As I stood at the door of the inn, under shelter of its rude and stuccoless piazza, eyeing the big drops which came splashing down before me, I was accosted by a dapper-looking young Roman in blue velveteen, who inquired if I were the Signor Bevano, adding, that he was charged, if he overtook us on the road, to give us a lift in his merchandize cart, as far as our way might lie together. Having acknowledged my identity, I learned that the order emanated from my Roman washerwoman, who upon hearing that her cugino was travelling our way on one of his monthly journeys, had begged him to give us a cast, and we agreed to accept his offer the next morning. Otricoli abounds with remains of former splendour, and it is said that the suburbs of ancient Rome extended thus far. I walked with Luish to see what was most interesting within the precincts of the town, but our landlord’s clothes and boots fitted us so badly, and the enormous red cotton umbrellas soaked in such a power of rain water, and were so very heavy, that our researches were soon concluded. Our friend having called us at five o’clock, we descended from the cloudy regions of Otricoli, and as the weather was now much improved, enjoyed one of the finest rides imaginable. As we approached Narni, the road skirted the edge of a tremendous ravine overhanging the Nera, a mountain torrent of the Appenines, rushing between rocky and beautifully wooded precipices, until swallowed up in the Tiber below Otricoli.
The merchandize cart was well-horsed, and driven in a way that would not have disgraced a more elegant turnout. The cugino would accept nothing by way of reward, save a breakfast at the “Lion of St. Marc,” in the little piazza of Narni, where he deposited us with many protestations of good-will, and a regret that his business did not call him farther on our road. Narni is an interesting town perched on the side of a steep declivity, and famed in history for the extraordinary valour of its inhabitants, who devoured their wives and families rather than surrender to the enemy! We remained there one day for the sake of sketching the ruins of a fine bridge erected by the Emperor Augustus, of which one arch is still perfect. Our road then lay through the valley of the Nera, and from its extreme flatness, would have been barely interesting but for the prospect of the blue Appenines in the distance before us.
Towards evening we reached Terni. The waiter at “Les Iles Britanniques” seemed rather to hesitate about taking an order for dinner from a pair of such seedy looking pedestrians as ourselves, and I believe was considering the propriety of informing us with the ready lie peculiar to his species, that the hotel was quite full, when we were seen and recognized by our friend A——, who had been staying there some days. This caused a diversion in our favour, and the waiter, who declared he had mistaken us for German “Handverke,” was now all smiles and attention.
The next day was of course devoted to the Falls, which are as well known to tarry-at-home travellers, as those of the Coliseum and Zoological gardens. I shall therefore, spare my readers the customary quotation from Childe Harold, which, as I could not call it to mind as we stood gazing at the cascade, and have not since had occasion to remember, I shall not now take the trouble to search after. Suffice it to say, that the Velino tumbles over the same rock as heretofore, in its own old-fashioned way, from the same “headlong height,” and with a tolerably considerable “roar of waters.” My friend Luish hinted something about “Phlegethon,” but as none of our fifteen guides had ever heard of such a thing, we agreed to drop the subject, and proceeded onwards to the small lake of Luco, where we were rowed out to a distant promontory to hear an extraordinary echo, repeating hexameter lines and sentences of ten or twelve words. Here we sat on a bench overlooking the lake and opposite village of Piè-di-luco, and treated its inhabitants to a sort of obligato concert. Among other choice morceaux, were some verses of the German Kuhreihe, or Jodeln, which I had picked up in some Tyrolese valley, and these seemed so much to astonish the unsophisticated villagers, that one old fellow put off in a boat and rowed over to us, to see what was the matter. Having repeated my song, he insisted upon taking us home with him to dinner, and introducing us to his family. A more jolly old fellow than the Signor Lazzaro I never met with, and his wife and daughters were equally agreeable. I suppose our attempts at Italian were of the queerest, for we seemed to afford the whole family a good share of amusement. We were not suffered to depart until after we had partaken of an early supper, when the kind old gentleman had his horse and cabriolet brought to the door, and drove us back again into Terni.
Strittura was our next halting-place, where we could get nothing to eat but eggs, the staple commodity of all small Italian villages:
“We’d eggs in all shapes, ‘a la coq,’ ‘in tegame,’
Eggs hard boiled, and soft boiled, and fried with salame.”
It was curious to observe the shifts that our good landlady was put to, in order to vary our oviparous entertainment. The tegame is a little earthen stew-pan, like the saucer belonging to our flower-pots, with a handle, and in this the eggs are stirred up with butter, forming a favourite Italian dish. As we swallowed our eggs in the kitchen, two empty one-horse waggons, which were proceeding in our direction, arrived at the door. On entering into conversation with the carrettieri, we found that they were going as far as Fuligno, and as their easy speed would exactly suit our own notions of getting over the ground, we struck a bargain with them for four pauls each, Luish taking one cart, and I the other. As they were roomy, and had each a good shake-down of clean straw, we found that we could either sit, stand, or lie down, as we listed, and with this ability to change our position, we greatly enjoyed our ride. Passing over the Somma, a lofty point of the Appenines, we drove round the walls of Spoleto, without entering the city, being anxious to reach the little village of San Giacomo to sleep. Here the inn proved almost a repetition of that at Il Fosso, already mentioned, our morning ablutions being made at a fountain in the yard: I was not however, this time, honoured by any suspicions on the part of the landlady.
Journeying onwards, we picked up a nail-maker of Fuligno, who proved a very chatty fellow, and furnished us in his own person, with a good specimen of the Fulignese character, remarkably for its intelligence and energy. He pointed out to us the beautiful little temple of Diana, near the source of the fertilizing Clitumnus, and quoted appropriately from the Georgics of Virgil. This once pagan temple, is now dedicated to some Christian saint, and though the sacrificial rites, have long since been forgotten, the architectural beauty of the building remains unimpaired, and the oxen of the Clitumnus are as white as ever.
Fuligno is an interesting and well-built city, and a place of considerable trade, with manufactories of silks and woollen stuffs. Being anxious to reach Perugia, my companion and I got two places in the “legno” of a Vetturino, in preference to walking over a long piece of road, offering but little that is interesting to the pedestrian. I shall not now describe the church of the “Madonna degli Angeli,” nor the neighbouring town of Assisi, at which latter, I subsequently made a sojourn of some weeks, but will at once pass on to Perugia, a large Etruscan town, romantically perched upon the summit of a lofty hill, and very strongly fortified. Our old Vetturino was obliged to avail himself of the aid of two heavy oxen to assist us up the steep ascent which had once frightened Hannibal, and it was near the hour of Ave Maria, when we were set down at the door of the Casa Zanetti, a private house to which we had been strongly recommended. These Italian boarding-houses, are a great accommodation to such as may not like the bustle and expense of an inn, and are much frequented by artists, who may thus find a quiet home and every possible attention, in almost any part of the country. From three to five pauls, or fifteen pence to two shillings a-day, is the price of board and lodging, including bed, breakfast, dinner and supper, the meals being taken with the family, and at regular hours.[36]
Perugia, independently of its being a fine city, and architecturally beautiful, offers great attractions to the artist, in the productions of the celebrated Perugino, Guido, Andrea, Sacchi, and others. In the church of St. Peter, which was one of my favourite haunts, is a fine copy by Sasso Ferrata of a picture of Raffaelle’s, and some good paintings by Vasari. In the choir are some specimens of wood-carving, from designs by Raffaelle, which are exceedingly bold and clever. Perugia is also the seat of a university, and boasts of many public institutions, besides a museum, rich in Etruscan relics. I staid a week with my friend Luish at the Casa Zanetti, where we were well entertained, and made some very agreeable acquaintance, but the rheumatism, which seemed in no degree alleviated by the exercise of walking, induced me to press onwards, that I might the sooner obtain medical advice. For a sum of eight scudi, including “pasta la sera,” or bed and supper, we hired a rickety old machine, and a surly driver, to convey us to Florence.