century saint is modern. Scipio's tomb is modern compared with the tombs in the Egyptian Museum of Florence. Here are coffins that date back 3000 years B. C., and one nice mummy is said to precede even this early period by a thousand years. It is the mummy of a boy. The hair is combed in quite a modern style. There are other mummies finely preserved, but none so well as this boy, this contemporary of Adam, this boy older by five thousand years than any other boy in the world.

To come down to modern times—that is, to about the year 1500-there are in the Buonorotti Gallery some very interesting sketches by Michael Angelo. One sketch, a small off-hand affair in pencil, has this line scribbled in one corner:

"Send this to Bologna, 1597."

Seeing these pencillings so fresh and so clear, brings the sixteenth century very near to us.

No city in Italy is more charmingly situated than Florence. Heading from the Porta Romana, and winding around and up the neighboring hills, is a broad and magnificent avenue shaded on both sides by a line of stately cypress-trees-a drive that possibly has its equal in Paris and the other great European capitals, but has not its like in Italy. There is nothing in the vicinity of Rome to be compared with it, and when the king wishes a really first-class drive he must needs come to Florence.

I went over to Pisa from Florence, and saw something there considerably more astonishing than the Leaning Tower. Just as I was entering the door of the tower for the purpose of ascending, a smirking little fellow, with a thick shock of wellgreased hair, stepped up and said, in Italian,

66

'Good-day, signore. Do you wish me to go up in the tower with you?"

66

Why should I wish your company?"

"Oh, pardon !" said the Italian, "I thought you were going up the tower."

"So I am."

66

Ah, then, signore, you will need me.

I will go with you for half a lira, and another man, a friend of mine, I can get to go also for half a lira."

I set the man down as either witless or possessed of unlimited impudence. Neither assumption was correct. When I entered the tower, the custodian informed me that permission to ascend was given only to partics of three.

The custodian shrugged his shoulders.

"Read this," he said, pointing to some printed regulations hanging on the wall. I read, and found such was the fact. Less than three persons are not permitted to ascend the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The reason? I can only imitate the custodian, and shrug my shoulders.

worn.

The steps leading to the summit of the tower are much Two ruts have been made in each step by the many feet that have trod them during the last seven hundred years. While gazing from the summit of the tower upon the quaint old Italian city below, upon the sinuous Arno and the blue Mediterranean, a party came up, consisting of four blooming young girls and an elderly lady of rather stern and disdainful aspect. The young ladies made a break for the railing and the view, but the elderly lady cast a furtive glance at me, then deposited her luncheon-basket, parasol, and other etceteras on the floor, and plumped herself down beside them.

Why, auntie, what's the matter?" exclaimed one of the girls. "Come to the railing for the view."

"Never mind me, girls," was the grim response.

"Good gracious, aunt, why climb up this dreadful tower if you don't intend to see the view?"

"Hush!" said the old lady, with a grim glance at me. “Do you not see that villanous-looking Italian? I must stay by the things."

“Madam,” I said, in my best English, "as I have seen the view, I am happy to afford you relief by descending."

The old lady wilted, and the young ones stared.

CHAPTER IX.

AN ADVENTURE IN FLORENCE.

NEARLY a year later I again visited Florence. I came direct from the muggy, drizzly fogs of England, and on that account, perhaps, found the sparkling clear atmosphere that surrounded the old city particularly pleasant and agreeable. I hastened to enjoy myself while the opportunity lasted.

The very afternoon of my arrival, after depositing my goods and chattels in the room at the hotel, I donned a spring suit and sallied forth for a stroll through the famous Barbolli Gardens.

There was not the slightest sign of rain, there was not even a cloud; nevertheless, I took my umbrella from habit acquired in foggy England. Ordinarily the act of carrying an umbrella is not attended by any serious or unusual result. It was so attended in this case, however, and that is why I am particular to mention the fact; indeed, had it not been for the umbrella there would not be this tale to tell.

But to proceed.

The sky was cloudless, the air balmy. I went along swinging my umbrella and whistling a tune for joy at seeing the sun once more. For an hour I strolled through the shaded walks of the garden, then as evening drew nigh, I ascended to the heights which overlook the Arno and afford such an excellent view of Florence. Alas! the sunset was a failure. Before I had climbed half-way a breeze sprang up; when I reached the summit there were clouds; when I stood near the statue of David, and gazed to see the sunset, there was rain. And this was sunny Italy!

I was about to give vent to an expression more forcible than

elegant, apropos of the villanous weather that pursued me, when my eye was caught by a fair young creature, crouching on the lee side of the monument, in an effort to secure some slight shelter from the rain. I felt sheepish and ashamed. Here I was with a big umbrella complaining, while that lovely girl was being drenched. I resolved to play the Good Samari

tan at once.

"Scusatemi, signorina," I said, mustering my best Italian as I approached her "scusatemi, signorina, macê una pioggia terrible. Volete stare con me sotto l'ombrello?" (Excuse me, signorina, but it is a fearful rain. Will you not stand under my umbrella?)

She gave me a shy glance, then blushed and looked down. I knew that Italian etiquette was very severe, but, certainly, if there was ever a time for dispensing with ceremony it was on an occasion like this.

I repeated my offer, and without awaiting her consent stepped to her side and sheltered her as best I could. For some moments there was constraint between us. I used the interval in observing the beautiful complexion and silken tresses of my companion. Singularly enough, she was a pronounced blonde. Her hair was of that lovely golden shade known as Titian," from being the favorite color of that great master, though I do not know where Titian saw any golden-haired women. There seem to be few in Italy to-day. My fair companion was growing restless.

66

66

'Io credo―io credo che besorgna partire" (I think—I think I must be going), she said, presently, in the softest Italian. "Con piacere ma sotto il mio ombrello" (with pleasure, but under my umbrella).

66

Che'-what, I keep dry and let you get wet? Never," and she smiled and displayed her pretty teeth.

I was delighted. I saw she was thawing.

"Then we will both keep under the umbrella," I said. “Tell me where you live, and I will take you home."

"Gia', ma e' lontano" (but it is far).

Ma, io insistere" (nevertheless, signorina, I insist).

She hesitated, I remained firm; she yielded-we started off together.

The rain did not seem half so unpleasant now as it had before. Indeed, I should have felt badly had it ceased. Fortunately it continued, and with vigor, so that not only did my lovely companion have no excuse to dispense with me, but to keep at all dry she was obliged to stick close to my side. I am bound to confess that after the first shyness had worn away she stuck well. The space between us was scarcely appreciable, and I felt a proportionate amount of bliss and ecstasy. There was one drawback-I had forgotten most of my Italian. I could ask and answer simple questions, but that was all. As the conversation grew more general, I got into deeper and deeper water.

"The d-1!" I exclaimed, at length, in English. "What a pity I can't talk Italian !”

"Oh! are you English?" she exclaimed, in excellent English, and broke into a little peal of laughter.

I was covered with confusion. She had heard and understood my impolite ejaculation.

"Your pardon, signorina, but truly I had no idea you understood English."

"You did not?" She laughed. "What a notion. I am almost English myself, and papa is English. I was born and brought up in Italy, but papa always talks English to me. I understand everything, though," modestly, "when I speak it is with an accent."

She did have an accent, but it was a delightful one, and I told her so. This girl was becoming more charming every moment, and now that our talk was in a language we both understood, progress became rapid.

66

Ah, you are a tourist ?" she said, presently.

Now, in Italy tourists are looked upon with a kind of contempt—are looked upon as simpletons, with nothing to do but stalk around with red guide-books, and poke about old ruins.