Sucks books

Nothing, save an
Oriental or Italian city on the sea-coast, can present a more
beautiful picture. The hills are tossed about so softly, the sunshine
comes down in its golden shower so voluptuously, the yellow Arno moves
along its channel so noiselessly, the chains of villages, villas,
convents, and palaces are strung together with such a profuse and
careless grace, wreathing themselves from hill to hill, and around
every coigne of vantage, the forests of olive and the festoons of vine
are so poetical and suggestive, that we wonder not that civilized man
has found this an attractive abode for twenty-five centuries.
Florence is stone dead. 'Tis but a polished tortoise-shell, of which
the living inhabitant has long since crumbled to dust; but it still
gleams in the sun with wondrous radiance.
Just at your feet, as you stand on the convent terrace, is the Villa
Mozzi, where, not long ago, were found buried jars of Roman coins of
the republican era, hidden there by Catiline, at the epoch of his
memorable conspiracy.


Pages:
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42