348 MORE POT-POURRI 



Middle Ages — as true as waxwork, with none of its vul- 

 garity — so different from the degeneracy of modem 

 Italian art. I wish I knew why it has been a Christian 

 custom to clothe the feet of the dead ; they are especially 

 beautiful. If all else is changed, they remain the same. 



June 9th. — This being the Festival of Corpus 

 Christi, we went in the afternoon to the little chiirch 

 close by of Santa Margharita. Guida describes, much 

 better than I can do, ' the little, brown, square church, 

 with its bell clanging in the open tower high above in 

 the sweet air on the hills ; there is level grass all about 

 it ; and it has a cool, green garden, shut within walls on 

 every side except where a long parapet of red, dusky 

 tiles leaves open the view of the Valdarno ; underneath 

 the parapet there are other terraces of deep grass and 

 old, old Olive trees, in whose shade the orchids love to 

 grow and the blue Iris springs up in great sheaves of 

 sword -like leaves. 



' There are trees of every sort in the cloistered gar- 

 den, the turf is rich and long, the flowers are tended 

 with the greatest care, the little sacristy grows red in 

 the sun, an Acanthus climbs against it ; the sacristan's 

 wife comes out to you plaiting her straw, and brings 

 you a cluster of her Roses ; you sit on the stone seat, 

 and lean over the parapet and look downward; birds flit 

 about you ; contadini go along the grass paths under- 

 neath and nod to you, smiling ; a delicious mingled 

 loveliness of Olive wood and Ilex foliage and blossom- 

 ing vineyards shelve beneath you ; you see all Florence 

 gleaming far below there in the sun, and your eyes 

 sweep from the snow that still lies on Vallombrosa to 

 the blue shadows of the Carrara range. 



'It is calm and golden and happy here at Santa 

 Margharita's, high in the fragrant hill air, with the 

 Guelder Roses nodding above head, and the voices of 



