Monks, who renew them about as often as the generations of men, cutting down one growth for timber and fuel, and substituting another. Art has therefore in a great measure broken in upon the solitudes of nature. My visit was per

haps too early in the season, to see the place to the best advantage.

The associations are principally such as superstition has imparted. In the Hermitage are prints of all those, who have been its inmates, since its foundation in the tenth century. It admits of but one at a time, who holds for life. The present possessor seemed to have little of the anchorite in his character, and familiarly acted as a cicerone in showing me his tiny chapel, and other curiosities in his retirement. From the point of the rock in front, the spectator has a glorious peep at the world, extending into the sunny vale of the Arno, to Florence, and even to the dim expanse of the Mediterranean. While the prospect in this direction was all bright with summer skies, the winds of winter were still whistling above my head, round the bleak summits of the Apennines.

In descending from the Hermitage by a path winding under the cliffs, the guide pointed out a cavern in the rock, of the size of a coffin, grated in front. Here a saint buried himself for several years, enduring cold, hunger, and every species of mortification. A little shrine has been erected near the spot, to commemorate his virtues; and the Latin inscription states, that at his death celestial lights gleamed round the rocks, and the bells of the convent tolled without hands. Another chapel rises in memory of a Monk, who was tempted by the devil to leap from the cliff, when the Virgin interfered, and rescued him from peril. One of his brethren was less fortunate; for in walking along the giddy height at evening, he made a misstep, and was dashed to pieces in tumbling down the precipice.

But the most curious of all these shrines is one in commemoration of an event, in the life of the founder of the convent. While he was engaged in prayer among these solitary hills, he was assaulted by the devil. The former took to his heels, as the best mode of escape, and the latter gave chase. At length they arrived at a precipice, under which the saint sheltered himself, while the devil unable to check the momentum he had acquired dashed down headlong! The cliff all at once became so soft as to receive the impression of the saint, which is still shown to the traveller, Along Latin in

In the midst of these legends

scription records the miracle. I ought not to forget the name of Father Hugford, an English Hermit of great sanctity, who rose to the rank of Abbé, and who presents a still stronger claim to remembrance, by the invention of inlaying marbles with precious stones.

On my return to the Convent, I found dinner in waiting. The fare was simple, but served up with neatness. All this hospitality is a gratuity; but the visitant is at liberty, if he chooses, to present a trifle for the maintenance of the establishment. A quarto volume, containing the memoirs of the founder of the Convent, was laid upon the table for my amusement; as also an album comprising the names of all the visitants to these shades. Adding my own to the long list, and shaking the Forestiero by the hand, I bade adieu to Vallombrosa, and returned to Florence the same evening.

LETTER LV.

DEPARTURE FOR ROME-INCISA-AREZZO-BIRTH-PLACE OF

PETRARCH-VALE OF

CHIANA-LAKE

THRASYMENUS

SCENE OF THE BATTLE BETWEEN FLAMINIUS AND HANNIBAL PERUGIA-FIRST VIEW OF THE TIBER-VALE AND FOUNTAIN OF THE CLITUMNUS-SPOLETO--TERNI.

April, 1826.-From Florence to Rome, a distance of about two hundred miles, experiment was made of a new mode of travelling. A desire to reach the south of Italy before the commencement of warm weather, and to continue in the agreeable company of our New-York friends, induced us to try the mettle of post-horses, instead of the tardy teams of the vetturino. The change was much for the worse in all respects except speed; and in that article the loss is greater than the gain to the tourist, who travels for information. He is hurried through landscapes however beautiful, and by objects however interesting, without the power to pause a moment for contemplation, as the postillions are anxious to accomplish the journey in the least time possible, often at the imminent risk of broken necks or limbs. Down hill they always make it a point to drive upon the run, to make up for their snail paces in the ascents. The horses

are uniformly bad, and the harness, often consisting of slender ropes, is horrible.

Although the rates of posting in all the Italian states is regulated by law, impositions are in one way or another practised upon the traveller, in spite of his utmost vigilance. The most general mode of exacting exorbitant fees, is by putting on a stronger team than the carriage requires. Remonstrances in such cases are entirely useless, and the only alternative is patient submission, under the authority of the maxim, that "when you are among the Romans, you must do as the Romans do." Our two friends who are in person both light men, and were encumbered with but little baggage, frequently presented the ludicrous picture of being dragged up the hills by six horses and four oxen, strung out at such lengths, and moving at such a solemn pace, as to appear like a funeral procession. As our coach was of a different kind, we were never compelled to take more than four horses and one pair of oxen. But manage as you will, the expense of posting is more than treble that of travelling with a vetturino ; and he that makes the experiment will soon repent of his bargain. With many of the English, who make the tour of Italy merely for the sake of riding and spending money, the case is different. They often bring with them the principles of their jockey clubs, and boast of performing such and such routes, in so many hours.

At 7 o'clock on the morning of the 20th, our three-horse coach, (a sort of triangular team,) drove up with a flourish of whips, and the postillion in livery as the law directs, to the door of Mynheer Schneider's Hotel, and we set out for “the City of the Seven Hills," our friends leading the way as pioneers. Within the first hour after leaving Florence, our coach was turned bottom upwards against the fence, without injury to us, having descended a few minutes before the accident, to walk up a hill. The persons left in charge of it concealed as many of the particulars, as the fractured axle would permit. In general, the road though hilly is smooth and excellent; and nothing but this circumstance saves the necks of hundreds. Two of our acquaintances, whom we met at Florence on their return from Rome, had been capsized on this same route, and one of them severely bruised. Coachmen are often killed by their own carelessness, and disposed of with as little ceremony, as soldiers are carried from the field of battle.

For the first ten or twelve miles, the country was not new to me, having been already traversed in my excursion to Vallombrosa. My companions satisfied their curiosity with a glance at the forests of fir, which mantle the heights of the Apennines, and overhang that secluded retreat, at the distance of four or five miles on the left of the road. At Incisa, two posts from Florence, we crossed the Arno, which here preserves the character of a torrent. This little village excited a degree of interest, from having once been the residence of Petrarch's mother, while he was an infant. It now consists of a cluster of mean houses, extending along the bank of the river. The other villages, though sometimes large, are generally mean in appearance, and unworthy of the splendid scenery which surrounds them.

What is called the Superior or Upper Vale of the Arno, extends from Florence onward towards Rome. Though it does not differ essentially in character from that portion denominated the Inferior, in the direction of Pisa, and already described, if possible it surpasses the latter in fertility of soil and exactness of tillage. The products are the same, and the distant landscape, always embracing peaks in the eternal chain of the Apennines, is often superlatively rich and beautiful. This portion of Italy has been celebrated for its exuberance by all writers from the age of Livy to the present time. Its cattle are the finest I have seen on the continent. They are commonly of a dove colour, both large and fat, the oxen having their heads set off with scarlet fillets and tassals, with as much taste as a peasant girl at a gala. The country

is extremely populous, and the inhabitants appear to be industrious in the cultivation of their few acres, appropriated as usual to grain, the olive, and vine.

After crossing a beautiful sunny plain, embosomed among the mountains, we reached Arezzo at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, and took lodgings for the night at the Post House. While dinner was preparing, an hour was occupied in looking at the town, which is charmingly situated in the midst of a smiling country, and contains a population of about 10,000. It has seen better days, and some of the streets exhibit an air of former magnificence, being remarkably well paved, spacious, and lined with stately edifices. The Cathedral is a vast building, standing upon an eminence, with a showy exterior. Among the usual share of ornaments in the interior, is a splendid painting of Judith presenting the head of

Holofernes to the people. The most has been made of a bad subject, and the picture possesses so much merit, that Morghen has hence drawn one of his best prints. In one of the aisles is a marble tomb of an Archbishop, furnishing a curious specimen of antique sculpture. Before the church spreads an extensive promenade, planted with trees, and ornamented with a lofty column of granite rising in the

centre.

One of the first objects which the traveller inquires for on entering Arezzo, is the birth-place of Petrarch. Our curiosity was greatly augmented by having visited his secluded residence in the vale of Vaucluse. But what was our disappointment, on being conducted to the street, to find that the old house, in which he was born in 1304, had been demolished about eight years since, and a new one erected on its site. Such a revolution has dissolved the charm of association, and the traveller scarcely pauses long enough before the fresh stucco walls, to read a Latin inscription of great length, posted up like the rates of a toll-gate in front of the house. The early life of Petrarch seems to have given rise to several legendary and fabulous tales, though it was sufficiently romantic without any of these incredible stories. He was emphatically the child of misfortune. At the time of his birth, his parents were exiles from their native Florence, and his father was waging in the field an ineffectual struggle to restore the liberties of his country. While the poet was an infant, his mother returned to Incisa, the village mentioned above; and in crossing the Arno, her babe, put into a sack fastened to the end of a pole, and entrusted to a peasant whose horse fell in fording the river, was nigh being drowned. So says tradition. At the age of seven, he and his parents embarked at Leghorn for Marseilles, on their way to Avignon. They were wrecked during the voyage, and the infant bard again narrowly escaped. These moving accidents of his childhood were in consonance with the misfortunes of his riper years, and perhaps have been invented to harmonize with the story of his woes.

Arezzo (the old Arretium,) was anciently a town of great importance, and here the Consul Flaminius had his head quarters, previous to the fatal battle with Hannibal on the shores of lake Thrasymenus. Some vestiges of its antiquities still remain. We visited the ruins of the Amphitheatre, situated near the Roman Gate. Its construction almost