Happy is the man, who, leaving the Alps behind him, has the plains of
Lombardy on his right hand and on his left, the Apennines in view, and
Florence as the city towards which he directs his steps. His way is
through a country where corn grows under groves of fruit trees, whose
tops are woven into green arcades by thickly-clustering garlands of
vines; the dark masses of foliage and verdure which every where appear,
melt insensibly, as he advances, into a succession of shady bowers that
invite him to their depths; the scenery is monotonous, and yet ever
various from the richness of its sylvan beauty, possessing all the
softness of forest glades without their gloom. Towards Bologna, the
landscape roughens into hills, which grow into Apennines, but Arcadia
still breathes from slopes and lawns of tender green, which take their
rise in the low stream-watered valleys, and extend up the steep ascent
till met midway by the lofty chestnut groves which pale them in. To
these gentler features succeeds the passage of the Apennines, which
here, at least, are not as the author of "Italy as it Is," describes
them, "the children of the Alps--smiling and gentle and happy as
children should be," but, as we remember them, their summits form
themselves into a wild, dreary region, sown with sterile mountain-tops,
and torn to pieces by wind and storm; the only glimpse of peace is
derived from the view on either side of the sea, which sometimes shows
itself on the horizon, a misty line, half silver, half ether. This
barren wilderness again softens into gracefully-swelling hills turned
towards Florence. The fair olive tree and the dark cypress mingle their
foliage with the luxuriant chestnut boughs, and the frequent marble
villa flashes a white gleam from amid its surrounding laurel bowers. The
sky is more beautiful than earth, and each symbolize peace and serene
enjoyment.--_Westminster Review._
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