Italy from the Alps to Mount Etna . ant Adriatic. The task of playing cicerone through Ravenna should be undertaken not by a mereunlearned recounter of his travels, but by a profound student of ancient art; and thevisitor who really desires to see and understand her treasures, will find that he mustdevote himself very seriously to his aim. The whole neighbourhood of the town is fullof forlorn melancholy, and the town itself still suffers for the centuries during which shelay neglected and forgotten, apart from the great highways of traffic. But yet she haswonderful compensations—at least in th
Italy from the Alps to Mount Etna . ant Adriatic. The task of playing cicerone through Ravenna should be undertaken not by a mereunlearned recounter of his travels, but by a profound student of ancient art; and thevisitor who really desires to see and understand her treasures, will find that he mustdevote himself very seriously to his aim. The whole neighbourhood of the town is fullof forlorn melancholy, and the town itself still suffers for the centuries during which shelay neglected and forgotten, apart from the great highways of traffic. But yet she haswonderful compensations—at least in the eyes of an artist! Ravenna is a new tint in thewondrous picture,—a new chord in the wondrous concert—that we call Italy. Shefurnishes another proof of the inexhaustible artistic treasures of this land ; and therein wefind much consolation! For in taking leave of the gentle reader we are conscious of manyshort-comings, but then we say to ourselves, Who could be so mad as to undertake thetask of exhausting the Inexhaustible ?. 6 mof tUWMS FROM THE ARNO TO THE TIBER BY EDWARD PAULUS. X 2 mmsny of ih« FLORENCE. Mid deserts dimly through the mists descriedWe speed across the barren Apennine,Or, plunged deep down where never sunbeams shine,Pierce arrow-swift the mountains mighty we feel soft spring-like breezes blowing,Down from the sky that shimmers crystal clear,And at our feet there opens far and nearA wide green land where laurel groves are growing. Fair Florence, we salute thee mid thy bowersBeside the yellow Arnos storied stream,Thy wondrous marble dome that towers supreme,Thy stern old walls all garlanded with flowers,And, hid within the solemn cypress glade,Thy silver fountains whispering in the shade. FTER a somewhat gloomy journey through innumerable tunnels, and amidst thearid, bare, rocks of the inhospitable Apennine, we suddenly get a glimpse—whilst we are still high on the mountain—down into wide-spreading, verdantTuscany. Milder airs play aroun
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Keywords: ., bookauthorcavagnasangiulianidig, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870
