Gallery to an illimitable extent. We visited his immense establishment, which has become a mart for all nations. During our stay at Florence, one morning was occupied in a delightful excursion on horseback to Fiesolé, three or four miles from town, in a northerly direction. We left before sunrise, by the avenue leading through the Porta Pinta, and after climbing constantly through the splendid environs, reached the brow of the Apennines, on which the old town is perched, at 7 o'clock. The day was fine, and the view into the vale below, reaching far towards Pisa, and embracing Florence with its dusky battlements, was truly magnificent, alone worth the labour of the arduous ascent. On the very summit of the hill stands a convent, with a pretty grove of evergreens in front, and enjoying unbroken retirement, save the occasional visits of such intruders as ourselves. It was once celebrated for its learned inmates; and it is said the Medici used here to find a modern Tusculum.* But the cloisters are now silent, and the inmates few. Within a short distance stands a small neat church, on the site of an ancient temple to Bacchus. The nave is separated from the aisles by eighteen beautiful Ionic pillars, which belonged to the fane of the heathen god. The cathedral, (for Fiesolé has its cathedral,) is in rather a shattered condition, and contains few objects worthy of notice. It was ornamented with red banners and other ornaments preparatory to a festa. The tall square tower is conspicuous even from the banks of the Arno. A few sepulchral monuments were found in the gloomy aisles; and among the rest, one to commemorate a learned peasant. A *The poet Milton here resided for some time, and did not forget the secluded retreat of science and learned ease in his immortal work, for the first idea of which he was perhaps indebted to the Divina Comedia of Dante, to which the plan of Paradise Lost in some points bears a striking resemblance. However this may be, one of his grandest images is associated with this seat of the Tuscan Muses: "He scarce had ceased, when the superior Fiend Behind him cast; the broad circumference Hung on his shoulders, like the moon, whose orb Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views classical Latin epitaph records the distinction and eminence to which he attained. Old Fæsulæ has almost vanished, and the little that is left is fast wasting away. Even the second city on the same site exhibits but a vestige of its former splendour. We found a section of the ancient walls, planted by a Greek colony long anterior to Rome and Florence. To the former, Fæsulæ gave arts, and to the latter population. The remnants of the ramparts are massive, ten or fifteen feet in height, and composed of large blocks of stone laid without cement. One of the gates is nearly entire. A peasant was ploughing in the midst of the very ruins. He stopped his team of oxen, (snowy as ever wore the garland and went to the altar of a heathen god,) and conducted us to the ruins of an amphitheatre in the same field. A mere fragment of it is left. One of the steps at the entrance is visible, and feet which are now dust have worn it nearly through. The part left seems to be the segment of a large structure, whence the size of the town may be inferred. It is certain that the first dramatic corps went hence to Rome. Near the theatre were the ancient baths, into some of the arches of which, now choked with rubbish, we descended with the ploughman for our guide. Within a few paces, the foundations of a palace peep through the coat of verdure. The peasant stooped down and tore away the rank weeds, which concealed the wreck of former magnificence. A lizard started from his covert, and shot a glance of his keen eye at intruders upon what are now his undisputed dominions. What a picture was here of a city, which was the cradle of Florence, and gave civilization and refinement to Rome! It is said an earthquake commenced the work of destruction, and rival states completed it. Even the daughter, (Florence,) instead of paying the tribute of respect to venerable and declining age, turned her parricidal arms against the parent that gave her being, and imposed the same chains which ruined Pisa. Our visit to this remnant of a city was full of interest. We walked nearly the whole way back, often pausing to contemplate the glories of the vale spreading beneath us, and to examine the villas, whither the Medici, in the golden age of the republic were wont to retreat, to devise new measures for promoting the freedom, prosperity, and greatness of their country. The Tuscan muses followed them into their clas sic shades, and the gratulations of thousands welcomed their return. What an era was that for national renown, and how has it vanished under titled dukes! Our associations were in a moment dissolved by the proud pile of marble, which rises above the gate of St. Gallo, inscribed to Ferdinand III. and surmounted by the double-headed Eagle of Austria. The four captives in chains, which recline on the entablature of twelve rich Corinthian columns, and which hide the figures of Fame and History, are but too true an emblem of the degradation of this once glorious Republic. On the 18th, I made a solitary excursion to Vallombrosa, my friends preferring the charms of the Gallery to the Paradise of Milton. For the first thirteen miles the road leads up the Vale of the Arno, and is bordered by fields luxuriant in foliage, producing corn, olives, and wine. The air was fragrant with the odours of the sweet-scented bean, which is extensively cultivated, and was in full blossom. Its flower is as grateful as the product itself. Virgil was my sole companion, and the attractions of the country left me time to read only a few of his Eclogues. I had the text and comment both before me; for at least a dozen shepherds and shepherdesses were observed during my excursion. They were tending their flocks of sheep and goats by the way-side; and while the latter quietly browsed the herbage, the former employed their time in spinning, or other labour. But it is difficult to trace any of the poet's dramatis persona in these ragged and dirty rustics, who are generally of the lower classes of peasantry. Thirteen miles from Florence, I was obliged to leave the carriage and mount a donkey for the remaining five miles, over a mountainous and rugged path. Some part of the way was so steep as to compel me to walk. In one instance the by-path actually leads through the porch of an old chateau, and my donkey found himself unexpectedly among Grecian pillars. A fountain in the court bears the following curious inscription:" Potabunt onagri in siti sua”--the wild asses shall drink in their thirst. My pony understood enough of Latin to take the hint, and ran his nose into the trough without ceremony. Soon after passing this villa, the path leads along the bank of a little stream, which hurries down from the Apennines to the Arno, filling the solitary vale with its murmurs. It is crossed by a rustic bridge, and the traveller soon finds him self climbing a ridge of mountains clad with forests of chestnut and oak. At short intervals on the way, crosses and little shrines to the Virgin have been erected by the Monks. A person might trace his way through the woods by means of these pious beacons. The approach to Vallombrosa bears but a faint resemblance to the gates of a Paradise. A curtain of mountain fir forms the vestibule. The grove is artificial, which detracts much from its beauty. It is, however, thick, dark, and umbrageous, forming rather a pretty screen to hide the convent from the rest of the world. But the smooth lawn beyond is clearly Some dozen dependants on the Monks were cutting and burning the green turf in the field, for the purpose of raising a crop of potatoes, and the whole premises were enveloped in smoke. most unromantic. On my arrival at the door of the Convent, one of the brotherhood, clad in his surplice and black cap, received me with great cordiality, and bade me welcome to the 'secluded and hospitable retreat. He conducted me to a neat and comfortable suite of apartments, consisting of dining-rooms and bed chambers, appropriated to the use of strangers, for whose wants it is his peculiar duty for the time being to provide. From his office he bears the title of Forestiero, and he seemed resolved to render his honourable station, as a dispenser of the rites of hospitality, by no means a sinecure. His first order was to kindle a fire in the saloon, as the morning was chilly, and then inquired what refreshments he could offer from his humble store. Having settled the preliminaries for dinner, he conducted me over every part of the Convent-the cloisters, the cells, the chapel, the library, the refectory of the Monks, and even the kitchen. It is an extensive pile of buildings, three stories high, standing round a spacious court, with a handsome yard in front. The architecture is plain, and the complexion of the edifice a little darkened by time. In the chapel are many respectable pictures, which chiefly attract attention from being found in solitudes, embosomed in the depth of the Apennines. The walls of the church are lined with sepulchral monuments, where sleeps the monastic dust of eight centuries. Much classical learning and some taste are displayed in the epitaphs. The refectory resembles the dining-halls in the English universities. A table was spread for dinner, to accommodate perhaps twenty persons, the present number of the fraternity. The board was crowned by a decanter of red wine to each plate, and every thing bore the marks of neatness and good cheer. No peculiar austerities are in fact enjoined upon the brotherhood, who live in much the same style as Fellows of a College. The Forestiero took me to his own private apartment, which was furnished with a bed, a few chairs, a table covered with books and a crucifix. Any student might here be comfortable. The library is but a shadow of what it once was—a remark indeed, which may be extended to he whole establishment. During the late Revolution, the convent was suppressed by the French, its property confiscated, and most of the books dispersed. The shelves are still half vacant, though they bear the labels of the several compartments, into which the library is judiciously divided. There are at present not more than two or three thousand volumes. I took down a copy of Milton's works from the shelf, and found two papers inserted at the passages relating to this classical retreat. The first is one of the poet's grandest similes : "Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks The second passage is the celebrated description of the Garden of Eden, the original of which travellers have pretended to discover in the woody declivities of the Apennines, overhanging the retired glen of Vallombrosa. There is a little hermitage actually called Paradise, consisting of a solitary one-story building, seated upon a high point of rock, and shaded on one side by evergreens. The brook, alluded to by Milton, dashes down from the cloudy and still snowy tops of the mountains, forming numerous pretty cascades, and filling the deep solitudes with its murmurs. A bridge, more like that leading into a Mahometan than a Christian Paradise, formed by a solitary plank thrown across the current, conducts the traveller to the Hermitage. Notwithstanding all that has been said by Eustace and others, there is nothing peculiarly romantic in the character of the scenery at Vallombrosa, and I looked in vain for the original of Eden. Milton might have found a thousand scenes in his own country, every way superior in picturesque beauty. The forests of fir have all been planted by the |