the gloom by its dull red light, we arrived at the Inn of Covigliajo, an uncouth dreary edifice, situated in a lonely and desolate spot, some miles from any other habitation.  This is the very inn, infamous for a series of the most horrible assassinations, committed here some years ago.  Travellers arrived, departed, disappeared, and were never heard of more; by what agency, or in what manner disposed of, could not be discovered.  It was supposed for some time that a horde of banditti were harboured among the mountains, and the police were for a long time in active search for them, while the real miscreants remained unsuspected for their seeming insignificance and helplessness; these were the mistress of the inn, the cameriere, and the curate of the nearest village, about two leagues off.  They secretly murdered every traveller who was supposed to carry property—­buried or burned their clothes, packages, and vehicles, retaining nothing but their watches, jewels, and money.  The whole story, with all its horrors, the manner of discovery, and the fate of these wretches, is told, I think, by Forsyth, who can hardly be suspected of romance or exaggeration.  I have him not with me to refer to; but I well remember the mysterious and shuddering dread with which I read the anecdote.  I am glad no one else seems to recollect it.  The inn at present contains many more than it can possibly accommodate.  We have secured the best rooms, or rather the only rooms—­and besides ourselves and other foreigners, there are numbers of native travellers:  some of whom arrived on horseback, and others with the Vetturini.  A kind of gallery or corridor separates the sleeping rooms, and is divided by a curtain into two parts:  the smaller is appropriated to us, as a saloon:  the other half, as I contemplate it at this moment through a rent in the curtain, presents a singular and truly Italian spectacle—­a huge black iron lamp, suspended by a chain from the rafters, throws a flaring and shifting light around.  Some trusses of hay have been shaken down upon the floor, to supply the place of beds, chairs, and tables; and there, reclining in various attitudes, I see a number of dark looking figures, some eating and drinking, some sleeping; some playing at cards, some telling stories with all the Italian variety of gesticulation and intonation; some silently looking on, or listening.  Two or three common looking fellows began to smoke their segars, but when it was suggested that this might incommode the ladies on the other side of the curtain, they with genuine politeness ceased directly.  Through this motley and picturesque assemblage I have to make my way to my bed-room in a few minutes—­I will take another look at them, and then—­andiamo!

Florence, Nov. 8.—­“La bellisema e famosissima figlia di Roma,” as Dante calls her in some relenting moment.  Last night we slept in a blood-stained hovel—­and to-night we are lodged in a palace.  So much for the vicissitudes of travelling.