The old Duke of Tuscany, before he became soured by his political mishaps, was a great patron of agricultural improvements.  He had princely farms in the neighborhood both of his capital and of Pisa.  Of the latter I cannot speak from personal observation; but the dairy-farm, Cascina, near to Florence, can hardly have been much inferior to the Cajano property of the great Lorenzo.  The stables were admirably arranged, and of permanent character; the neatness was equal to that of the dairies of Holland.  The Swiss cows, of a pretty dun-color, were kept stalled, and luxuriously fed upon freshly cut ray-grass, clover, or vetches, with an occasional sprinkling of meal; the calves were invariably reared by hand; and the average per diem of milk, throughout the season, was stated at fourteen quarts; and I think Madonna Clarice never strained more than this into the cheese-tubs of Ambra.  I trust the burghers of Florence, and the new Gonfaloniere, whoever he may be, will not forget the dun cows of the Cascina, or their baitings with the tender vetches.

The redemption of the waste marshlands in the Val di Chiana by the engineering skill of Fossombroni, and the consequent restoration of many thousands of acres which seemed hopelessly lost to fertility, is a result of which the Medici would hardly have dreamed, and which would do credit to any age or country.

About the better-cultivated portions of Lombardy there is an almost regal look.  The roads are straight, and of most admirable construction.  Lines of trees lift their stateliness on either side, and carry trailing festoons of vines.  On both sides streams of water are flowing in artificial canals, interrupted here and there by cross sluices and gates, by means of which any or all of the fields can be laid under water at pleasure, so that old meadows return three and four cuttings of grass in the year.  There are patches of Indian-corn which are equal to any that can be seen on the Miami; hemp and flax appear at intervals, and upon the lower lands rice.  The barns are huge in size, and are raised from the ground upon columns of masonry.

I have a dapper little note-book of travel, from which these facts are mainly taken; and at the head of one of its pages I observe an old ink-sketch of a few trees, with festoons of vines between.  It is yellowed now, and poor always; for I am but a dabbler at such things.  Yet it brings back, clearly and briskly, the broad stretch of Lombard meadows, the smooth Macadam, the gleaming canals of water, the white finials of Milan Cathedral shining somewhere in the distance, the thrushes, as in the “Pastor Fido,” filling all the morning air with their sweet

    “Ardo d’ amore! ardo d’ amore!”

the dewy clover-lots, looking like wavy silken plush, the green glitter of mulberry-leaves, and the beggar in steeple-crowned hat, who says, “Grazia,” and “A rivedervi!” as I drop him a few kreutzers, and rattle away to the North, and out of Italy.