Whenever I have an hour to spare I know of no pleasanter mode of occupying it than by writing to you, for to you my thoughts, whenever they are at rest, spontaneously revert. I have yet an hour before the vetturino starts for Florence, and I may as well commence another sheet, the first of a series which I may be unable to send you for several weeks, as I here leave the Mediterranean, loveliest of seas, and except I find an American ship on the Adriatic, which is not very probable, I must keep them all until I reach Hamburg. I have just closed a formidable packet of journal, to be sent from here in the ship Sarah and Arsilia, which is to sail for New York next week....
I am very well satisfied with my visit to Rome. In the brief space of time I spent there I saw everything I wished except the pope himself, and I believe I had a glimpse of him; one statue of Michael Angelo’s, which I only learned about when it was too late; the Catacombs, where the early Christians used to conceal themselves, which are some miles off; the monument of Cecilia Metella, which is not handsome, but is immortalized by three or four singularly sweet stanzas in “Childe Harold;” and the Basilica of St. Paul, which is some distance out of the city, and was nearly destroyed by fire about ten years ago. This is a very small list compared with what I have seen, so I am quite content. I wish you could see Rome; there is so much that you would enjoy in the highest degree, and it is laying up a fund to be enjoyed afterwards as long as you live.
It is now just sunset, and the air is remarkably balmy,—a mild sea-breeze, just enough to fan you. And let me tell you, however, as to Italian skies and sunsets that they are not a bit superior to our own. You may enjoy from your own parlor windows finer sunsets every clear day in summer than I have yet seen in Italy; though they certainly are very near ours. It is only to those who are accustomed to British clouds and fogs that they are remarkable.
The peripatetic grinders of music upon hand-organs so common in all our towns are usually Italians, and I supposed that street music here was of much the same kind. This is a mistake. I have not seen such a thing in Italy or the south of France. You have universally the harp, commonly two players in concert, and very frequently a violin also for accompaniment, and the music is always creditable. At Avignon, the very land of troubadours, we were serenaded at dinner with a concert of harps, guitars, etc., but when they called for the coppers we found, shame to this degenerate age, that the troubadours were all women, and of the most unromantic appearance possible. The patois of all this part of France and of Piedmont, however, is the same as the language in which the trouvères are written, and one who understands the patois as now spoken can read the former without difficulty.
The Italian language, is very soft and musical, far more pleasant to the ear than the deep nasal tones of the French.
JOURNAL.
Florence, May 9, Thursday evening.
Finding little more that I could do to-day, I then called at the residence of Mr. Sloane, a descendant of Sir Hans Sloane of famous memory, who resides in the Bontrouline palace, and not finding him at home left a note of introduction written by two ladies, Mrs. Boott and Miss Boott, and also a letter intrusted to my care by Mirbel. I called also at the Botanic Garden, but Mr. Targioni-Tozzetti[95] was not at home, and the garden was of no great consequence. While at dinner Mr. Sloane called to welcome me to Florence, and to take me out of the city to the Campagna,—lawns and beautiful pleasure-grounds and groves skirting the Arno for a mile or two, which are thrown open to the public, forming the favorite drive or promenade. Almost the whole city was there, and I never saw a more pleasant place. The roads were thronged with carriages, from the barouche of the grand duke to the peasant’s cart, all on terms of perfect equality. The grand duke passed us twice. He mingles much with the people, is accessible to all, and is greatly beloved. The government, though despotic, is paternal, the people are not burdened with taxes, and are contented and industrious. The difference between Tuscany and the Papal States is manifest enough. But I must hasten with my narrative. Early the next morning, Friday, I called on Mr. Sloane, looked at his garden, where he has many fine things. We then crossed the Arno to the other side of the town, called on Professor Amici,[96] who removed here from Modena a few years since, and has charge of the grand duke’s observatory. He was very obliging, showed me his microscopes, which he thinks unrivaled, but I don’t, and then the observatory, where I saw all the instruments, peeped through his telescope, and from the top of the tower had a most beautiful panoramic view of Florence and the surrounding country. We then passed through the museum of natural history, which is in the same building, and is prettily arranged; saw the famous flowers and fruits done in wax, but not the figures which represent the Plague, which were in the anatomical museum adjoining, and which I did not care to see. In the collection were some recent models made under Amici’s superintendence to illustrate his discoveries, etc. They were wonderfully fine, and would be useful in a class-room. Amici is a good observer with the microscope, but his anatomical or physiological notions are in some cases very wide of the mark, and quite surprised me.
On leaving, Mr. Sloane and myself separated, he going to fulfill some engagement, and I to the Palazzo Pitti, as it is still called from the founder, though it early passed into the hands of the Medici family, who finished it, and now it is the ducal residence. I must tell you, by the way, that I should have seen a remarkable person in Florence, had she not been sick. Sloane is very intimate with her and wished me to see her; she is the ex-queen of Naples, the widow of Murat and the sister of Napoleon....
On returning to the hotel, however, I learned that I could not get a place with the courier next day, that the diligence which left at mid-day did not arrive at Bologna until Sunday afternoon, so I engaged a cabriolet, to start with me after dinner, arranged my affairs, called on Mr. Sloane to bid him an unexpected adieu, dined at the table d’hôte at five, and at dark I was climbing the outskirts of the Apennines.