The Argosy — page 165: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

150 In Sunny Climes. he so often must have passed. One’s thoughts were full of sadness ; it could not be otherwise, for life and death are sad and here we seemed confronted by both; and we passed on to a spot that for many would be full of sadness also. It was the small cemetery within the town, devoted to the English, surrounded by houses; en- closed in high white walls, guarded by iron gates that are kept locked. Here the dead lie, in the very midst of the living. It is now closed for interments, and in a white, flower-covered lodge within the gates dwells the guardian of this true and perfect God’s acre. You ring, and a woman comes forth and admits you. It is indeed a lovely spot. If the cemetery at Rome was sufficient to make Shelley almost in love with death, how much more this in Florence. I have never seen anything at all to approach it. Its very beauty, apart from its destination, makes it holy. Death here seems to be robbed of its terrors, the grave of its sadness: nay, both death and the grave are made attractive. Happy the fate, the mind whispers, if to die is to lie here. Pure blossoms scent the air. The sunshine glints amidst the trees, and the leaves make beautiful the paths on which they flicker. Over all are the skies of this sunny clime, high, ethereal and glowing: an earnest of a world beyond, which the eye cannot penetrate nor the heart of man conceive. On the left, half way up the somewhat hilly path, is a tomb which seems to add beauty and sanctity to this hallowed spot. It is that of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Of white marble, pure and chaste, it is worthy of its destination. It is impossible to gaze upon the tomb without emotion. No spot on earth could be more fitting for the repose of the ashes of the poetess: that frail casket which held so great a soul. Of inscription there is none; merely the initials E. B. B. and the date of her death. She also needs no epitaph, but lives sufficiently in her works, the intensity and earnestness of her thought and purpose. And in a small spot not very far off Mauleverer found the little grave which hehad not seen for twenty years. It was in perfect order, and roses bloomed above the small white marble monument. ‘The inscription was simple: Alice Marguerite, only daughter of Sir Jasper and Lady Mauleverer. Aged seven. For twenty years the little spirit had inhabited the realms of eternity, and its beautiful tenement had reposed under the blue Italian skies. The tomb was fresh and spotless as though it had been placed there yesterday. In this Southern atmosphere nothing that is beautiful seems to fade ; nothing grows old excepting man in obedience to the inevitable law. We left the cemetery to its singular repose, and went up through the cool and delicious way, under the trees, and ascended the heights. The fair city of Florence lay at our feet. Dividing her, the river ran its course. ‘The monuments and churches of Florence upreared their heads, conspicuous amongst them the dome of the Cathedral and its detached belfry. Near the Pitti Palace the famous Boboll COMIC OOOKS Ae)