The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 52, February, 1862

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Various. The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 52, February, 1862

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

AGNES OF SORRENTO

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

OUR ARTISTS IN ITALY

LANDSCAPE ART

THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C

SNOW

A STORY OF TO-DAY

PART V

METHODS OF STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY

IV

LOVE AND SKATES

PART II

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

MIDWINTER

EASE IN WORK

AT PORT ROYAL. 1861

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN

FREMONT'S HUNDRED DAYS IN MISSOURI

II

THE BODY-GUARD AT SPRINGFIELD

MASON AND SLIDELL: A YANKEE IDYLL

JONATHAN TO JOHN

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES

RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS

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It was drawing towards evening, as two travellers, approaching Florence from the south, checked their course on the summit of one of the circle of hills which command a view of the city, and seemed to look down upon it with admiration. One of these was our old friend Father Antonio, and the other the Cavalier. The former was mounted on an ambling mule, whose easy pace suited well with his meditative habits; while the other reined in a high-mettled steed, who, though now somewhat jaded under the fatigue of a long journey, showed by a series of little lively motions of his ears and tail, and by pawing the ground impatiently, that he had the inexhaustible stock of spirits which goes with good blood.

"There she lies, my Florence," said the monk, stretching his hands out with enthusiasm. "Is she not indeed a sheltered lily growing fair among the hollows of the mountains? Little she may be, Sir, compared to old Rome; but every inch of her is a gem,—every inch!"

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Fiercest among the combatants was Agostino, who three times drove back the crowd as they were approaching the choir, where Savonarola and his immediate friends were still praying. Father Antonio, too, seized a sword from the hand of a fallen man and laid about him with an impetuosity which would be inexplicable to any who do not know what force there is in gentle natures when the objects of their affections are assailed. The artist monk fought for his master with the blind desperation with which a woman fights over the cradle of her child.

All in vain! Past midnight, and the news comes that artillery is planted to blow down the walls of the convent, and the magistracy, who up to this time have lifted not a finger to repress the tumult, send word to Savonarola to surrender himself to them, together with the two most active of his companions, Frà Domenico da Pescia and Frà Silvestro Maruffi, as the only means of averting the destruction of the whole order. They offer him assurances of protection and safe return, which he does not in the least believe: nevertheless, he feels that his hour is come, and gives himself up.

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