in 1512, to give himself to literature and to live
that wonderful double life--a peasant loafer by day in the fields and
the village inn, and at night, dressed in his noblest clothes, the
cold, sagacious mentor of the rulers of mankind. But at S. Casciano
I did not stop.

And farther still one comes to the village of Impruneta, after climbing
higher and higher, with lovely calm valleys on either side coloured
by silver olive groves and vivid wheat and maize, and studded with
white villas and villages and church towers. On the road every woman
in every doorway plaits straw with rapid fingers just as if we were in
Bedfordshire. Impruneta is famous for its new terra-cotta vessels and
its ancient della Robbias. For in the church is some of Luca's most
exquisite work--an altarpiece with a frieze of aerial angels under it,
and a stately white saint on either side, and the loveliest decorated
columns imaginable; while in an adjoining chapel is a Christ crucified
mourned by the most dignified and melancholy of Magdalens. Andrea della
Robbia is here too, and here also is a richly designed cantoria by Mino
da Fiesole. The village is not in the regular programme of visitors,
and Baedeker ignores it; hence perhaps the excitement which an arrival
from Florence causes, for the children turn out in battalions. The
church is very dirty, and so indeed is everything else; but no amount
of grime can disguise the charm of the cloisters.

The Certosa is a mere half-hour from Florence, Impruneta an hour
and a half; but Vallombrosa asks a long day. One can go by rail,
changing at Sant' Ellero into the expensive rack-and-pinion car which
climbs through the vineyards to a point near the summit, and has,
since it was opened, brought to the mountain so many new residents,
whose little villas cling to the western slopes among the lizards,
and, in summer, are smitten unbearably by the sun. But the best way
to visit the monastery and the groves is by road. A motor-car no
doubt makes little of the journey; but a carriage and pair such as I
chartered at Florence for forty-five lire has to be away before seven,
and, allowing three hours on the top, is not back again until the
same hour in the evening; and this, the ancient way, with the beat
of eight hoofs in one's ears, is the right way.

For several miles the road and the river--the Arno--run side by
side--and the railway close by too--through venerable villages whose
inhabitants derive their livi