In the afternoon we walked through a grand pine forest to the western brow of the mountain, where a view opened which it would require a wonderful power of the imagination for you to see in fancy, as I did in reality.  From the height where we stood, the view was uninterrupted to the Mediterranean, a distance of more than seventy miles; a valley watered by a brunch of the Arno swept far to the east, to the mountains near the Luke of Thrasymene; northwestwards the hills of Carrara bordered the horizon; the space between these wide points was filled with mountains and valleys, all steeped in that soft blue mist which makes Italian landscapes more like heavenly visions than realities.  Florence was visible afar off, and the current of the Arno flashed in the sun.  A cool and almost chilling wind blew constantly over the mountain, although the country below basked in summer heat.  We lay on the rocks, and let our souls luxuriate in the lovely scene till near sunset.  Brother Placido brought us supper in the evening, with his ever-smiling countenance, and we soon after went to our beds in the neat, plain chambers, to get rid of the unpleasant coldness.

Next morning it was damp and misty, and thick clouds rolled down the forests towards the convent.  I set out for the “Little Paradise,” taking in my way the pretty cascade which falls some fifty feet down the rocks.  The building is not now as it was when Milton lived here, having been rebuilt within a short time.  I found no one there, and satisfied my curiosity by climbing over the wall and looking in at the windows.  A little chapel stands in a cleft of the rock below, to mark the miraculous escape of St. John Gualberto, founder of the monastery.  Being one day very closely pursued by the Devil, he took shelter under the rock, which immediately became soft and admitted him into it, while the fiend, unable to stop, was precipitated over the steep.  All this is related in a Latin inscription, and we saw a large hollow in the rock near, which must have been intended for the imprint left by his sacred person.

One of the monks told us another legend, concerning a little chapel which stands alone on a wild part of the mountain, above a rough pile of crags, called the “Peak of the Devil.”  “In the time of San Giovanni Gualberto, the holy founder of our order,” said he, “there was a young man, of a noble family in Florence, who was so moved by the words of the saintly father, that he forsook the world, wherein he had lived with great luxury and dissipation, and became monk.  But, after a time, being young and tempted again by the pleasures he had renounced, he put off the sacred garments.  The holy San Giovanni warned him of the terrible danger in which he stood, and at length the wicked young man returned.  It was not a great while, however, before he became dissatisfied, and in spite all holy counsel, did the same thing again.  But behold what happened!  As he was walking along the peak where the chapel stands, thinking nothing of his great crime, the devil sprang suddenly from behind a rock, and catching the young man in his arms, before he could escape, carried him with a dreadful noise and a great red flame and smoke over the precipice, so that he was never afterwards seen.”