St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1879-12-19
Letters from Italy.--No. 8.

Letters from Italy.--No. 8.
FROM FLORENCE THROUGH ETRURIA
TO RoME-ANTIoUITIEs-THE Col
OssEUM, THE FORUM, AND THE PAL
ATINE.
Italy abounds in three things Ma
donnas, beggars, and f1eas. The last
beggar description; from the second
if they are as numerous and
as impOrtunate as we found them at
FiesOle and the other environs of Flor
ence, one gladly fees, though in pity !;
the first, would it be pro-
fame to wish that another flood might
come expressly to destroy some mil
lions of them provided that score of
the best were saved in a second NOah's
ark (This suggestion is rather in the
interest of art than from any prejudice
of religion. May it not also be in the
interest of truth?) But Italy is also
the land of history-Of history less
ancient than that of Greece, Assyria, or
Egypt, or Palestine; but more continu-
GUS, more familiar, closer and so dearer
to us because the treasures of the farther
East have greatly come to US through
Italy. Here was the focal point of
wealth and empire here Christianity
fought its great battle with Paganism,
hence radiated the chief influences that
have civilized two continents and are
now with the growth and testing of
many centuries returning to bless the
palsied Orient and the dark, unknown
land of the Congo and the Niger.
Since Rome and Italy were almost
Synonymous, the interest of the travel
ler i'll the country and all that is visible
upon it increases with every step
towards the Eternal City. Anticipation
sharpens the faculties of observation.
We left Florence on charming au-
tumn morning. The hills about the
city were purple in the sunlight, and
the valleys of the upper ArnO as we as
cended were mantled with a light film
of dreamy haze. We skirt the foot
hills of the Apprentices for two hours,
then leave the Arno and soon reach
Arezzo, the ancient Arretium, which
was one of the twelve confederate cit
les of Etruria. This city is on a high
and fertile plain. 1t was the birth
place of Macenas, the patron of HOr-
ace and of Petrarch, the greatest lyric
poet of Italy in more modern times.
Eighteen miles farther on is CortOna,
another city of the old league, which
with its castles, messy walls and ter
races occupies the summit and slopes
OF sugar-loaf hill 400 feet in height.
Just beyond, Il branch of the railway
diverges leftwards to Perugia, the cap
ital of Umbria. Here the school of art
of which Perugino was the most dis
tinguished representative, fourished.
Hard by, and near each other, Michael
Angelo and Raphael were born, and
here they wrought in their early days,
till both their native valleys and the
ways of their teachers became too
strait for them.
With slight bend to the right we
follow the shores of Lake Trasimeno
on the north side of which, 2l7 B. c.,
Hannibal one fOggy morning lay in am
bush for the Roman consul, Flaminius,
and nearly destroyed his whole army.
1t was the worst defeat the Romans
ever experienced. A brook discolored
with blood on that day still bears the
name then given it, OF Sanguinetto.
Chinsl, at the highest point of our
journey and half way to Rome, is the
ancient Clusium. Here some old
Etruscan pottery is found, and much
more is manufactured. Trees and
shrubbery, which have been scanty for
two or three hours, re-appear. De-
scending we soon strike the Paglia, a
branch of the Tiber, leave Orvieto on
its pinnacled tufa cliff 700 feet above
us on the right, pass other smaller
towns on similar nights, and shortly
reach and cross the Tiber whose course
we follow. The stream is as yellow
here as towards its mouth, and no won
der since the earth is yellower still.
The hills on our left are broken, denud-
ed of all good soil, and bare of any
thing green. For miles they are as
barren as the sand hills of Hanover,
just over Norwich bridge. Sometimes
the volcanic rock juts out precipitously
and we steam through tunnel instead
of rounding the obstruction. Higher
up Oh the left are the green, forest
clad nights of the Sabine fountains,
and, on the right beyond the river, in
marked isolation, Soracte, whose prais-
es were often sung by Horace, rears its
lofty head. Twenty-Five miles from
Rome the country opens and we soon
enter the broad and almost uninhabited