332 MORE POT-POURRI 



was quite cold. At Turin the sky was as inky black as 

 in London. The torrents were bursting, and the roads 

 floating with water over black mud. As we got near 

 Genoa, of which absolutely nothing can be seen from 

 the raUway, it was like a gray July day at home, the 

 hay cut and the Acacias in flower. 



The journey along the seashore is a most irritating 

 series of tunnels. When I arrived at Florence, all lone- 

 liness was at an end. Kind friends met me, and we 

 drove through the town, which I had not visited, except 

 for one night, since I was twenty. In the gray, damp 

 drizzle it did not look its best, but no weather can spoil 

 the majestic appearance of the Ilex and Cypress avenue 

 outside the Roman gate — the approach to what was 

 once a Medicean villa. Through this we had to drive to 

 reach the village of Arcetri, where my journey ended. 



The joy of being once more in Italy was, indeed, 

 great ; my pension close — to the Torre del Gallo — was 

 a large, fine house, quite empty. All the upper floor was 

 my own, and I could roam from room to room and enjoy 

 the most beautiful views conceivable. The whole country 

 is like a gigantic rockwork — hill and vale and sloping 

 sides and varied aspects, and all that can be imagined as 

 perfect for the growth of vegetation. I was rather dis- 

 appointed at the excessive greenness of everything on 

 my arrival. Even the Olives, in spite of the green corn 

 underneath them, looked green — not gray — from the 

 masses of small yellow flowers that covered them. One 

 cannot look at all this redundant vegetation without 

 realising that Florence must be blessed with an abun- 

 dant rainfall. 



They talk here of the probability of a wet ' San Gio- 

 vanni' as we talk of ' St. Swithin ' — meaning, of course, 

 there is generally much wet about that time. 



The Italian papers were naturally full of Mr. Glad- 



