GARDENS OF FLORENTINE HUMANISTS 
white marble fountain, marvellously carved, sending up 
a jet of water, which, falling with delicious sound into 
a crystal basin, was carried through little channels into 
all parts of the garden, and finally poured down into 
the valley with such force as to turn the wheels of two 
mills, “ much, as you may suppose, to the profit of the 
owner.” 
The mills on the Mugnone are still standing, and 
the gardens where Boccaccio’s ladies danced and feasted 
and told their witty tales have been described by many 
other eloquent pens. 
Both Petrarch and Boccaccio lived when the dawn 
of the new learning was breaking in the sky, and in Sir 
Philip Sidney’s phrase, “ the morning did strew roses 
and violets on the heavenly floor, against the coming 
of the sun.” But, in the fifteenth century, when men 
and women were bent on enjoying life in all its fulness 
—and individual expression had become a passionate 
necessity — there was a great outburst of garden¬ 
making. The newborn love of nature penetrated 
every phase of society. It stirred the heart of TEneas 
Sylvius Piccolomini as he watched the changing lights 
on the slopes of Monte Amiata and the gnarled stems 
of the oaks that overshadow the ravines in the Volscian 
country. It moved Ser Lapo Mazzei, that very 
prosaic-minded notary of Prato, to ride out to his 
villa at Grignano, in the cool of the evening, and help 
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