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25, 1863.] population, and there is a general sense of it, from the beautiful white and pink complexions and blue eyes which perpetually attract us; but in Italy there is, as it were, a concentration of beauty in one favoured individual. Out of a mass of swarthy skins, dull hair, and dead black eyes, one human being steps forward with all the dark transformed into light, with features clearly cut as a statue’s, and with an amber glory shining through the bronze cheek which transfigures that kind of skin into the rarest and most attractive beauty. So she stood, with her braided hair shining in the sun, as her noble head was bent to look down on us!

We did not atop at Colle, but went on, casting many a lingering look back at its beauty, as it uplifted itself so loftily, with its modest tributary at its feet, and the green sweep of its trees drooping downwards to the water below.

About noon we arrived at San Gimignano. The country is much wilder, after Colle, and the ascent is continuous. Long before we reached it, we could see its strange-looking towers far off in the sunshine, with a billowy sea of plains and valleys around them.

At last we rattled in under the gateway, and had no difficulty in finding the hotel (there is but one), but had some difficulty in entering it. The porch was filled with sacks of grain, heaps of pine cones and yellow maize were piled in dark corners, and the refuse of numerous vegetable carts covered the ground. A way was cleared for us at last, and we ascended a flight of broad, steep, broken stairs, passed a kitchen, ascended still higher, and at last came to an ante-room with different doors, one of which opened into a gaunt-looking dining-room. In this room were two tables, with coarse but clean table-cloths on them, a few glasses and plates. We ordered luncheon, and went out to fulfil our sightseeing duties.

Few towns have a stranger appearance than this of San Gimignano. The humble, mediocre, mediaeval appearance of the houses, and the bare, rude, yet lofty towers that rise from them, look so incongruous as to be almost ludicrous. But the men of Gimignano were very proud of their town lying so high above the sunny plains of Tuscany, and looking down on so many cities, and they were pleased, in their simplicity, to give it this Cybele crown. There are thirteen towers still standing; in the sixteenth century there were twenty-five. They are all built of brick, with an internal winding stair, and were never allowed to exceed a certain height. The little piazza, with its duomo and sala, on the left hand of the hotel, seemed to us very dreary; but this is the description given by a San Gimignanese of his native town, and it is but fair to quote it: “Both Nature and Art combined in the happy days of San Gimignano (happy days which were the reward of the industry and magnanimity (?) of its inhabitants) to render it a very jewel, as Ciaccheri, in his chronicle, calls it; while its beautiful climate, fertile soil, and picturesque position entitled it to the name it also bore, ‘Castello florido,’ the Village of Flowers.”

The contrast of that past with this present is very melancholy. The shops were all closed, for it was the Feast of St. Michael. On the bench in front of the cafe two soldiers and a few men were lounging, smoking, and spelling the Nazione. They were discussing loudly the merits of “Galibardi,” as the people call him. There was a greengrocer’s stall opposite, and we saw our hostess purchasing provisions for our future meal, and touching and selecting most suspicious-looking vegetables. In the distance a burly man was striding on, followed by a small boy carrying an easel, towards the most picturesque tower; but besides these, no one else was to be seen in the deserted and forlorn piazza.

We entered the church: it was very old, and its adornments were very rude. It is built in the form of the Latin Cross, and the walls and arches are covered with dilapidated frescoes. The names of the painters are said to be Taddeo Bartolo and Benozzo Gozzoli. On each side of the nave the subjects of these frescoes are from the Old and New Testament. But they are almost effaced, and could never have been very good. One panel, however, struck me. It was the raising of Lazarus. Our Saviour is seen standing in a majestic attitude; he has just spoken the words “Lazarus, come forth,” and His hand is raised with a commanding gesture. His disciples are crowded behind Him in attitudes which express awe and fear. The door of the sepulchre is open, and the upright figure of Lazarus, though still swathed by his grave-clothes, is standing within, as if evoked at once by the will of God. Rudely designed, and worse coloured, there is yet great power and vigour in the figure of our Lord.

While the mass was being performed, we went into the sacristy and saw the “Annunciation,” attributed by some to Ghirlandajo. If really his, it is not worthy of him. After mass we were shown the chapel, which contains his two frescoes. These are beautiful. “Santa Fina favoured while on her death-bed with a vision of St. Gregory, who announces to her the moment of her dissolution,” is the subject of the first. “Santa Fina borne in triumph after death through the streets of San Gimignano,” is the subject of the second.

Santa Fina looks a girl of about fifteen; her fair hair is parted, and hangs down on each side of her face. She is lying on a narrow plank of wood, cross-shaped, on the ground, and two women are sitting beside her. Her soft rapt eyes gaze upwards, and she is evidently lost to all but the vision vouchsafed to her. The room is barely furnished. On the table is a cruet with oil, and a pomegranate cut in half on a plate, mystic and yet natural accessories. The women are in the dress of the period. There is nothing in these figures but the most ordinary portraiture of real life, and yet what a touching, beautiful picture it is. The dying girl is so young, has such a saint-like patience impressed on her childlike brow and composed mouth, that the tenderest pity is mingled with our admiration.

In the other fresco there is the same girlish sweetness, but hushed to solemn peace: the bright eyes are closed, the gentle hands clasped, and “umile in tanta gloria” she lies unheeding all the