wandering with her Medora, might have carved his name on every tree. Here Circe might have decoyed her victims under the luxuriant shade; here Armida might have led Rinaldo beside the murmuring stream, where the air, perfumed with the herbs and flowers that spring spontaneously under the chequered shade, would have lapped every sense in voluptuous repose. Would that time, that never-failing destroyer of all human bliss, would have allowed our passing the long day in this terrestrial paradise. But we had far to go, and the count reminded us that we must not linger in what to me seemed a scene of enchantment, but hasten to see the remainder of the grounds, on which immense sums of money had been lavished by the Torrigiani family.

It

The part to which he conducted us was a garden, excavated at least twenty or thirty feet below the level of the ground, the surrounding walls concealed by trees and creepers, surmounted by massive stone balustrades, reached by double flights of steps, descending among the flowers and blossoming shrubs filling the space below. At one end, in a deep recess, flanked by walls mosaicked with various-coloured stones, containing niches with statues and busts, was formed a temple dedicated to Neptune, corporeally represented by a gigantic statue-a green and grassy-looking shrine, strewed with shells and coral, to represent deep ocean's caves. was only scantily lighted, but one could distinguish a fountain and basin in the centre, the circular walls being surrounded by colossal statues of Tritons and sea-gods, looking most marine in the odd green and blue light thrown upon them. This temple was surmounted on the outside by a large stone jet d'eau, consisting of various basins, resting on dolphins, mermaids, and sea monsters; on the opposite side of the garden were also smaller temples, with statues and fountains. Unconsciously we had descended into the territory of Neptune, and we did not visit his domains for nothing, as we discovered to our cost, for while standing most innocently admiring the deep seclusion and coolness of this charming marine temple, a sudden deluge of water poured down on us from all sides. In an instant every flower and tree sent forth volumes of spray; above, below, around, water streamed down; even the spiteful stones spouted up in all directions; the very statues were a deception, and exhaled heavy showers; and as to the temple, it poured forth such streams and torrents from the central fountain and all the malicious Tritons around, that it looked like a mass of liquid fireworks playing in the sunshine, and sent us scudding to the other end of the garden. But here we fared no better; the steps by which we had descended sent perfect torrents over us, pouring out from every step; the temple on that side contributed other watery streams, and the treacherous flowers, not to be behindhand, squirted out as if by magic their quota to the general deluge. After rushing about, and laughing and screaming for some moments in perfect bewilderment, watched by the count and the gardener, who, sheltering themselves in a dry corner, enjoyed our surprise and confusion, we implored a truce, as we really were almost wet through. In an instant the gardener touched a spring, and the confusion ceased as suddenly as it had begun. I was charmed by the curious and novel contrivance of this aquatic garden. The means employed to create all this hubbub I found consist in small rows of almost invisible leaden apertures laid under the steps and the statues, and along the sides of the walks-even in the very

walls. The whole garden was a regular cheat, and could in a moment be converted into a lake. As to the temple, it was a complete fountain, so crossed and recrossed by streams in all directions that one could distinguish nothing but a cloud of mist and spray.

These clever scherzi, or tricks, are extremely admired in Italy, where in so hot a climate an agreeable shower-bath administered by flowers, and sea-gods, and water nymphs, amidst the cool shades of a blooming garden, is a most agreeable luxury. Moreover, this enchanted water-garden is in itself a lovely spot; the flowers look all so fresh and beautiful, and the marine temples so cool and refreshing, that Armida herself could have devised nothing more enchanting in those dangerous regions that nearly proved fatal to the virtue of Rinaldo. I scolded the count for his treachery, but he declared it was the fault of the gardener, who had bound him over to secrecy. However, we all agreed in the absolute necessity of awaking Baldassare, and giving him a good ducking for the benefit of his health, as nothing could be desired more beneficial for dissipating "the spleen" than such a remedy.

The count ran off, and soon brought him down the steps, rubbing his eyes and looking only half awake. We told him we had sent for him to admire this garden, so cool and delightful in the heat, and the temple of Neptune, which we gradually approached. The young gentleman, in a very bad humour at being woke up, declared that he saw "nothing in it"-che era annoiato e stanchissimo-and desired to know perchè diavolo he had been disturbed. "O fie!" said the count, " vergogna! What, come out with ladies and go to sleep! Vergogna, te dico, Baldassare!" But before he could reply, such a deluge descended over him, that for a moment, like the sea-gods in the marine temple, he was invisible. He roared, and cried, and swore, and rushed to and fro perfectly furious with passion; but in vain, for wherever he turned fresh streams saluted him. At last he made for the steps, which were one mass of waterworks rising twenty feet high; but regardless of this impediment he charged them, and bounding up, was at length released, and stood shaking himself at the top like a great Newfoundland dog. At first he was so sulky he would scarcely speak, and declared he would walk back to Lucca and not stay there to be made a fool of; but by degrees, considering the distance, he came round, and gradually recovered his temper. He knew it would do him no good to quarrel with M., by whose assistance he hoped to mount still higher in the realms of fashion to which he aspired; so finally the damp and much injured "Sir Plume" condescended to remount with us into the carriage, and proceed along the great high road to Tescia on our way towards Collodi.

This road is extremely beautiful, passing through a rich plain under smiling hills running parallel to its course, covered with towns, villages, and villas, increasing in number as Florence and its fertile campagna is approached. The colouring of an Italian sunset is indescribable;-how then can the pen do justice to its varying charms, those marvellous tints, radiant as the gorgeous rainbow? The setting sun, "melted to one vast iris of the west," tinged every mountain-top with its descending fire, while myriads of little fleecy clouds, tinted with purple and red, floated by like spirits from another world bound on some heavenly message. fiery city seemed to rise out of the piled-up masses into which the sun

A

descended-huge domes, lofty spires, and terraced towers, all fiery, burning, glistening, as the transparent walls of the fearful city of Dita to Dante's gaze; sullen masses of reddish clouds were tossed behind, forming a mighty background tipped with burnished gold-fierce volcanoes, as it were, running over with fiery lava. And now the great burning globe sinks to rest, scorching the woods and hills as it descends, and a change, a very spell, steals rapidly over the glorious scene, the fancied city of living light fades away, the shadowy mountains blacken and vanish by degrees, no longer fierce burning fire seethes the wilderness of heaven-nothing remains but a pale-blue expanse broken by leaden, shapeless clouds, darkening into night as they roll sadly by towards the distant mountain-tops.

Had I been born a painter and imaged that scene as I saw it, Saxons from the cold north would have called me mad.

The Villa Garzoni, belonging to a marchese of the same name, was to conclude our day's pilgrimage among the beautiful palaces of Lucca. The father of the present proprietor, an eccentric old man, died some years ago immensely rich, and the property came, as was supposed, to his two daughters, who were to divide it between them. Already had the ladies arrived at the house, and were beginning to divide the furniture and pictures, when a carriage drove to the door, and a cameriere entered, looking aghast with terror, announcing the arrival of the Marchesa Garzoni and her son, come, as he informed them, to take possession of the palace. The two sisters declared the man was mad, as they had never heard a hint of their father's second marriage, or the subsequent birth of an heir destined to disinherit them. They stoutly denied admission to the intruders, whom they ridiculed as impostors, and although in reality in a desperate fright, kept up a show of resistance. The marchesa and her son drove away, leaving word, like the advertisements, that she would soon be heard of. A lawsuit was immediately instituted, when the lady, fully proving the legitimacy of her marriage and the subsequent birth of a son, the sisters were ousted and the stranger-lady and her progeny duly installed, to the unqualified despair of the sisters, who would gladly have poisoned them both. The mystery was explained when it became known that the marchese in his old age had treated himself to the society of a danseuse, which fascinating article had so won his affections that she finally persuaded him to marry her; but ashamed to exhibit his weakness before the world, the ceremony was privately performed by the family priest in the chapel of the villa. The lady led a life of extreme seclusion until his death, when she first emerged as the unwelcome apparition I have described. So much for the story, and now for the villa, unless my readers are more tired than I was in visiting them, for as each succeeding residence increased in splendour, so in proportion increased my anticipations as we successively approached them.

The Villa Garzoni stands on a very elevated situation at one side of a hill towering over the small town of Collodi, which lies on the slope below. The whole face of the hill, which is very steep, and perhaps two hundred feet in height, is laid out in magnificent terraced gardens, terminating in a wood of ilex, and bay-trees crowning the summit of the Sept.-VOL. CXI. NO. CCCCXLI.

heights. Splendid as is this domain, the "St. Cloud" of Northern Italy, and much resembling in the accidents of situation those beautiful grounds, still I confess I prefer the more natural, unartificial beauties of the Villa Torrigiani. There is a stiffness about these gardens, in the French style, with their eternal statues, and grottos, and grandes eaux, and trim flower-beds, reminding one of a frontispiece to one of Molière's comedies, which, however magnificent, soon becomes monotonous, and makes one long for nature; but certainly the first coup d'œil of this majestic terraced height is very grand. At the foot of the hill the level ground is laid out with flowers, and ornamented with two immense jets d'eau, or what the Italians call vaschi, rising higher than any I had yet seen, and falling back into marble basins as large as small lakes. Each terrace, of which there may be eight or nine before the summit is reached, is ascended by magnificent flights of steps, and variously ornamented-some with stone balustrades and niches opposite containing statues, others trellised with creepers, while vases of orange and lemontrees border the rest. On the topmost summit, standing "proud as Apollo on his forked hill," is a colossal figure of Fame blowing a trumpet, from whose feet descends a perfect river, broad and rapid, rushing down the face of the hill, disposed over stone steps in a succession of cascades, fountains, and devices, terminating with a marine grotto, and various water-traps set in the steps and balustrades similar to those I have already described. When the trumpet held by Fame discharges its huge streams into the air, and the mass of water rushes down the hill, now foaming and bounding over the artificial impediments cast in its way, or majestically rolling over the double row of steps, and the grotto spouts forth a sea of spray, and the two immense fountains below send up their pillars of crystal high in air, it is a superb sight, quite worthy of the genius of the architect, Le Nôtre, who ever loved to convert nature into

Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grottesco roofs, and stucco floors.

We were received with great distinction, and treated to a display of the grandes eaux, as Count M. knew the gardener, having been often at Collodi at the time of the war in 1848, when he strongly advocated the popular side, and as with his enthusiastic nature he could not take up any opinion coldly, he went about haranguing the people here and elsewhere, his fervid orations often producing great effect. At this place he was particularly popular, being known as the Red Count. He pointed out to us a large overhanging tree near the entrance of the grounds which served as his rostrum when addressing the populace. It is wonderful that he was not compromised and exiled; indeed, he heard that his name had been included in some of the fatal lists, and was advised to fly, but the grand duke almost immediately granting a general pardon, he was no longer in danger. The gardener saluted him by the name of the "Conte Republicano," and delighted to do him honour. We wandered through the terraces, admiring the splendid scene and the beautiful view over the plains, where the illuminated clouds still lingered. In one part was a theatre of shrubs, resembling that of Marlia, but not so well

As

executed; however, the count was at once fired with poetic ardour, rushed on the grassy stage, and began singing, reciting, and improvising for our amusement with his usual facility, insisting on my helping him. I refused. But the count, noways daunted, had already commenced a grand extempore oration alone, when Baldassare, who was shaking and shivering below, contrived to stop him and pull him down from the too exciting elevation. Then there was a labyrinth in a valley below the house (down which rushed a real, unadulterated mountain stream), formed of ivy, and very pretty. Here, of course, the count again started off, and would have been lost in a very few moments had not Baldassare extricated him and led him back to us drenched with wet from some water-traps laid round a most innocent-looking fountain in the centre. We now seriously turned our faces towards Lucca, the horses scampering along the bowl. ing road as if they were quite aware they had turned homewards. we drove along, the count confided to me his domestic griefs. "He was not happy," he said; "the countess did not understand him." (No wonder, poor lady, thought I.) "It was a case of Byron and his wife over again," he said; "an excellent person, but cold and unimpassioned; no sympathy for his poetic tastes, and no conception of what affected him, who lived more in the imaginative than the real." To all this I listened coldly. Since I have been in Italy, I have heard the same story so often, I never have found a husband contented with his wife; there is always that "certain something unpossessed." I really begin to doubt that such a thing as matrimonial happiness exists among the Italians. The count poured out his griefs in eloquent periods-declared he adored his children, who alone reconciled him to his home-that they were to him guardian angels-angelic spirits-shielding him from the sin and temptations his widowed heart might otherwise fall into. Once launched on a theme, there was no stopping him, and we had reached the gate of Lucca before he had done. Now, on the eve of separation, he was filled with grief at losing our society; declared he must come and see us once more at the Baths, and entreated me when I came to F him to present me to the contessa-ottima persona, ma the Universo, we rapidly collected our boxes, and bidding adieu to the delightful count and Baldassare (who all the way back had been hopelessly resigned to Morpheus), and leaving many kind messages for the good cavaliere, we started. The old gates of charming, busy Lucca closed upon us, and we reached our mountain house of the Bagni at about mezzanotte.

to allow Arrived at