ངང་ལག

“Yes, it is little Samuel kneeling in prayer.” "You know they are very common.”

"Yes, almost every Italian image seller has them. But what of it?"

"Just this-I have seen the original. Pampaloni, to whose studio I have been, designed that, cast it in plaster, and then carved it in marble."

“And all that we see are copies."

"Yes."

"Did you see Pampaloni, who made it?" "No, he is dead; but his son inherits his genius."

One day they rode out, and as they went, Mr. Tenant directed the driver to take them to Santa Croce.

"Santa Croce!" said Minnie; "what is that?". "A church, Min," said Walter.

"A church, hey?"

"Yes; Santa Croce, erected six hundred years ago, is to Florence what Westminster Abbey is to London - the charnel of its illustrious dead. So I read in the guide books."

When they reached the edifice, they found it filled with many monuments, among which is, in a most conspicuous position, the grand sarcophagus of Michael Angelo, the world's great artist. The sister arts, Painting, Sculpture, and

Architecture, are weeping over the tomb, while surmounting them is a statue of the great man himself. The spot where he sleeps was selected, and the manner of his burial was described, by the artist himself, who wished his resting place to be within sight of the cathedral, on whose spacious dome he loved to gaze in life. They also saw the monuments of Dante, Alfieri, and Galileo.

It would take a long time to tell all the children saw in Florence, or Firenze, as the Italians spell it. One or two funeral processions they met in the street, one or two masses they saw solemnized in the churches, visits they made to the cathedral, many times they climbed up into the bell tower, excursions they took out into the country, and so much pleasure did they secure, that Minnie declared she could not tell which city she liked best, Florence or Paris. Walter thought that when he became a man, and had money of his own to spend, and time enough at his command, he would come and live a year in Florence.

So it is, that we often make plans in childhood that are never realized in manhood; we anticipate pleasures that we never secure. With this reflection we leave Walter dreaming in the city of flower girls and artists.

CHAPTER IX.

FIRST VIEWS OF ROME.

S the lumbering diligence rolled towards Rome, the interest of the party increased. Minnie, who had her seat in the coupé, often called to her brother,

"Walter, do you see any thing?"

"Not yet," was his reply as often to her impatient questions. Still the vehicle rolled heavily onward, the cracking whip was heard, and the eager expectation of the company manifested itself in vain endeavors to catch some outline of the Eternal City:

"There it is!" at length Walter exclaimed, and looking forward they all saw the dome of St. Peter's, like a huge bank resting against the sky. The interest was now most lively, and as the distance to the city was diminished every minute, all feeling of fatigue, and all sense of weariness were forgotten, and soon they were beneath the walls. After an examination by custom-house officials, they passed through the Porta Cavalleggieri,- where the French suffered