opened one of these, that we might see the
manuscript notes, three or four centuries old, from which they sung.

We were much amused in looking through two or three Italian books, which
were lying in the traveler's room. One of these which our friend Mr.
Tandy, of Kentucky, read, described the miracles of the patron saint
with an air of the most ridiculous solemnity. The other was a
description of the Monastery, its foundation, history, etc. In
mentioning its great and far-spread renown, the author stated then even
an English poet, by the name of Milton, had mentioned it in the
following lines, which I copied verbatim from the book:

"Thick as autumnal scaves that strow she brooks
In vallombrosa, whereth Etruian Jades
Stigh over orch d'embrover!"

In looking over the stranger's book, I found among the names of my
countrymen, that of S. V. Clevenger, the talented and lamented sculptor
who died at sea on his passage home. There were also the names of Mrs.
Shelley and the Princess Potemkin, and I saw written on the wall, the
autograph of Jean Reboul, the celebrated modern French poet. We were so
delighted with the place we would have stayed another day, but for fear
of trepassing too much on the lavish and unceasing hospitality of the
good fathers.

So in the afternoon we shook hands with Brother Placido, and turned our
backs regretfully upon one of the loneliest and loveliest spots of which
earth can boast. The sky became gradually clear as we descended, and the
mist raised itself from the distant mountains. We ran down through the
same chesnut groves, diverging a little to go through the village of
Tosi, which is very picturesque when seen from a distance, but extremely
dirty to one passing through. I stopped in the ravine below to take a
sketch of the mill and bridge, and as we sat, the line of golden
sunlight rose higher on the mountains above. On walking down the shady
side of this glen, we were enraptured with the scenery. A brilliant yet
mellow glow lay over the whole opposing height, lighting up the houses
of Tosi and the white cottages half seen among the olives, while the
mountain of Vallombrosa stretched far heavenward like a sunny painting,
with only a misty wreath floating and waving around its summit. The
glossy foliage of the chesnuts was made still brighter by the warm
light, and the old olives softened down into a silvery gray, whose
contrast gave the landscape a character of the mellowest