The convent commands a most enchanting prospect down the vale: above, the view is bounded by the dark forests on the mountain-tops. A little stream tumbles in a fine cascade down the sides of the mountain, into a deep dell between these steep heights and the green lawn in which the convent is situated. Still higher up, and overlooking the convent, stands a hermitage, called Paradisino, perched, like an eagle’s nest, on a steep and projecting cliff. From this point, the prospect is still more extensive than from the convent. The eye traverses over a wide range of country towards the west. Ridge after ridge of blue heights appear down the valley, till the towers and domes of Florence strike the sight, at a distance, with the Mediterranean in dim perspective, far beyond. Close at your feet are the buildings of the convent, with a bright green lawn and a black girdle of pine forest around them, the dell, the water-fall, and the savage height of the Appenines clothed with woods to the top.
The inmates of the convent have no neighbors, for they live out of the way of the world. No public road passes by their doors, and it is not often that a visiter toils up the steep path that leads to their lonely abode. A few farm-houses and hamlets are scattered here and there in the valley below, but few inhabitants are to be seen. Those who love retirement may find Vallombrosa a desirable summer residence; but in winter, the snows and fogs confine the monks within doors. It is even said that the woods abound in bears and wolves, which in that season carry their depredations to the convent doors. Yet here, in this wild solitude, at an almost inaccessible height, I found a degree of splendor and luxury, which seemed not at all in unison with the character of the spot. The chapel of the convent was adorned with costly pillars of marble, paintings, and other ornaments, and the monks entertained me with as rich a dinner as I could have found at the Tremont House. It is very clear that their penances and mortifications stop short of the stomach. I may add, that the worthy friar, who did the honors of the house, had no scruple in pocketing a crown, which I offered him, in payment for his civilities.
Highly gratified with this pleasant excursion to the beautiful “shady vale,” I descended the mountain and reached the little town of Pelago, at the foot of the steepest part of the road, just as a heavy shower came on. I found a small inn here, the landlord of which was very civil and communicative. He told me that much rain fell upon the mountains, and advised me to put off my return to the city till the next day; a counsel which I was prudent enough to accept. The rain continued through the night, but the morning was clear, and I had a delicious walk down the Arno to Florence. The reader may possibly wonder that I ventured to travel about the country to such distances on foot, and may have his head full of robbers and banditti. But the truth is, a man is in no more danger of being robbed in Italy than in the United States; and a pedestrian runs the least hazard, for a robber would have small expectation of plunder from him.
It is interesting for a traveller to note down, not only what he sees, but also what he does not see. I did not see such a thing as a wheelbarrow, or a handcart, in all Tuscany; nor do I believe such things were ever known there. The “animal of all work,” the donkey, supplies the place of both. At Rome, indeed, they had some clumsy things which they meant for wheelbarrows; but even these nobody knew how to use. Heavy burthens are carried through the streets on men’s heads. I never saw a pudding on the table in this country, and though the Italians have heard of it, they know no more of the real thing than we do of their favorite delicacy of fried toadstools. I do not remember seeing any weathercocks, except on the saddles of the carriage-horses at Naples, where I imagine they were meant rather for ornament than use. The cheerfulness of an Italian does not depend so much as ours on the direction of the wind, and he has not occasion to look out his window every morning at the church steeple, to know whether he is to be happy or miserable through the day. Pumps are nowhere to be seen, with the exception of one at Florence. Fountains are abundant at Rome and Naples, but in Florence, Pisa and most other cities of the north, the inhabitants depend for water on their wells. To this list of varieties may be added another item that will sound oddly to the reader; namely, squalling children—for in all my residence in this country, I do not remember to have heard a child cry. This I explain by the fact, that young children, from their very earliest age, are made to spend most of their time in the open air: they have, consequently, better health, and their attention is occupied and amused by a greater variety of objects than is the case with those in our country, where constant confinement within doors, makes them sickly and peevish. Nothing, indeed, is more remarkable than the cheerfulness, vivacity and intelligence of the little boys and girls in Italy, and the readiness they display to join in the company of strangers. They are not frightened at a new face, as we commonly expect children to be. The good behavior, too, of the young lads about the streets, is worthy of note: they are never seen at fisticuffs, or engaged in riotous or rude proceedings, but address one another with a degree of politeness, which, to a stranger, has almost an appearance of mock-gravity.
Florence is generally regarded the most agreeable city in Italy for a constant residence. The climate is cooler than that of Rome, but I think it warm enough to suit travellers from America. The police of the country is strict, and there is sometimes embarrassment and delay about passports, but, in general, every accommodation is afforded to travellers; and the public officers are uniformly respectful and obliging. All foreigners must take out a permit to reside in the country, which is renewed from time to time; for this a slight fee is charged, the amount of which goes to the poor.
Six or eight miles out of the city is a country seat of the grand duke, called Pratolino, much visited by travellers on account of a colossal statue in one of the gardens. The statue is of brick, and hollow. I mounted into the head which is large enough to contain half a dozen men; from this the size of the whole figure may be estimated; though I should add that it is not quite erect, but in a crouching posture. The environs of Florence offer a great variety of objects, to occupy the time of a traveller, and I do not wonder that foreigners generally give this spot the preference in their choice of a residence in Italy.
We are accustomed to hear much of the beauty of Italian skies; and as these descriptions come chiefly from the hands of the English, who live in an atmosphere darkened by clouds and fogs, it is no wonder that the bright sun and transparent air of Italy should fill them with delight. The brightness of the skies, however, does not surpass that of our own country, in the finest season, though it is true, the fine season of Italy is much longer than that of New England. In summer, the air in Italy is uniformly dry, and the sky clear or occasionally diversified with clouds. There are no fogs, no sudden changes from hot to cold, except in crossing the mountains. The night dews do not threaten you with colds and coughs, and you may generally sleep with the windows open. The moonlight and starlight evenings are serenely beautiful, but not more so than with us. For magnificent sunsets we far surpass the Italians. The sun there goes down in a clear sky, with a rich golden tint in the west; but they have nothing equal to our autumnal sunsets, when the sky is arrayed in those gorgeous purple clouds which light up half the heavens with their brilliant and dazzling flames. In thunder and lightning, moreover, their sky never affords anything approaching to the grandeur and sublimity of ours; at least, I witnessed nothing of the kind, during all the summer and autumn which I passed in this country. I missed, also, in my rambles about the country, the fresh and fragrant smell of the woods, which is so grateful to the senses of the traveller in our territories. Nowhere, excepting on the mountain-tops, and rarely even there, do we see thick woods, or anything exhibiting the wildness of nature and the freshness of a virgin soil. This, indeed, is hardly to be expected in a country which has been inhabited, by populous nations, for four thousand years, who have been all that time cutting down the woods and building cities.
The grain mostly cultivated in Tuscany is wheat: other grains are raised in small proportions, but wheaten bread constitutes the chief food of the population. Some Indian corn is seen, but much less than in Piedmont and Lombardy, where it grows so abundantly that I have known cargoes brought down the Po and shipped from Venice to Boston. This, however, was in 1836, when corn was above a dollar a bushel. Potatoes are rarely seen in Italy, but the Italians always cook them well. Next to bread, the most important article of food for the common people, is faggioli, or horse-beans, of which they consume immense quantities. They are not only raised in the country, but imported by shiploads from Egypt. The Yankee white beans they know nothing of. Garden vegetables are produced in great variety, and their carrots are enormous in size. An apple tree I never saw here, but the country affords them: the fruit, however, is not much esteemed, nor worth esteeming. No other apples are equal to those of America. I observed many times a singular article on the table, at the dessert, namely, raw string-beans, which the Italians ate, pod and all, with a great relish, but I thought them altogether unpalatable.
Boston, July 20th, 1842.
Mr. Merry: