en, flies thither, and, kneeling before the throne of
God, with outstretched hand, and proffering no word, begs that He will
look at her.

"Behold, O Lord, and judge whether our sins were remitted, or whether
the sins of others exceed ours.

"Is not Tuscany the garden of Italy? So say the Tuscans; and the
Florentines add, that Florence is the Athens of Tuscany. Truly, both
seem beautiful. Let us search in Tuscany. At Barberino di Mugello, in
the midst of an olive-grove is a cemetery, where the vines, which have
taken root in the outer walls and climbed over their summit, fall into
the inclosed space, as if they wished to garland Death with vine-leaves
and make it smile; over the gate, strange guardians of the tombs, two
fig-trees give their shadow and fruit to recompense the piety of the
passers-by, giving a fig in exchange for a _De Profundis_; while the
ivy, stretching its wanton arms over the black cross, endeavors to
clothe the austere sign of the Redemption with the jocund leaves of
Bacchus, and recalls to your mind the mad Phryne who vainly tempted
Xenocrates. A beautiful cemetery, by my faith! a cemetery to arouse in
the body an intense desire to die, if only for the pleasure of being
buried there. Now observe. Look into my magic-lantern. What figures do
you see? A priest with a pick; after him a peasant with a spade; and
behind them a woman with a hatchet: the priest holds a corpse by the
hair; the peasant, with one blow, strikes off its head; then, all things
being carefully rearranged, priest, peasant, and woman, after thrusting
the head into a sack, return as they came. Attention now, for I change
the picture. What figures are these that now appear? A kitchen; a fire
that has not its superior, even in the Inferno; and a caldron, where the
hissing and boiling water sends up its bubbles. Look about and what do
you see? Enter the priest, the peasant, and the housewife, and in a
moment empty a sack into the caldron. Lo! a head rolls out, dives into
the water, and floats to the surface, now showing its nape and now its
face. The Lord help us! It is an abominable spectacle; this poor head,
with its ashy, open lips, seems to say, Give me again my Christian
burial! That is enough. Only take note that in Tuscany, in the beautiful
middle of the nineteenth century, a sepulchre was violated, and a
sacrilege committed, to obtain from the boiled head of a corpse good
numbers to play in the lottery! And, by way of corollar