I climbed the campanile one fine morning—­417 steps from the ground—­and was well repaid; but I think it is wiser to ascend the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, because one is higher there and, since the bulk of the dome, which intrudes from the campanile, is avoided, one has a better all-round view.  Florence seen from this eminence is very red—­so uniformly so that many towers rise against it almost indistinguishably, particularly the Bargello’s and the Badia’s.  One sees at once how few straight streets there are—­the Ricasoli standing out among them as the exception; and one realizes how the city has developed outside, with its boulevards where the walls once were, leaving the gates isolated, and its cincture of factories.  The occasional glimpses of cloisters and verdure among the red are very pleasant.  One of the objects cut off by the cathedral dome is the English cemetery, but the modern Jewish temple stands out as noticeably almost as any of the ancient buildings.  The Pitti looks like nothing but a barracks and the Porta Ferdinando has prominence which it gets from no other point.  The roof of the Mercato Centrale is the ugliest thing in the view.  While I was there the midday gun from the Boboli fortress was fired, instantly having its punctual double effect of sending all the pigeons up in a grey cloud of simulated alarm and starting every bell in the city.

Those wishing to make either the campanile or Duomo ascents must remember to do it early.  The closing hour for the day being twelve, no one is allowed to start up after about a quarter past eleven:  a very foolish arrangement, since Florence and the surrounding Apennines under a slanting sun are more beautiful than in the morning glare, and the ascent would be less fatiguing.  As it was, on descending, after being so long at the top, I was severely reprimanded by the custodian, who had previously marked me down as a barbarian for refusing his offer of field-glasses.  But the Palazzo Vecchio tower is open till five.

The Baptistery is the beautiful octagonal building opposite the cathedral, and once the cathedral itself.  It dates from the seventh or eighth century, but as we see it now is a product chiefly of the thirteenth.  The bronze doors opposite the Via Calzaioli are open every day, a circumstance which visitors, baffled by the two sets of Ghiberti doors always so firmly closed, are apt to overlook.  All children born in Florence are still baptized here, and I watched one afternoon an old priest at the task, a tiny Florentine being brought in to receive the name of Tosca, which she did with less distaste than most, considering how thorough was his sprinkling.  The Baptistery is rich in colour both without and within.  The floor alone is a marvel of intricate inlaying, including the signs of the zodiac and a gnomic sentence which reads the same backwards and forwards—­“En gire torte sol ciclos et roterigne”.  On this very pavement Dante, who called the church his