We entered the only inn in the place, followed by a crowd of wondering boys, for two such travelers had probably never been seen there.  They made a blazing fire for us in the broad chimney, and after the police of the place satisfied themselves that we were not dangerous characters, they asked many questions about our country.  I excited the sympathy of the women greatly in our behalf by telling them we had three thousand miles of sea between us and our homes.  They exclaimed in the most sympathising tones:  “Poverini! so far to go!—­three thousand miles of water!”

The next morning we followed the right bank of the Arno.  At Incisa, a large town on the river, the narrow pass broadens into a large and fertile plain, bordered on the north by the mountains.  The snow storms were sweeping around their summits the whole day, and I thought of the desolate situation of the good monks who had so hospitably entertained us three months before.  It was weary traveling; but at Levane our fatigues were soon forgotten.  Two or three peasants were sitting last night beside the blazing fire, and we were amused to hear them talking about us.  I overheard one asking another to converse with us awhile.  “Why should I speak to them?” said he; “they are not of our profession—­we are swineherds, and they do not care to talk with us.”  However, his curiosity prevailed at last, and we had a long conversation together.  It seemed difficult for them to comprehend how there could be so much water to cross, without any land, before reaching our country.  Finding we were going to Rome, I overheard one remark we were pilgrims, which seemed to be the general supposition, as there are few foot-travelers in Italy.  The people said to one another as we passed along the road:—­“They are making a journey of penance!” Those peasants expressed themselves very well for persons of their station, but they were remarkably ignorant of everything beyond their own olive orchards and vine fields.

Perugia, Dec. 24.—­On leaving Levane, the morning gave a promise, and the sun winked at us once or twice through the broken clouds, with a watery eye; but our cup was not yet full.  After crossing one or two shoulders of the range of hills, we descended to the great upland plain of Central Italy, watered by the sources of the Arno and the Tiber.  The scenery is of a remarkable character.  The hills appear to have been washed and swept by some mighty flood.  They are worn into every shape—­pyramids, castles, towers—­standing desolate and brown, in long ranges, like the ruins of mountains.  The plain is scarred with deep gulleys, adding to the look of decay which accords so well with the Cyclopean relics of the country.

A storm of hail which rolled away before us, disclosed the city of Arezzo, on a hill at the other end of the plain, its heavy cathedral crowning the pyramidal mass of buildings.  Our first care was to find a good trattoria, for hunger spoke louder than sentiment, and then we sought the house where Petrarch was born.  A young priest showed it to us on the summit of the hill.  It has not been changed since he lived in it.