Florence and Northern Tuscany with Genoa: With Sixteen Illustrations in Colour by William Parkinson and Sixteen Other Illustrations, Second EditionHutton, Edward
History
Florence and Northern Tuscany with Genoa: With Sixteen Illustrations in Colour by William Parkinson and Sixteen Other Illustrations, Second Edition
Hutton, Edward
Art -- Italy -- Florence; Genoa (Italy) -- History; Tuscany (Italy) -- Description and travel
And he stayed with me and gave me his conversation. So
I dined, and when I had finished, "Open that great sack of yours," said
he, "and I will send you on your way," but I would not. Just then four
others came along in the sun, and on their heads were great bags of
leaves, and he bade them come and eat in the shade. Then said I, "What
are those leaves that you have there, and what are you going to do with
them?" And they laughed, making answer that they were silk. "Silk?" said
I. "Silk truly," said they, "since they are the leaves of the mulberry
on which the little worm lives that presently will make it." So I went
on my way with thanks, thinking in my heart: Are we too then but leaves
for worms, out of which, as by a miracle will pass the endless thread of
an immortal life?
So I came to Pontassieve, crossing the river again where the road begins
to leave it. There is nothing good to say of Pontassieve, which has no
beauty in itself, and where folk are rough and given to robbery. A
glance at the inn--for so they call it--and I passed on, glad in my
heart that I had dined in the fields. A mile beyond the town, on the Via
Aretina, the road of the Consuma Pass leaves the highway on the left,
and by this way it is good to go into Casentino; for any of the inns in
the towns of the valley will send to Pontassieve to meet you, and it is
better to enter thus than by railway from Arezzo. However, I was for
Vallombrosa; so I kept to the Aretine way. I left it at last at S.
Ellero, whence the little railway climbs up to Saltino, passing first
through the olives and vines, then through the chestnuts, the oaks, and
the beeches, till at last the high lawns appeared, and evening fell at
the last turn of the mule path over the hill as I came out of the forest
before the monastery itself, almost like a village or a stronghold, with
square towers and vast buildings too, fallen, alas! from their high
office, to serve as a school of forestry, an inn for the summer visitor
who has fled from the heat of the valleys. And there I slept.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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