by the rattling speed of 

 one of the little American (7) carts, that give you the impression 

 of n mad horse running away with a mad driver, each trying 

 to outvie tho other in wUd vehemence. 



Emerge from the wood at whatever point you may, and 

 there is a beggar, swooping down upon you like a hawk upon 

 its prey — blind and lame, old and maimed, the very skeletons 

 of Nature's festal board. One day one of the old-lady beggars 

 penetrated the wood, and helped us to gather the wild flowers ; 

 and when she found her presence rather agreeable than other- 

 wise, somehow or other each day I went the same old lady 

 popped up with her poor wizen hands graced with a floral 

 offering. But floral offeiings are the fashion of the Cascine. 

 At every turn flowers are oiiered you, Roses and LUies in 

 every tempting variety ; but woe betide you if in a sou-less 

 hour you accept the gift. Thenceforth you become the giver's 

 victim. You must grin when she grins, accept more gifts, but 

 never again without sous to offer iu return. — Filix-fcemina. 



APiUKDO DONAX TARIEGATA CULTURE. 

 Few, if any, of our tropical plants are more beautiful than 

 the Aruudo donax variegata, nor do I know of any plant so 

 well adapted foj filling the centre of a flower-bed. for grow- 

 ing in tabs on lawns, or for the cou.3crvatory. In fact, no 



