My Lord Cardinals, may it please your most reverend and illustrious eminences; May it please your graces, my lord dukes; My lords, and ladies, and lady abbesses; Sir Charles, give me leave; Sir Thomas also, Sir John, Sir Nicholas, Sir William, Sir Owen, Sir Hugh, &c. Right worshipful the several courts of aldermen ; Mesdames, the married ladies; Mesdames the nuns and other maiden ladies ;—Messieurs Manson, Womanson, Jones, Hervey, Smith, Merryweather, Hipkins, Jackson, Johnson, Jephson, Damant, Delavigne, De la Bleterie, Macpherson, Scott, O'Brien, O'Shaughnessy, O'Halloran, Clutterbuck, Brown, White, Black, Lindygreen, Southey, Pip, Trip, Chedorloamer (who the devil, thought I, is he?) Morandi, Moroni, Ventura, Mazarin, D'Orset, Puckering, Pickering, Haddon, Somerset, Kent, Franklin, Hunter, Le Fevre, Le Roi (more French !) Du Val (oh, ho! a highwayman, by all that's gentlemanly!) Howard, Churchill, Burdett, Argentine, Gustafson, Olafson, Bras-de-feu, Sweyn, Hacho and Tycho, Price, Lloyd, Llewellyn, Hanno, Hiram, &c. and all you intermediate gentlemen, reverend and otherwise—with your infinite sons, nephews, uncles, grandfathers, and all kinds of relations. Then, you, sergeants and corporals, and other pretty fellows,— You gypsies, pedlars, criminals, Botany-Bay men, old Romans, informers, critics, and other vagabonds,— Gentlemen and ladies, one and all,— Allow me to introduce to you, your descendant, Mr. Manson. What a sensation! I made the most innumerable kind of bow I could think of, and was saluted with a noise like that of a hundred oceans. Presently I was in the midst of the uproar, which became like a fair of the human race. Dreams pay as little attention to ceremony, as the world of which they are supposed to form a part. The gentleman usher was the only person who retained a regard for it. Pope Innocent himself was but one of the crowd. I saw him elbowed and laughing among a parcel of lawyers. It was the same with the dukes and princes. One of the kings was familiarly addressed by a lord of the bedchamber, as Tom Wildman; and a little French page had a queen much older than himself by the arm, whom he introduced to me as his daughter. I discerned very plainly my immediate ancestors the Mansons, but could not get near enough to speak to every one of them, by reason of a motley crowd, who, with all imaginable kindness, seemed as if they would have torn me to pieces. "This is my arm," said one, “as sure as fate," at the same time seizing me by the wrist. "The Franklin shoulder," cried another. A gay fellow, pushing up to me, and giving me a lively shake, exclaimed, "The family mouth, by the Lord Harry and the eye-there's a bit of my father in the eye."-" A very little bit, please your honour," said a gypsey, a real gypsey, thrusting in her brown face: "all the rest 's mine, Kitty Lee's, and the eyebrows are Johny Faw's to a hair."-"The right leg is my pro perty, however," returned the beau: "I'll swear to the calf.”— "Mais-but-notta to de autre calf," added a ludicrous voice, half gruff and half polite, belonging to a fantastic-looking person, whom I found to be a dancing-master. I did not care for the gypsey; but to own my left leg to a dancing-master was not quite so pleasant, especially as, like Mr. Brummel, it happens to be my favourite leg. Besides, I cannot dance. However, the truth must out. My left leg is more of a man's than my right, and yet it certainly originated with Mons. Fauxpas. He came over from France in the train of the famous Duke of Buckingham. The rest of me went in the same manner. A Catholic priest was rejoiced at the sight of my head of hair, though by no means remarkable but for quantity; but it seems he never expected to see it again since he received the tonsure. A little coquette of quality laid claim to my nose, and a more romantic young lady to my chin. 1 could not say my soul was my own. I was claimed not only by the Mansons, but by a little timid boy, a bold patriot, a moper, a merryandrew, a coxcomb, a hermit, a voluptuary, a water-drinker, a Greek of the name of Pythias, a freethinker, a religionist, a bookworm, a simpleton, a beggar, a trembling father, a hack-author, an old soldier dying with harness on his back. "Well," said I, looking at this agreeable mixture of claimants, "at any rate my vices are not my own." "And how many virtues ?" cried they, in a stern voice. "Gentlemen," said I, "if you had waited, you would have seen that I could give up one as well as the other, as far as either can be given up by a nature that partakes of ye all. I see very plainly that all which a descendant no better than myself, has to do, is neither to boast of his virtues, nor pretend exemption from his vices, nor be overcome with his misfortunes; but solely to regard the great mixture of all as gathered together in his person, and to try what he can do with it for the honour of those who preceded him, and the good of those who come after." At this I thought the whole enormous assembly put on a very earnest but affectionate face; which was a fine sight. A noble humility was in the looks of the best. Tears, not without dignity, stood in the eyes of the very worst. "It is late for me," added I; “I can do little. But I will tell this vision to the younger and stouter; they perhaps may do more." "Go and tell it," answered the multitude. But the noise was so loud, that I awoke, and found my little child crowing in my ear. VOL. X. No. 58.-1825. 44 K. L. M. VALLOMBROSA, CAMALDOLI, AND LA VERNA. Florence, Aug. 1825. DEAR D—, I now send you the conclusion of my visit to Vallombrosa, Camaldoli, and La Verna. After strolling about the woods and meadows of Camaldoli, we went up the hill to see the Hermitage. A winding shady road, of about a mile, leads to it. From the top of a neighbouring mountain, not at a much greater elevation than this, the Adriatic and the Gulf of Genoa may be seen at once. To meet with a town of hermitages is beyond a reasonable expectation; and this is, moreover, a walled town, though no more than half a mile in circumference, with a square before the church, and regularly-formed streets. It consists of twenty-eight habitations, each with a study, a bedroom, an oratory, and a kitchen, with a small garden adjoining. No bad place to live in, you will say, putting cold and solitude out of the question, but they are two grievous matters; besides, they had to attend to seven calls from the belfry every four-and-twenty hours. The hermitage we entered still bore evidence of how much its last occupier had mingled a love of the world he had quitted, together with his heavenly contemplations; for I saw, pasted against his study walls, prints of saints and sea-ports, the Madonna and the city of Florence, the final triumph of the church, and a map of Tuscany. The garden was rank and desolate. Before the revolution it was the custom for the monks to pass their youth here, in emulation of their patron saint, ere they were permitted to enjoy a life of less austerity in the convent below. Now church and houses are falling into decay; for either there are not funds to keep them in repair, or a hermitage is thought unnecessary for the nineteenth century. The exterior of the church, at least the front, is handsome; the marble of the building and the statues are bleached to the dazzling whiteness of snow; there needed not this comment on the clear and nipping air that blew about us. We were glad to run briskly down the hill, the ladies to a supper and lodging prepared for them in the dairy-house, at a short distance from the convent, and R. and I to the refectory and our beds within the holy pale. A large painting, by Pomarancio, of the Angles ministering to Jesus in the Desert, occupies the farther end of the refectory. The subject is appropriate, but I can say nothing more in its praise, except that it is, what is called, respectable. SILENTIUM was over the door; that was enough, without striking us all dumb at the supper tables; and suppose there was a little irregularity in our talking and laughing, should it not be pardoned under favour of the noise from the adjoining kitchen, as the busy cooks prepared our dainty dishes? At that moment I could not help thinking of Friar John of the Funnels, who "liked to remove his humanity into some good warm kitchen of God, that noble laboratory! and there admire the turning of the spits, the harmonious rattling of the jacks and fenders, and criticise on the position of the lard, the temperature of the pottages, the preparation for the desert, and the order of the wine-service. Beati immaculati in via-matter of breviary, my masters!" We passed a couple of days here in a most agreeable manner, chatting with the monks, sauntering about, lolling under trees, dis covering new points of view, sketching some of them as remembrances of the scenery, and turning over the library-books, though nothing very rare or amusing was to be found there, for this convent, like the others, has been spoiled of its choice books and manuscripts. I like these monks, and hope they like their monkery; yet I believe there are few of them who would not rejoice at being turned adrift again, provided it was by their own government. There is nothing remarkable in the convent, except its extreme neatness and cleanliness. As I was shewn through it, my conductor, wishing to pass by one of the doors, found it locked; upon which he was about to leave me in order to get the key, but perceiving it was in the lock on the other side, he said in a tone of regret," Then we must go the other way," at the same time giving me a sign of silence by pressing his finger on his lips. I followed him into an oratory, where a monk was reading. Though we moved onward as gently as possible, he was startled, and raised his head for an instant, when from his youth, his handsome features, his pale and melancholy look, I felt assured he was the heart-struck, miserable being, whose story I had heard. He was of noble family, educated in the best manner, and well accomplished, particularly in painting. In love with a young lady to whom he was about to be married with the consent of parents on both sides, his happiness seemed certain; when suddenly, by one of those acts of tyranny which fathers can commit, she was commanded to marry another man. The poor girl obeyed; and in a few months died of a broken heart. Her lover came here to lead his wretched life. He never smiles, rarely speaks even to his brethren, and sedulously avoids visitors. In his cell is a Madonna painted by himself in his happy days; and it is thought it bears a resemblance to her whom he so dearly loved, and who died for his sake. This is an afflicting story, and the having seen him, impresses it on me the more deeply. I am glad to escape to another subject. Camaldoli derives its name from Campo di Maldulo; he was the proprietor of the land in the days of St. Romualdo, and in 1009 made a gift of it to that romantic penitent. For the first two centuries the monks were called Romualdini, not Camaldolesi. They professed the rules of St. Benedict. The Emperors Otho the Fourth and Henry the Sixth were their principal benefactors. The saint's establishment was on the top of the mountain, at the hermitage; and there was only a hospital, where the present convent stands, for the sick and infirm. It appears, as they grew rich, that the greater part of them became invalids; for the hospital rapidly swelled in its dimensions, ur.til it was capable of accommodating a full hundred, together with their attendants, and then nothing could be more proper than to call it the convent. From this parent-stock several Camaldoli-scions have taken root in different parts of Italy, and there used to be one in France. By their laws this order is not allowed to erect a convent nearer to a town than five miles. There are two curious passages in their history which may amuse you. In 1450 a party of soldiers (under whose guidance is not mentioned) resolved upon attacking the convent, to possess themselves of the gold and jewels which the nobility of the Casentino had deposited there for safety during the wars of that period. On they marched, probably a little alarmed beforehand at the impiety of their enterprise, when, as they approached the consecrated walls, a dark cloud happened to roll down the hill towards them. All was consternation in an instant. They expected nothing less than that the cloud should open, and discover the saints arrayed in terror, ready to punish them for sacrilege. At length the cloud began to enclose them, and they ran down the mountain for their lives. The other anecdote is of a more heroic nature. When the Venetians united themselves with the Pisans, in 1498, under the command of Guidovaldo, Duke of Urbino, Pietro Medici, and Carlo Orsini, against the Florentine Republic, they despatched a hundred men to Camaldoli, with orders to force the place from its allegiance to the Republic; but as the monks, rather than betray their country, declared they would defend themselves to the utmost, the soldiers thought fit to retire. The Duke of Urbino, enraged at their obstinacy, marched up the hill a short time afterwards, on the 13th of November, at the head of five hundred men, to carry the convent by storm; but his fire, and sword, and scaling-ladders were all set at nought by the monks, who fought most bravely in their defence. The assault continued from daybreak to sunset, without the slightest advantage on the enemy's side. On the contrary, forty of them were killed, and a great many wounded, among whom was the Duke, who was shot by an arrow. After which the monks assembled in their choir, and chanted the twentieth psalm; the seventh and eighth verses of which they constantly repeat in their service in remembrance of that day: "Some trust in chariots, and some in horses, but we will remember the name of the Lord our God. They are brought down, and fallen; but we are risen, and stand upright.” Among their learned men no more than one has attained celebrity,— Ambrogio Traversari. This name ought ever to be held in honour by all lovers of ancient literature, and of its offspring, the modern. Without his assistance, and the earnest example he set to others, it is probable that Cosimo de' Medici and his grandson Lorenzo could not have accumulated their vast treasure of classic authors. He was born in 1386, and died 20th October, 1439. He was one of the first in modern Italy that studied the Greek language, under Grisolora and Demetrius Scarani. Never was a man so active, so indefatigable in any pursuit, as Ambrogio was in discovering the lost or forgotten works of the Greeks and Romans. For fourteen years of his life, says Tiraboschi, his sole occupation consisted in conversing with the learned that were then in Florence, corresponding with those that were at a distance, collecting MSS. from every quarter, exhorting others to similar researches, translating many ancient Greek writers into Latin, and composing other works, all relative to his eager pursuit; and nearly the whole of the remainder of his life was devoted in the same manner. In 1431 he was raised to the dignity of general of his order. His letters and travels are extremely curious, often affording a minute insight into the literature and history of the age. His last years were passed in the retirement of Camaldoli; and he speaks of his happy seclusion from the world, after so busy a life, in several of his letters. "Fateor, Laurenti carissime, ita me delectat ista tranquillitas mea,&c.” he says when writing to one of Cosimo's sons, informing him how comfortably he was preparing the windows of the convent with glass |