E VERY year Italy is thronged with thousands of travellers who are thoroughly familiar with the larger cities of Tuscany: Florence, Lucca, Siena, and Leghorn are crowded with visitors, while Florence has practically become the Italian home of English and American wanderers; they not only fill hotels, pensions, and apartments, but occupy many of the villas on neighbouring hillsides. Fiesole's terraces are converted into tea-gardens, and resound with Anglo-Saxon chaffer for straw fans and baskets. San Miniato, with its incomparable view of the city, also caters to the universal cry for "the cup that cheers," which outrivals in popularity the noble old Tuscan-Romanesque church hard by. Trim Americans are met at every turn; Settignano, Bello-Sguardo, Marignano, Badia a Settimo, and the rest, are frequent haunts; and the padrona of the vine-covered terrace at Majano, where stone-cutters are wont to sit about rude stone tables and drink their wine, has learned the "afternoon tea" secret for the gentili forestieri, who walk out from Florence to enjoy the charming view. Convenient tram lines run to the more distant and choicest places, and whoever demands more retired ways may board one of those nondescript vehicles, by courtesy called "diligence," which are seen on every country road leading from Florence, making their way through pretty valleys and hill towns. The Tuscan diligence is an institution in its way, though not always inviting in appearance; usually covered with dust, its brown canvas curtains strapped down, excluding all air and views, and "full up" to bursting with all sorts and conditions of humanity and luggage. However, one is always sure of the most respectful and obliging driver, smiling and kindly travelling companions, and no end of interesting chat and story at the cost of a few centesimi. Thus the country distant from the usual railway lines is every year becoming more and more familiar and appreciated, although there are still many delightful "untrodden ways" known but to the few, who are good pedestrians or devoted lovers of nature and "dear country places." Follow up any of the Tuscan rivers—through the Val d'Ema, Val di Pesa, Val d'Elsa, or the valleys of the Mugnone, Sieve, Bisenzio, and Ombrone, every one an affluent of the Arno—and you will find a pathway of delight, a real progress through a world of exquisite colour, form, and fragrance. Yet it is not easy to turn away from Florence and wander off in pastures new; like a siren, she holds us in willing thraldom by the infinite variety of charms so potent that all the world beyond her warm, grey walls becomes vague and unreal.

But suddenly, on a crisp spring morning, a quick turn from a narrow street gives us a vision of the hills, olive-grey, brown, and purple—hills with the Apennine heights beyond. The spell is broken, our hearts burn for the "spring running," and, as in old Chaucer's day, "Then longen folk to go on pilgrimage." We have the old poet's authority that England's Spring came in April, but to us in Tuscany this year she appeared by the middle of January, and has never for a day turned her face, coming safely through the "ides of March," even to the end of April in almost continuous sunshine and ever-increasing bloom. Blackthorn, almond, and fruit trees, daisies and daffodils, violets and roses, rival each other in bewildering loveliness wherever the eye may turn; out of city gates the paths lie luringly open to hillsides clad with ilex and magnolia, to hidden valleys, and the snow-clad Apennines beyond Vallombrosa.

We yearn for unbroken space with no dome but the blue above, no tower but the stately cypress; our resolution is quickly taken to climb out of Val d'Arno, and slip over yonder delectable heights into the Mugello. Diligence and tram are too slow for our patience; therefore, at the easy hour of nine, on a clear, sunny morning, we leave the city by the Florence and Faenza railway, run through the pretty valley of the Mugnone, pass the stone-quarries close under the northern flank of steep Fiesole, discover a world of beauty unknown to us before, dash in and out of tunnels, catching flying glimpses of a broken countryside, grey-walled towns, and bosky slopes; thus pushing northward for half a dozen miles, where the line loops back toward the south, and gives us once more, and from a greater height, the charming view of Fiesole's northern slope. Now the railroad rises rapidly by well-built viaducts, galleries, and tunnels to Vaglia, only nine miles from Florence, as the crow flies, then passes swiftly over the ridge which separates the valleys of the Arno and Mugnone from the Mugello region.

There are no more views of populous Fiesole; we are in a new world, over which Mr. Ruskin feels justified in making lament. After expanding with his customary word-painting upon the view from Fiesole over Val d'Arno, he continues thus: "The traveller passes the Fiesolan ridge, and all is changed. The country is on a sudden lonely. Here and there, indeed, are scattered houses of a farm grouped gracefully upon the hillsides; here and there the fragment of a tower upon a distant rock; but neither gardens nor flowers nor glittering palaces exist." To us, however, the scene is charming; the still distant valley spreads out broad and fertile to the sun, well-watered by the Sieve and its many tributaries, or torrenti, all of which hasten to lose themselves later in the Arno, just within the western boundary of the Casentino. Surrounding the happy valley rises a cordon of mountains belonging to the Central Apennine range—among them Monte Giove, 3,255 feet above sea-level, and Monte Morello, 3,065 feet. The latter peak is clearly seen from Florence, and in its varied moods is regarded as a natural weather bureau by the people, who are fond of repeating the old saying, "Take your umbrella when Monte Morello puts on his cap."

Descending the narrow pass of Carza, the train reaches Piero a Sieve, where we leave it to pursue its way through a most picturesque country, over the mountains to Faenza, while we explore the quaint little hamlet of Piero a Sieve, which clings by grey walls and terraces to the side of a steep hill, crowning which are the massive fortifications of San Martino. We climb to the fortress, take a snap-shot at one of the loggias, where the group of ever-busy women in bright skirts and kerchiefs would make a delightful picture in water-colour, have a look at the parish church, with its so-called Della Robbia font, and then proceed on our way to Scarperia, three miles to the northwest, which is our destination.

After judicious bargaining at the station with drivers of a varied assortment of country vehicles, we are cleverly packed into two small, rattling, rather clumsy but very comfortable carts, one drawn by a phenomenally brisk donkey, and away we bowl toward the towers of Scarperia. Somehow the sunshine and exhilarating air incites us into rebellion against Mr. Ruskin's opinion that the scene is "only a grey extent of mountain ground, tufted irregularly with ilex and olive, a scene not sublime, for its forms are subdued and low; not desolate, for its valleys are full of sown fields and tended pastures; not rich nor lovely, but sunburnt and sorrowful."

For us a golden touch is laid on everything; we love the plain of olive orchards and vineyards and peaceful fields; the large, white, violet-eyed Tuscan oxen driven by kindly faced peasants; even the donkey is a nonesuch, and we wax poetic over the greenest of green patches of grain in vineyards, the rows of lopped elm-trees married to the vines, which are festooned from trunk to trunk. Along the way we meet the country doctor, riding madly in his cart drawn by a quick-stepping pony. Another Dr. Antonio, we say, ready in case of accident to invent and furnish us anything from bathing-machines and coffee-pots, instruction in botany and art, to a serenade, or making butter to accompany the good bread of Scarperia, unbaked loaves of which we see carried into the town on a long board over a man's shoulder.

But now we are rattling up the main street of Scarperia, the donkey trying his best to get ahead, and it is high time to speak like a guide-book, though no account we have found condescends to give the population of the place, which is the way every well-regulated book should begin. Murray's description is summed up in half a dozen lines, as follows: "Scarperia was built in 1306 by the Commune of Florence to curb the pride of the Ubaldini and other rebels of the Mugello. The parish church has some fine cloisters. In the Palazzo Vecchio there are interesting frescoes. There is a large industry of scissors." This is all.

We hasten to buy scissors, also the ubiquitous postal card, visit the cloisters, which are really good, and then hang about the old Palazzo, which would alone make the town interesting. Its tower, or campanile, is remarkably fine, simpler and a thought more serious, perhaps, but hardly less beautiful, than its more famous sister of the Palazzo Vecchio, Florence; and the good people of Scarperia proudly declare that it was at least designed by the same master hand—that of Arnolfo di Cambio. It rises gracefully as a lily on its grey stalk, dominating the clustering red roofs below and peering at us over the cloister roof, as if to say, "We belonged together in those stirring mediÆval days when municipal life had two centres: the Palazzo Pubblico and the Duomo—Civil Government and the Church." The faÇade of the old palace is a mad eruption of various coats of arms, or stemmi, carved in stone or formed in reliefs of glazed terra-cotta, and no less than fourteen of these are products of the Della Robbia atelier, bearing the devices of great families of Tuscany; and here, if we were wise in heraldry, might the whole history of the Mugello be set forth as it transpired in those adventurous days before its rebels had been curbed! Prominent and oft-repeated among these stemmi is the Medici shield emblazoned with its balls, or pills, suggesting the traditional origin of that famous house and proud device. The story runs that, when Charlemagne made his historic descent upon Italy, among his followers was a certain brave and noble knight named AvÉrard Medici, who, amid the Apennines, encountered and challenged to mortal combat a mighty giant called Mugello, who ruled with a high and cruel hand all this portion of Italy. After a long and furious battle the giant was done to death, and AvÉrard, as victor, took possession, not only of his arms and personal goods, but all the lands under his sway—that is, the territory bearing his name to this day. What is more, the six dents on AvÉrard's golden buckler, which had been made by the furious blows of Mugello's iron-spiked club, became the Medici device. There is historical evidence that an early Medici settled in this region and possessed great estates and castles, to which he very shrewdly retired whenever his enemies in Florence became too troublesome. There is also proof that while Cosimo, "father of his country," beautified Florence with noble villas, palaces, and churches, he did not neglect the cradle of his race, but built in the Mugello the two convents of the Bosco and of St. Francis.

We enter the old palace through a stately atrium, or vestibule; the walls are covered with coats of arms and faded frescoes, and beyond is a pleasant little court open to the sky, but serving the municipality to-day no further than as a chicken enclosure. Then we ascend the broad stone stairway to the municipal offices; the faded frescoes of Our Lady and saints in the anteroom are doubtless good, and deserve more attention than we give them; but our eyes are enthralled by the superb view from the window of the river-laced plain and encircling mountains.

After lunch at the modest albergo, where kindly faces and willing service more than compensate for an indifferent cuisine, we set forth for a long drive of exploration through the Mugello. Our carriage, "the calash," is apparently an institution of Scarperia, and is such a pleasant surprise that we heartily commend it to all fellow travellers. It is a rather light, well-hung, smart-looking vehicle, something between a victoria and landau in shape, with comfortable seats which easily accommodate our party of five. It is drawn by a pair of glossy chestnut roadsters unvexed by checking-straps or throat-chains, and stepping off freely at a brisk, even trot, which they maintain steadily during the entire drive of thirty miles. Our handsome young driver is in keeping with his equipage—kind and skilful with his horses, and courteous in answering our many questions. Thus we drive all the sunny afternoon through the fertile and well-tilled valley, over the best of roads, passing comfortable farm-houses, orchards, and vineyards, where the peasants are busy trimming and tying the vines or turning the earth with awkward, primitive spades. We cross and recross the river Sieve over picturesque stone bridges half hidden by birches and elms.

Our first halt is at Borgo San Lorenzo, chief town, or capital, of the Mugello, situated on the Sieve, also on the direct railway line to Faenza, and containing about three thousand inhabitants. While lacking, one cannot tell why, the charm of Scarperia, the town has its attractions, notably two noble and well-preserved gateways, several towers, and many a cluster of rich-coloured, irregular roofs. Especially interesting is the lofty Antico Campanile della Pieve—a battered veteran keeping its time-honoured watch and ward over the Sieve valley, its sides showing many a scar and patch, and its simple, conical roof, like an old cap pulled low over its sleepless eyes.

We enter the town through the fifteenth century gateway, its battered watch-tower speaking volumes of that olden time when Mugello's rebels worked their stark will along these narrow thoroughfares. The substantial, old Palazzo del PodestÀ, minus a tower, looks somewhat meekly forth on its ancient square, or piazza, as it has done for centuries. Its faÇade is hung thick with the shields of turbulent lords, ten of whom called on the Della Robbia art to set forth their emblems here, also to fashion glazed terra-cotta Madonnas for the churches of St. Catherine and St. Stephen, hard by.

We can stop but a few moments at Borgo San Lorenzo, and soon drive on, past a little shrine at the street corner and under the battlemented tower called Torraccia Romanelli, to our country roads once more. Outside the walls the country assumes a more broken and hilly appearance, fewer cultivated fields, and more pasture where a few sheep graze; irregular farm-houses of rough, grey stone, with loggias and sloping roofs of red tiles, set amidst scattering trees, many of them cypress, dark and rusty as an outworn mourning coat. The accompanying picture shows a representative house of the country, and we are told that this one had its little romance and love's young dream. It is a wrinkled old woman you see trudging down the hillside to fill her copper bucket at the stream; but in yonder corner loggia is a sparkling-eyed young contadina, some pretty Tessa, who as she spins her flax is thinking of a handsome and dashing young Florentine who often finds his way to the farm-house, which belongs to his uncle's country villa hard by. A bit farther on we reach the pretty double-arched bridge Ponte d'Elsa, the very one, our driver says, where Cimabue met the shepherd boy Giotto; and here too, nibbling the scanty grass along the roadside, are surely the descendants of Giotto's sheep, even the new-born lamb looking quite mediÆval.

The hill of Vespignano, Giotto's birthplace, is much too steep for the chestnuts and calash; moreover, we are only too glad of an excuse for walking up the pretty path cut into the hillside, bordered by trees hung with ivy, and leading to a serried rank of young cypresses, ranged together like a black watch on the crest of the hill, as if to guard the modest stone building, which tradition says is the very house where the artist Giotto was born. Even for a shepherd's dwelling, the house is small and uninteresting, which naturally flings a suspicion over its verity; nevertheless, the spirit which actuates the preservation of all historical sites and relics by the Italian government cannot be too highly commended. The house is converted into a meagre museum, and kept in good order on estates at present belonging to the Villa Capriani-Cateni, the various buildings of which cover the crest of a considerable height and possess a noble outlook into the near hills, which are now taking on a hazy blue mystery in the afternoon light. A large portion of the villa is of modern architecture, plain and dignified, but the massive, square battlemented tower at one corner is of quite an early date, perhaps the thirteenth century, while not far away is the ruined prison-house of ruddy grey stones and brickwork, with a picturesque round tower, presumably of a still earlier time, and reminding one of the ancient towers still found in parts of Ireland. The whole pile speaks eloquently of a long residence on this hilltop of a people whose wants were few, their tastes stern and simple as the mighty Apennines which encircled them. A fine-looking old man is weaving an osier basket as he sits on the terrace in the shadow of the old tower. He answers all our questions with quiet courtesy; but upon our offering him a fee, as we have learned is generally expected, it is gently but firmly declined, and we walk away somewhat abashed, thinking of the varied influences which surrounded young Giotto amid such pastoral scenes and such kindly, self-respecting people. He certainly must have carried much of the experience and knowledge of his shepherd life into his art.

In the Arena Chapel, Padua, one of the finest of the frescoes is that of Joachim returning to the sheepfold, where Giotto shows his intimate knowledge of a shepherd's surroundings and animal forms, but particularly of the characteristics of sheep, giving to each one an individuality which only a close observer could have done. There is the same quality in one of the sculptures on his tower in Florence, where the puppy, with an absurd expression of anxious responsibility, is guarding the sheep.

As the shadows lengthen and the mountains are gleaming in purple and gold, we return to Scarperia for the night, and enjoy such sleep in the clean, coarse, homespun linen on our beds, as only a day in the brisk open air can give.

The morrow is Sunday, and the old Piazza, between church and palace, is filled with the people coming and going to mass, and to chaffer with the pedlar displaying his wares on a little cart, consisting of a slender stock of kerchiefs, stuffs, bright toys, and various homely utensils, which he cries as lustily as another Autolycus:

Both men and women have good faces, with that kindly responsive and patient expression characteristic of the Italian peasants; they are interested in everything, particularly in the forestieri, who in their turn enjoy the groups of women and children in gay kerchiefs and gowns, making a pretty picture in the old grey square. We walk through the narrow streets, sit on the city walls which still partially surround the town, and look down on the pretty road overhung with trees, where the trailing-footed, white oxen slowly come and go, placid and restful.

We follow the contadini out of the old city gate on the road to St. Agatha's Church, lying between vineyards where the young grain is now pushing its green spears through the brown earth—for spring is later here than in Val d'Arno—and olive orchards, where clouds of silver-grey leaves quiver and shine in the light.

Taking another road, we saunter on a mile or so to the Villa Tolomei, belonging to an old Tuscan family, whose arms are a gold band with three green vine leaves on a blue field, and above a red label with the three gold lilies of Anjou. The grounds are pleasant, though somewhat neglected, but the prospect looking toward the mountains is entrancing; and the walk back toward Scarperia gives us a continual view of the fine campanile. By this time all the rebel blood of the Mugello is burning in our veins, and we demand a drive back to Florence; no railroads and tunnels for us if we must leave these "dear country places." We long to push eastward, only three paltry miles away, up to the very crests of the Apennines, where all the rivers hasten joyfully to the Adriatic. But not to-day may we follow fancy's lead eastward along curving Ronco's flowing stream, but again, with chestnuts and calash, are constrained to hold our way along the river bank, returning over the road to Piero a Sieve—was it only yesterday that we first knew it?—and strike at once into the famous old highway leading from Bologna to Florence, as it has done almost since the beginning of the Christian era. What a thoroughfare it has been! What mighty personages have trod this path with high hopes, burning spirits, and breaking hearts!

What hordes of barbarians and armies of haughty kings have swept this way; what great pageants and devout pilgrimages! We remember that one of Gian Galeazzo, Duke of Milan in 1471, when, accompanied by his wife, Bona of Savoy, in accomplishment of a vow, he made a pilgrimage to Florence in unparalleled splendour. There were twelve palanquins of cloth of gold borne on the backs of mules over the Apennines, preceded by fifty palfreys for the Duchess and her ladies when they preferred the saddle; fifty horses for the Duke and his gentlemen; five hundred foot-soldiers, one hundred mounted men-at-arms; fifty body-servants in livery of silk and silver, fifty huntsmen holding dogs in leash, fifty with falcon on wrist, each bird valued at two hundred golden florins, etc., etc. With all this pomp the train descended into the Val d'Arno, proceeded to Florence, and were received at the Medici palace in Via Larga, now the Cavour. When we reach Vaglia, again we struggle with the temptation to turn aside for the delightful walk of five miles to Bivigliano and find the Della Robbia Madonna and Saints (from the atelier) at the parish church of St. Romola, thence a mile farther to the foot of Monte Senario, 2,700 feet high, which overlooks us all the way. But we hold to our course, and after a few miles and a stiff walk of half an hour we mount to Pratolino, 1,512 feet, the highest point we touch, lying just below Monte Senario, and commanding an extensive view on every side. Near the village is the celebrated Villa of Pratolino, built originally in 1570 by Duke Francesco de' Medici for the reception of his wife, the beautiful and notorious Bianca Cappello. It was surrounded by noble gardens and terraces, and because of its superb situation became the favorite residence of the luxury-loving Duchess. The property is now owned by the Prince Demidoff, but nothing remains of the original villa except a colossal crouching figure, personifying the Apennines, which is ascribed to John of Bologna.

Our Mugello excursion is over; we are slipping through the Mugnone and down into Val d'Arno. First Fiesole welcomes us; then the dear, familiar towers of Florence, the fairest city in the world; only a poet can convey the charm of this exquisite scene. "Few travellers can forget," says Mr. Ruskin, "the peculiar landscape of this district of the Apennines. As they ascend the hill which rises from Florence to the lowest peak in the ridge of Fiesole they pass continually beneath the walls of villas bright in perfect luxury and beside cypress hedges inclosing fair terraced gardens, where masses of oleander and magnolia, motionless as leaves in a picture, inlay alternately upon the blue sky their branching lightness of pale-rose color and deep-green breadth of shade, studded with walls of gleaming silver; and shining at intervals through the framework of rich leaf and rubied flower the far-away bends of the Arno beneath its slopes of olive, and the purple peaks of the Carrara mountains tossing themselves against the western distance, where the streak of motionless clouds hover over the Pisan sea."