FOOTNOTES:
[35] The Italian terminations,—accio and uccio are particularly expressive, one letter establishing a very wide difference in their signification. Bambino for example, means a little boy; Bambinaccio, with a powerful emphasis on the a, means a naughty, dirty little raggamuffin; whereas Bambinuccio is a sweet little duck of a boy!
CHAPTER XXI.
JOURNEY TO FLORENCE—MY FRIEND LUISH—A SUSPICIOUS LANDLADY—MONTEROSI—NEPI—THE HOTEL—LUISH’S HAT—CIVITA CASTELLANA—OTRICOLI—MY WASHERWOMAN’S COUSIN—THE MERCHANDIZE CART—NARNI—TERNI—PIE-DI’-LUCO—THE ECHO—STRITTURA—EGG DIET—FULIGNO—PERUGIA—BOARDING-HOUSES—FLORENCE.
The warm season was now coming on, and with its approach came my old tormentor, the rheumatism. I found that I had worn out the remedies prescribed by my friend Dr. A—— of Cairo, which had procured me considerable relief whilst in Egypt and under his immediate care, but now seemed entirely without effect. I therefore determined upon a farther change of air and scene, and having heard of a celebrated English physician at Florence, made up my mind to proceed thither and consult him, and as most of my countrymen quit Rome during the extreme heat of the summer months, I had no difficulty in meeting with a travelling companion. It happened that a young architect, named Luish, had long been meditating a journey northwards, and he and I agreed to set off on a walking tour together, preferring such a mode of locomotion, to either malleposte or vetturino. We were both anxious to see the country, and to have the option of making digressions from the beaten track, wherever some piece of scenery more than ordinarily beautiful might offer the inducement.
Our resolution was no sooner formed, than carried into effect, and bidding a temporary adieu to our Roman friends, a party of whom accompanied us to the Porta del Popolo, we entered on the Flaminian Way, and took the road towards Florence, provided only with trusty sticks, and our knapsacks, sending our portmanteaux by diligence as far as Perugia, there to await us. I believe our appearance was anything but remarkable on the score of good looks, as we both wore the velveteen jacket of the Roman artist, whilst my companion had marred the appearance of his ensemble, by the assumption of a wretched old white hat from Bread Street, which he regarded and stuck to, as a valued relic. In one respect, our questionable shape was an advantage, as no highway robber would have thought it worth his while to molest us; at least such was our fancied security. The day was insufferably hot, and the roads dusty, so that we could scarcely hope to get on very far at a stretch, and on reaching a little road-side osteria, called Il Fosso, a few miles beyond the posting station of La Storta, we began to feel so weary, that the landlady’s offer of beds at a paul each, was no sooner made than accepted. As our bed-room did not boast of any other furniture than the two beds, Luish and I made our morning toilette at a delicious fountain, just outside the house, where we soused and splashed away to our hearts’ content, my companion running about to dry himself, whilst I performed the same operation with an ample Egyptian towel, which I carried in my knapsack. This latter proceeding attracted the notice of our landlady, who had no idea of so unwonted a luxury on the part of a poor walking pittore, and ultimately arrived at the conclusion, that I had appropriated the supper-cloth of the previous evening. To disabuse the old woman of her odd suspicion, was the work of a moment, but the hard impeachment was by no means very flattering.
Having paid our little score, we pursued our walk, passing the miserable village of Borghettaccio, and the pestilential Baccano. Here a boy overtook us with two return horses, on whose bare backs we got a lift to the posting village of Monterosi, where we entered an osteria, and called for some refreshment. This we were not suffered to enjoy in peace, as a lot of rude fellows came in soon after, and endeavoured to provoke us into a broglio, with a view most probably to hustle and deprive us of our knapsacks. We managed to defeat their intentions, by taking their insults in good part, until we had settled our reckoning, and got clear into the street, where they were afraid to tackle us. A more villainous-looking set of people than those of Monterosi, I never saw. Ugly old women grinned maliciously at us as we passed by their filthy dwellings—the men were all dirty and unshorn, lame, blind, and crippled, and the very children hopped after us on crutches, to solicit a stray bajocco. We were heartily glad when we had quitted the village, and exchanged the dull and uncultivated campagna, for a thickly-wooded, hilly landscape.
A little beyond Monterosi, the road diverges; one branch leading to Florence, by Viterbo and Siena, and the other by Perugia. The first is the great post-road, shorter and more frequented, but the latter is by far the most interesting, and abounds with charming scenery. My companion and I had already made up our minds, and pushed onwards towards Nepi, a strongly fortified little town, in a picturesque situation, where we decided upon passing the night. I believe we went to the only, and therefore the best inn in the place, but the single bench for the accommodation of weary travellers, was in the great chimney of the kitchen, where our heads were exposed to an intense draught of smoke and wind, whilst our boots were nearly reduced to cinders. In this comfortable state of things, we hastily swallowed our supper, and were shown to the only bed-room in the house, which proved to be a general dormitory, two out of its four beds being already tenanted by snoring carrettieri. As we had determined before quitting Rome, to make the best of everything, and see all we could at any cost, we turned in without hesitation, tucking our trousers and valuables under our bolsters, by way of precaution.
Our intention was to have walked onwards early the next morning, but on quitting our little inn, we found ourselves the gazing-stock of the whole town, in consequence of the dilapidated condition of my friend’s hat, which now looked as if it also had been tucked for a night under his pillow. It was indeed such a truly “bad” one, that we resolved it should be replaced by something a little more respectable, although upon inquiry, we found that Nepi did not boast a hatter’s shop. The young man whom we interrogated, said he had at home a hat, which he thought might answer the purpose, and a bargain was soon struck, in the presence of some thirty of the townsfolk. The discarded gossamer was consigned to the gutter, where it served as a foot-ball for a crowd of idle boys, and eventually found its way to the head of a drunken shoemaker. In the shop of a little tobacconist, we met with an intelligent German, who, observing that we were foreigners, very kindly conducted us to some fine points of view, and so tempting did we find them, that the rest of the day was passed in sketching. We afterwards took a few random profiles in the cigar shop, and among others that of our new friend, who seemed very much delighted when I cut it out of my sketch-book and presented it to him.
The next day we took the mountain road to Civita Castellana, along a rocky bridle path, which saves a few miles, and is much more interesting than the carriage-road. The Mons Soracte, or as it is now called, St. Oreste, was constantly before us, rising from the midst of a fertile plain, and forming a pleasing part of the landscape. As we walked, we were waylaid by a couple of rough-looking customers, whose intentions were evidently dishonest. We gave them the slip by sheer good running, clearing the last mile into the valley below Civita in excellent style, but so knocked up and out of breath, that once within reach of friendly shelter, we took our time in ascending the zigzag steps which lead to the lofty summit of rock on which the city is built. A little inn called the “Moro,” furnished us with tolerable accommodation, and we were no sooner fairly housed, that the rain began to descend in such a determined drizzle, that we should have been disappointed had the next morning proved bright and sunshiny. Civita Castellana is about the last of all places in which a traveller would wish to be weather-bound, and Luish and I started off in the wet for Otricoli. Near a post-house called Borghetto, we crossed the Tiber, which is there a beautiful stream, fertilizing a wide valley between rugged hills, and navigable below the bridge for boats drawing only four or five feet of water. We had a very up-hill walk to Otricoli, a miserable little town with a locanda of the meanest description. As a set-off, however, against its various desagrèmens we found a most obliging landlady, who no sooner observed that our knapsacks were drenched, and that we must lie in our beds until a change of linen was ready, than she very kindly provided us with sundry articles from the wardrobe of her sposo.