BATTLE-FIELD OF THRASYMENE. 189 fore daybreak, the Roman Consul entered this pass, without sending forward a single spy to ascertain either the position of the ground or the enemy. At the farther side he saw on the hilltop the Carthaginian army, and pressed on. Just then a heavy fog rose from the lake, and covered the Roman host, while the hill-tops were left in the sun light, so that Hannibal could communicate with the different portions of his army unseen, and also detect, by the moving mist that stirred to the muffled tread of the fierce legions, every step of the advancing army. Hannibal's forces had dwindled from a hundred thousand down to twenty thousand, yet he had no choice but to fight or die. At a given signal, the men in ambush fell on the flank of the Romans, while Hannibal moved down on their centre. For three hours the battle raged with such terrific fury, that neither army were conscious of an earthquake that rocked under them the while. The tempest of passion and the shock of battle were more terrible than the passing earthquake. At length Flaminius fell, strug gling bravely, but in vain, to retrieve his rash error; and then the battle became a slaughter. The Roman legions were tram pled to the ground; and a rivulet that was loaded with the carcasses of the slain, rolled its purple torrent to the lake, till the lake itself was discolored far out from the shore. From that day to this, for two thousand years, it has bore the name of Il Sanguinetto, or the bloody rivulet. The peasantry retain the tradition of the battle, and the name of Hannibal is one of terror to them. As I looked over that plain, smiling in all the brightness of a spring morning, it did not seem possible it had once shook under the tread of the haughty African, and been soaked with the blood. of so many brave Romans. At evening I took a sail on this "sheet of silver,” (and it is a sweet lake with sweeter shores.) Thinking it would be somewhat romantic to have my boatmen sing as they rowed, I proposed to have them give me a song. They refused, under the plea of inability. I should as soon have thought of a duck being unable to swim, as of an Italian not knowing how to sing; so I offered them money. After much solicitation, and a liberal offer, they finally commenced-but such music! I am not very particular under such circumstances, if the harmony is not as perfect as it would be in a full orchestra, but this was altogether too much for my nerves. I begged them to stop, saying, "I'll pay you just as much as if you sung an hour-nay, double—if you will only stop.❞ Three beautiful islands rise out of the bosom of this lake, on one of which is a convent. Wishing to test the men's knowledge of their priests, I inquired if the monks lived there unmarried. "Certainly," they replied. "But," I added, “I should think they would be lonely.' "Oh," said they, "there are people enough on the island, and the monks have women in plenty." "How do you know that?" I inquired. "Why they have got a great many children on the island." "How can you tell,' "I asked again, "their children from the others?" "Oh, by their big heads." I laughed outright at the fellow's shrewdness. You must know the monks, as a general thing, have large heads, as well as fat round stomachs, and these good Catholic fishermen knew the proverb, "like father like son." Arezzo, which lies a little off the road, is well worth a visit, if for nothing else than to see the house in which Petrarch was born, and the well near which Boccaccio placed the comic scene of Tofano and Monna Ghita his wife. The cathedral stands on 'a commanding eminence, and its stained windows are probably the finest in the world. Their brilliant colors seem, indeed, as Vasari once said, to be "something rained down from heaven for the consolation of men." They have a custom here (i. e., the distinguished families) of putting a marble tablet over their doors, stating their rank and greatness. This strikes one as ostentatious, but it is very convenient to the traveller. Truly yours. A MAN BUILT IN A WALL. 191 LETTER XXXIX. A Man built in a Wall. FLORENCE, May, 1843. DEAR E.-Leaving Arezzo yesterday later than we ought, we were compelled to stop for the night at a country inn, entirely removed from any settlement, and with no house in sight of it. It was growing dark as we drove up, and the lonely inn, though not particularly inviting, seemed preferable to the uninhabited road that stretched away on the farther side. Every thing was in primitive style the stables were on the first floor, at the foot of the stairs, leading to the second story; and the horses slept below, while we slept above. As we went up we saw them standing by the manger, just where the bar-room should have been, quietly put away for the night. Having obtained some honey, my invariable resort in wretched inns in Italy, I made my simple meal and strolled out into the moonlight to breathe the fresh air, when on the hills in the distance, a bonfire suddenly blazed up, before which dusky figures were rapidly passing and repassing. On inquiry I found that it was kindled in honor of an approaching festivity, and that music and dancing would be in the peasant's cottage that night. I do not know why it is, but a mirthful scene in a strange country among the peasantry brings back the memory of home sooner than anything else. There is a freshness, a sincerity about it, that reminds one of his childhood years, and makes the heart sad. It was so with me last night. Every thing was quiet as the moonlight on the hills, and the stillness of nature seemed filled with sad memories. I returned to my bed, but not to sleep; the busy brain and busier heart drove slumber away. length a feeling like suffocation came over me, and I rose and opened the window and leaned out into the cool air for relief. All was quiet within and without. The stars were burning on At in the deep heavens, and the moon was hanging her crescent far away over the hills. The distant bonfire burned low and feebly, for the revellers had left it. The heavy breathing of my companion in the next room spoke of oblivion and rest, while my own loud pulses told how little sleep would be mine that night. Memories came thronging back like forgotten music, and the sternness of the man, and the indifference of the traveller, melted away before the feelings of the child, the son, and the early dreamer. As I stood looking off on the sparkling light and deep shadows of the uneven surface before me, suddenly from out a grotto of trees, came the clear voice of a nightingale. It was like the voice of a spirit to me, so strange and mysterious. Unconscious of any listener, it looked out from its thick curtain of leaves and sang on to the moon; its wild warble was like the murmur in one's dreams, and the music seemed half repressed in its trembling throat. I listened as it rose and died away and rose again, till I felt that the sweet bird was singing in its happy dreams. How long I listened I know not, and what the strange fancies that spell-bound me were, I cannot tell. At length the morning came and we started for Florence. While the driver was harnessing his team, I set off on foot and walked on for miles, while the quietness around was disturbed only by the mournful cry of the cuckoo, the sure precursor of rain. We at length entered the Val d'Arno, and wound along its beautiful banks. In the distance, on the right, was the Vallembrosa, immortalized by Milton, and the convent in which he dwelt. The scenery changed with every turn of the river, yet it was ever from beautiful to beautiful. * * * * * At length we entered the little town of San Giovanni (St. John), and after strolling over the cathedral, sent for the woman who keeps the key of the door that shuts over the withered form of a man cased in a side wall of the church San Lorenzo. As the sort of trap-door swung open, I recoiled a step in horror, for there stood upright, a human skeleton, perfect in all its parts, staring upon me with its dead eye-sockets. No coffin enclosed it— no mason work surrounded it, but among the naked, jagged stones, it stood erect and motionless. This church had been built centuries ago, and remained un A MAN BUILT IN A WALL. 193 touched till within a few years, when in making some repairs, the workmen had occasion to pierce the wall, and struck upon this skeleton. They carefully uncovered it, without disturbing its position or loosening a single bone. Why and wherefore I cannot tell, but the priests have left it to stand in the place and attitude it was discovered, an object of superstitious dread, yet of universal interest. A narrow door has been made to swing over it, to protect it from injury and shield it from the eyes of those who worship in the church. The frame indicates a powerful man, and though it is but a skeleton, the whole attitude and aspect give one the impression of a death of agony. The arms are folded across the breast in forced resignation, the head is slightly bowed, and the shoulders elevated, as if in the effort to breathe, while the very face-bereft of muscle as it is-seems full of suffering. An English physician was with me, and inured to skeletons as he was, his countenance changed as he gazed on it, his eyes seemed riveted to it and he made no reply to the repeated questions I put to him, but kept gazing, as if in a trance. It was not till after we left that he would speak of it, and then his voice was low and solemn, as if he himself had seen the living burial. Said he, "That man died by suffocation, and he was built up alive in that wall. In the first place, it is evident it was a case of murder, for there are no grave clothes, no coffin, and no mason work around the body. The poor civility of a savage was not shown here, in knocking off the points of the stones, to give even the appearance of regularity to the enclosure. He was packed into the rough wall, and built over, beginning at the feet. It is extremely difficult to tell anything of the manner of death, whether painful or pleasant, by any skeleton, for the face always has the appearance of suffering; but there are certain indications about this which show that the death was a painful one, and caused, doubtless, by suffocation. In the first place, the arms are not crossed gently and quietly in the decent composure of death, but far over, as with a painful effort or by force. In the second place the shoulders are elevated, as if the last, strong effort of the man was for breath. In the third place, the bones of the toes are curled over the edge of the stone on which he stands, as if contracted in agony when life parted. And," con |