Whoever looks on the valley of the Arno from San Miniato, and observes the Appenine range, of which Fiesole is one, bounding it on the north, will immediately notice to the northwest a double peak rising high above all the others.  The bare, brown forehead of this, known by the name of Monte Morello, seemed so provokingly to challenge an ascent, that we determined to try it.  So we started early, the day before yesterday, from the Porta San Gallo, with nothing but the frosty grass and fresh air to remind us of the middle of December.  Leaving the Prato road, at the base of the mountain, we passed Careggi, a favorite farm of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and entered a narrow glen where a little brook was brawling down its rocky channel.  Here and there stood a rustic mill, near which women were busy spreading their washed clothes on the grass.  Following the footpath, we ascended a long eminence to a chapel where some boys were amusing themselves with a common country game.  They have a small wheel, around which they wind a rope, and, running a little distance to increase the velocity, let it off with a sudden jerk.  On a level road it can be thrown upwards of a quarter of a mile.

From the chapel, a gradual ascent along the ridge of a hill brought us to the foot of the peak, which rose high before us, covered with bare rocks and stunted oaks.  The wind blew coldly from a snowy range to the north, as we commenced ascending with a good will.  A few shepherds were leading their flocks along the sides, to browse on the grass and withered bushes, and we started up a large hare occasionally from his leafy covert.  The ascent was very toilsome; I was obliged to stop frequently on account of the painful throbbing of my heart, which made it difficult to breathe.  When the summit was gained, we lay down awhile on the leeward side to recover ourselves.

We looked on the great valley of the Arno, perhaps twenty-five miles long, and five or six broad, lying like a long elliptical basin sunk among the hills.  I can liken it to nothing but a vast sea; for a dense, blue mist covered the level surface, through which the domes of Florence rose up like a craggy island, while the thousands of scattered villas resembled ships, with spread sails, afloat on its surface.  The sharp, cutting wind soon drove us down, with a few hundred bounds, to the path again.  Three more hungry mortals did not dine at the Cacciatore that day.

The chapel of the Medici, which we visited, is of wonderful beauty.  The walls are entirely encrusted with pietra dura and the most precious kinds of marble.  The ceiling is covered with gorgeous frescoes by Benevenuto, a modern painter.  Around the sides, in magnificent sarcophagi of marble and jasper, repose the ashes of a few Cosmos and Ferdinands.  I asked the sacristan for the tomb of Lorenzo the Magnificent.  “Oh!” said he, “he lived during the republic—­he has no tomb; these are only for Dukes!” I could not repress a sigh at the lavish waste of labor and treasure on this one princely chapel.  They might have slumbered unnoted, like Lorenzo, if they had done as much for their country and Italy.