We I think it is always more like singing than speaking; at least a long speech always appeared to me like a recitative. After paying the closest attention, I cannot persuade myself that the compass and variety of its tones equal those of our language; but I am quite sensible that it is more mellifluous. Finding a party willing to accompany us to Valombrosa, we determined to see a spot of which Milton has spoken. We hired a caratelle, and left Florence at six o'clock. had no sooner arrived at the gate of the Perugia road, for post carriages, than our lettera di sicurezza was demanded; this we had not thought it necessary to take with us, and it was half an hour before we were allowed to proceed, and at length were so, only through the lettera di sicurezza of our servant. We entered the old Emilian way, having Fiesole on our left, and very soon turned in among the hills and beautiful windings of the Arno; here, green as an emerald, offering at every turn, for about seventeen miles, a new and interesting picture. In the back ground folded lofty Apennines; in the near, woody promontories, crowned with convents and churches; and on the river, mills and rustic bridges. At Ponte Sieve, we crossed the little stream Sieve, which runs down from Monte Carelli. We were now fairly in the bosom of the Apennines, and turning to the left reached the village of Pulcio. A very sweet-looking girl was instantly at the door, with a dozen other persons; and the Tregia and two buoi were proposed. The remainder of our party were not yet arrived. The female just mentioned was the only one I had seen of the lower class that fully answered my expectation of Italian beauty, and her manners were of the most easy and graceful kind. A caratelle arrived, not containing our friends, but the painter WILKIE THE PAINTER. 191 Wilkie, and his companions; they breakfasted, and were soon off for the sanctuary of the Camaldoli, afar in the Casatine territory, on a ridge of Apennines, whence the Arno has its source. The Camaldoli are twenty-five miles north east from the Valombrosani: it was here San Romuldo, after his vision, established the order of Camaldolensi. Still above them, on the mountain called Paggio alle Scale, is another retreat named Sacro Eremo. It is said that these monks have a good library, and rare and valuable manuscripts, and that from their sanctuary may be seen the Mediterranean and the Adriatic. Twenty miles from the Camaldoli is another retreat of St. Francis, called Alvernia, where he received his fancied stigmates. Whilst Wilkie sat breakfasting, I cast many a longing eye towards his sketch book, but felt too much of the Englishwoman about me to dare to ask for a peep. What a gift is such a talent as his! General and Mrs. F—————, Captain B, and Mr. D———, now arrived, and we were soon seated in the tregia, a very long large basket, with boards underneath, and a long pole fastened to a yoke, which hangs upon two oxen. In this we three ladies were dragged, with considerable danger of dislocation, up the steep mountain that leads to the Ombrosian monastery. Passing by a pretty mill and bridge, over a mountain stream, we entered on a scene that amply repaid our toil. The sides of the hill were covered with chesnut and oak, and through this rich foliage masses of fine slate rock projected, whilst the brook hurried over the stones of the valley. It was not yet solitude, but it was all of external nature that makes solitude delightful. A few peasants were quietly seated in the stream fishing, and a child or a woman were often met, with their knitting cr distaff. At one turn of the hill we were surrounded by upwards of twenty persons, who begged with much importunity, saying, Siete ricco, sono povero; but this, with an air rather of pleasantry than real distress; their habiliments were, however, certainly beggarly. Still ascending for an hour, we reached the storehouse of the Ombrosani; we knocked, and waited. No "friar of order gray" admitted us, but a jolly looking man set wide the gate for our tregia to pass through the yard. He brought forward his best vermutte, the produce of this vineyard: it has a spicy bitter taste, very agreeable, and quite peculiar to this species of grape. A deep well produced water such as I have not tasted in Italy, icy cold: they declared we should be ill if we touched it, and pressed the juice of the grape. Our poor buoi being refreshed as well as ourselves, we once more got into our tregia, skirting the Ombrosian brook— one of those so justly described by Milton, when he says, "The brooks In Valombrosa, where th' Etruscan shades I got out of my basket, and walked alone quietly up the steep ascent, and through the Atebelle that surround the sanctuary. When the cold blasts of winter have banished the butterfly traveller of summer, solitude must reign here in all its charms, and in all its terror. Very, very long (I think they said till May) the snow prevents all access to them: we were four hours reaching the summit. The dwelling of the Valombrosani stands desolate on one point of these Apenninian waves, but in its appearance there is nothing forbidding. It is a long white building, surrounded by a wall, and contains at present about twenty-five monks, consecrated, it is said, to meditation and prayer. They are supported now by the continual diminution of the wood which surrounds them, and which is sent to Leghorn and Florence. Of course, le donne were not permitted to enter; but the hospitality of the order had provided a house where you are permitted to dine and sleep. A lay superior here met us, and provided more than was needful for our refreshment. Whilst the refection was preparing, I wandered forth to enjoy this delicious spot. High woods of cypress gave a gloomy grandeur to the summit and sides of the mountain, whilst the most refreshing greens and flowers ornamented the valleys; the breeze was blowing strongly on various little lakes, green as the emerald. One could not feel pity for those who dwelt in such a scene; one ought not, if they really held communion with God, in this lovely wilderness ; there, truly, "Whilst yet the spring is young, whilst earth unbinds Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; While mountain-snows dissolve against the sun, And streams yet new from precipices run, Its tints are magic,-to a poet dear." Yes! and that poet our own immortal Milton. On a considerable height above the monastery, is a hermitage named “Il Paradisino.” As we laboured up its steep banks, we passed various oratories and tombs. On one tomb it was recorded, that its mortal tenant, praying devoutly on a stone on that spot, the devil hurled him to the bottom of that precipice; he broke his arm and died, but lived long enough to tell from whom "he received the injury"! At every step on this Paradisino, inscriptions, and tombs, and crosses tell the tale that solitude alone does not preserve the heart, and that these good monks feel it necessary to have a hint at every corner. I fear they look very little to that gracious Mediator whose prayer is effectual, and who, addressing his heavenly Father, said, "I pray not that thou shouldst take them out of the world, but that thou shouldst keep them from the evil." All the outward hints of these fratelli will not do -for alas! the leprosy lies deep within. What a blessing is it to have the gift of a new heart, and on that heart the law of God inscribed, not as a dead letter, but with God's own animating power! The The view from the hermitage is right into the blue bosom of the Apennines, which lie in cerulean mountain-waves before you, as far as the eye can reach. We were told that, in clear weather, the Mediterranean could be discovered. rock around us looked worn by the waters of the flood, and dark cypress groves crowned the adjacent heights. We were not permitted to enter the hermitage, but skirted the hill down to the fall of water which supplies the brooks of the valley. Our cicerone did not appear to be in love with solitude, and said he much preferred being at the village, “con il mio caro padre, e la mia cara madre." At our return, we found the superior had ordered for us salmone (raw, dried wild boar), soup, artichokes fried, Bologna sausages, and very good sheep cheese, with some of their best Vermutte wine. He joined us at dessert, looked cheerful and kind, but by no means wasted with fastings and prayer. The order is now re-established. They rise, he said, at midnight, |