But The Horses Were Terribly
Bruised, And Almost Strangled, Before They Could Be Disengaged.
Exasperated at the villany of the hostler, I resolved to make a
complaint to the uffiziale or magistrate of the place.
I found
him wrapped in an old, greasy, ragged, great-coat, sitting in a
wretched apartment, without either glass, paper, or boards in the
windows; and there was no sort of furniture but a couple of
broken chairs and a miserable truckle-bed. He looked pale, and
meagre, and had more the air of a half-starved prisoner than of a
magistrate. Having heard my complaint, he came forth into a kind
of outward room or bellfrey, and rung a great bell with his own
hand. In consequence of this signal, the postmaster came up
stairs, and I suppose he was the first man in the place, for the
uffiziale stood before him cap-in-hand, and with great marks of
humble respect repeated the complaint I had made. This man
assured me, with an air of conscious importance, that he himself
had ordered the hostler to supply me with those very horses,
which were the best in his stable; and that the misfortune which
happened was owing to the misconduct of the fore-postilion, who
did not keep the fore-horses to a proper speed proportioned to
the mettle of the other two. As he took the affair upon himself,
and I perceived had an ascendancy over the magistrate, I
contented myself with saying, I was certain the two horses had
been put to the coach on purpose, either to hurt or frighten us;
and that since I could not have justice here I would make a
formal complaint to the British minister at Florence. In passing
through the street to the coach, which was by this time furnished
with fresh horses, I met the hostler, and would have caned him
heartily; but perceiving my intention, he took to his heels and
vanished. Of all the people I have ever seen, the hostlers,
postilions, and other fellows hanging about the post-houses in
Italy, are the most greedy, impertinent, and provoking. Happy are
those travellers who have phlegm enough to disregard their
insolence and importunity: for this is not so disagreeable as
their revenge is dangerous. An English gentleman at Florence told
me, that one of those fellows, whom he had struck for his
impertinence, flew at him with a long knife, and he could hardly
keep him at sword's point. All of them wear such knives, and are
very apt to use them on the slightest provocation. But their open
attacks are not so formidable as their premeditated schemes of
revenge; in the prosecution of which the Italians are equally
treacherous and cruel.
This night we passed at a place called Radicofani, a village and
fort, situated on the top of a very high mountain. The inn stands
still lower than the town. It was built at the expence of the
last grand-duke of Tuscany; is very large, very cold, and
uncomfortable. One would imagine it was contrived for coolness,
though situated so high, that even in the midst of summer, a
traveller would be glad to have a fire in his chamber. But few,
or none of them have fireplaces, and there is not a bed with
curtains or tester in the house. All the adjacent country is
naked and barren. On the third day we entered the pope's
territories, some parts of which are delightful. Having passed
Aqua-Pendente, a beggarly town, situated on the top of a rock,
from whence there is a romantic cascade of water, which gives it
the name, we travelled along the side of the lake Bolsena, a
beautiful piece of water about thirty miles in circuit, with two
islands in the middle, the banks covered with noble plantations
of oak and cypress. The town of Bolsena standing near the ruins
of the antient Volsinium, which was the birth-place of Sejanus,
is a paultry village; and Montefiascone, famous for its wine, is
a poor, decayed town in this neighbourhood, situated on the side
of a hill, which, according to the author of the Grand Tour, the
only directory I had along with me, is supposed to be the Soracte
of the ancients. If we may believe Horace, Soracte was visible
from Rome: for, in his ninth ode, addressed to Thaliarchus, he
says,
Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte -
You see how deeply wreathed with snow
Soracte lifts his hoary head,
but, in order to see Montefiascone, his eyesight must have
penetrated through the Mons Cyminus, at the foot of which now
stands the city of Viterbo. Pliny tells us, that Soracte was not
far from Rome, haud procul ab urbe Roma; but Montefiascone is
fifty miles from this city. And Desprez, in his notes upon
Horace, says it is now called Monte S. Oreste. Addison tells us
he passed by it in the Campania. I could not without indignation
reflect upon the bigotry of Mathilda, who gave this fine country
to the see of Rome, under the dominion of which no country was
ever known to prosper.
About half way between Montefiascone and Viterbo, one of our
fore-wheels flew off, together with a large splinter of the axle-tree;
and if one of the postilions had not by great accident been
a remarkably ingenious fellow, we should have been put to the
greatest inconvenience, as there was no town, or even house,
within several miles. I mention this circumstance, by way of
warning to other travellers, that they may provide themselves
with a hammer and nails, a spare iron-pin or two, a large knife,
and bladder of grease, to be used occasionally in case of such
misfortune.
The mountain of Viterbo is covered with beautiful plantations and
villas belonging to the Roman nobility, who come hither to make
the villegiatura in summer. Of the city of Viterbo I shall say
nothing, but that it is the capital of that country which
Mathilda gave to the Roman see.
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