May 27th, 1873. Fine.

After leaving the station in Rome yesterday evening, we saw nothing whatsoever during the night. At dawn we emerged from a tunnel on a curve and travelled on through mountains and valleys. We were still en route from Rome to Florence, in other words, in an area which we had passed through on our way down, albeit at night. This region has some deep valleys, and we heard the roar of water cascading down the hills. We could see villages straddling the hills, steep mountainsides soaring to great heights, and exposed rocks and trees drenched in spray. Everything imparted a cool and refreshing feeling. Fifteen minutes later the train emerged onto the plain, and at half past six we reached Florence Station.

To the north of Florence the mountains are especially steep, and since the taller sort of railway carriages are too dangerous for this part of the line, they are exchanged for shorter ones at Florence Station. There was a stop of half an hour for this purpose, so we all sauntered around in the vicinity of the station, drank some tea and awaited our departure. Our train left at seven o'clock. For the first thirty-four miles, until we reached the town of Pistoia, the terrain was not particularly uneven. Nevertheless, the view of the mountains racing to meet us offered a delightful prospect from the train. We travelled eighty-four miles from Florence before the steep mountains came to an end and we were greeted by plains again.