There are many kinds of figs, the
best being green-skinned, growing yellower as they ripen; and the riper
they are, the more the sweetness within them intensifies, till they
resemble dried figs in everything, except that they retain the fresh
fruit-flavor; rich, luscious, yet not palling. We have had pears, too,
some of them very tolerable; and peaches, which look magnificently, as
regards size and downy blush, but, have seldom much more taste than a
cucumber. A succession of fruits has followed us, ever since our arrival
in Florence:--first, and for a long time, abundance of cherries; then
apricots, which lasted many weeks, till we were weary of them; then
plums, pears, and finally figs, peaches, and grapes. Except the figs and
grapes, a New England summer and autumn would give us better fruit than
any we have found in Italy.
Italy beats us I think in mosquitoes; they are horribly pungent little
satanic particles. They possess strange intelligence, and exquisite
acuteness of sight and smell,--prodigious audacity and courage to match
it, insomuch that they venture on the most hazardous attacks, and get
safe off.
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