Lamia's winter-quarters . front ofone straight away to Florence, but sees nothingthere save, through the feathery foliage ofdistant poplars, the cupola of the Duomo, Giottoscampanile, and the Tower of the Palazzo , far beyond, are visible, on propitiousdays, the majestic peaks of the Carrara Mountains,and, a little farther towards the north, the snowysummits of the Apennines above Pistoia. It wasa place that fascinated us, and we returned to itagain and again. One evening, when the light waseven exceptionally beautiful, but the air a little chill,and we had therefore, for Lamias
Lamia's winter-quarters . front ofone straight away to Florence, but sees nothingthere save, through the feathery foliage ofdistant poplars, the cupola of the Duomo, Giottoscampanile, and the Tower of the Palazzo , far beyond, are visible, on propitiousdays, the majestic peaks of the Carrara Mountains,and, a little farther towards the north, the snowysummits of the Apennines above Pistoia. It wasa place that fascinated us, and we returned to itagain and again. One evening, when the light waseven exceptionally beautiful, but the air a little chill,and we had therefore, for Lamias sake, to curtailour enjoyment of it, I remember her exclaiming: O, do let us stay. Even if it were deadly, itwould be worth dying for. It may never be sobeautiful again. That expresses a feeling which, I think, oneoften has in Italy. It is the intense beauty ofcertain moments, certain views, certain sunsets,that makes one declare one never before has seenanything so lovely, and dread lest on such loveli- OUR TUSCAN GARDEN. LAMIAS WINTER-QUARTERS 139 ness one never more may gaze. A foolish fear ;ior to-morrow renews the radiance and raptures ofto-day. But the closing hours of the now lengtheningdays were always spent in the loggia, thegarden, or the podere of our Villa ; and Veronica,who, so English at home, was here the most Italianof us all, would, whenever the weather permitted,arrange for us to have our evening meal al fresco,in the society of the roses and the had, as you may suppose, picked up manya Tuscan stornello and canzone, and would singthem to us, to the accompaniment of her guitar ;and, between song and song, discourse would runon all the beauty and the wonders we had seenthat day. What is it, said Lamia, that, more thananything else, constitutes the charm of Italy } Anclentness, said the Poet, and an ancient-ness that never grows old. For Italy, notwith-standing its centuries of history, art, warfare,misfortune, remains perennially young. Moreth
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