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_.
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.
For many miles after passing Magione, the first village beyond Perugia,
our road skirted the memorable lake of Thrasymene, famed for the bloody
exploits of Hannibal, and then, passing without difficulty the Tuscan
frontier, we breakfasted at the little village of Ossaja, which is said
to have taken its name from the bones of the slaughtered Romans. The
contrast between the rich vine-clad hills of Tuscany, and the barren
wastes of the dominions of the Pope, is very striking to the traveller,
whilst there is also a manifest difference in the appearance of the
inhabitants. Instead of the ugly squalid-looking wretches, and fierce
threatening looks, which had almost frightened us at Monterosi, we
were now greeted with passing smiles and happy faces, betokening a
feeling of contentment, quite unknown on the other side the frontier.
As we approached Arezzo, the fields on each side of us assumed the
appearance of a well-cultivated garden, and our ride was accompanied
with such varied and pleasurable emotions, that the futile endeavours
of our old coachman to urge on his jaded horse, and the miserably slow
pace at which we advanced, served rather to amuse us than otherwise. At
length we reached the clean and well-built Arezzo, the birth-place of
Vasari and Petrarca, and having been almost jolted to a jelly in our
miserable _legno_, were glad enough to swallow some supper and retire
early to our beds, in the hotel of la Posta.
The following day brought us to Florence.
FOOTNOTES:
[36] At Amalfi, there is a locanda, where the above, with washing
included, may be had at eight pauls, or exactly sixpence a-day, each
person!!