ted with those of the Emperor, against the people of his flock, led on by this martial prelate.*

Two or three miles from Viterbo, is a lake of hot sulphureous water, which boils furiously, and incessantly; throwing up a thick white vapour that I saw distinctly from the hill on leaving the town; but we had no time to visit it, the vetturino being, as usual, out of all patience with our tardiness.

We began immediately to ascend the long laborious mountain of Viterbo, the classical Ciminus. At an early age of the republic, the consul Fabius, and a Roman army, effected their memorable passage through the then untrodden depths of its forest, and gained, on its northern side, their great and decisive victory over the Hetruscans.+

It still preserves something of its sylvan character. It is covered with wild broom and brushwood, amongst which tower some noble chesnuttrees, and dark-spreading stone-pines, such as Claude Loraine loves to introduce into his landscapes. They give, even to scenes of nature, that repose which breathes in his poetic paintings. And the rich broad deep shade of this picturesque tree, with the tall, spiral, graceful form of the columbar cypress, is one of the most beautiful features of the climates of the South.

From the summit of the mountain we beheld at

* His name was Peter de Rupibus, Bishop of Winchester. The battle was fought in 1234.-Vide GIBBON, vol. xii. p. 266.

† Livy, lib. 9. dec. 1.

our feet the beautiful basin of the Lake of Vico, sunk in steep banks, covered with overhanging woods, amongst whose luxuriant shades Autumn seemed to have lingered, as if to paint them with his last and richest tints.

In descending, we observed a cross by the wayside, where, according to the accounts of the peasantry, eight years ago a traveller was murdered.

We passed through the town of Ronciglione, built in a most picturesque situation, on a precipitous bank immediately above a deep rocky ravine, overhung with wood. The roofless houses of its old town, and the grey walls and ruined towers of its Gothic castle, accorded well with the solemn shade of the aged pines which hung over them.

Though no tradition is attached to these unstoried ruins, they speak to the fancy, perhaps more forcibly from the very obscurity that involves them. Through every breach of time, and mouldering touch of age, they awaken the memory of the past; and all the sorrows and the crimes, the deeds of violence and scenes of grief, which successive generations may have done or suffered here, rise upon the awakened imagination. How beautifully the sun illumines these jutting rocks and spreading woods, with its setting beam! Its last golden glow shines in enchantment upon those gray walls, and those dark and spreading pines! Would that I could convey to you an image of its beauty! At any other time, perhaps, it might not possess the same charm; but in such an hour, and such an evening as this, its power is not to be resisted.

:

Poets in all ages have dwelt upon the praises of moonlight, and what heart has not felt its beauty? but there is in its beams, even when most brilliant, a coldness, an unvaried whiteness; and, I own, that to me, that soft and glowing, but too shortlived hour that succeeds the glorious setting of the sun, when all nature is melted into stillness, and harmony, and repose, and painted in hues of softness that the pencil could never equal, is ten thousand times more delightful and more dear,

Poets may be right, to visit the gray and tottering ruin "by the pale moonlight;" but I am clear that the painter, and all who can feel what painting is, should view it when the soft shades of twilight are gathering round, and the glowing beam still lingers in the western sky.

Of all hours, however, that of noon is the most unpicturesque and uninteresting. This is very observable in a summer's day in our own country, and still more so the farther we advance towards the tropics, where the sun, ascending nearly into the zenith, involves the whole face of nature in one universal glare. For this reason, too, I have often thought, that the light of the moon, "when riding near her highest noon," had not nearly so beautiful an effect as when her full round orb, glowing in the richness of the evening, rises above the horizon, throwing her broad lights and shadows over nature's face. But evening advances, and the shadows fall

Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbræ

and throw that breadth of light and shade, without which neither nature nor painting can appear beautiful. The shadows, however, are now so broad, and the last lingering beam has so nearly faded, that it scarce serves me to make these pot-hooks, which, as the carriage slowly jolts along, I contrive to indite, less for your amusement than my own.

The costume of the women here is pretty and picturesque; a party of them have just now passed the carriage, their bright eyes flashing at us from under their raven locks. They wear on their heads a scarlet mantilla, or square cloth, edged with black, and a black boddice laced up in front, the long sleeves of which are tied to the shoulder with a great many bows of blue ribbon, the white sleeve of the chemise peeping out in the intervening space.

Ronciglione is said to contain about 5000 inhabitants, and is the last healthy place-totally free from malaria,-between this and Rome, from which we are―(Heaven be praised!)—only thirty-five miles distant. But it is nearly dark. Adieu! Tonight we sleep at Monterosi.

LETTER VI.

Rome, 10th December, 1817.

ROME!-Yes, we are actually in Rome, at least I believe so, for as yet I can scarcely feel sure of the fact; and, as in restless impatience we pace up and down the room, and, looking round, see that it is like any other room, we continually ask each other in astonishment, if we are indeed in Rome, if we shall really to-morrow see the Colisium, the Forum, and St Peter's, or if, after all, it is only a dream?

But I must take up the history of our adventures where I left them off, when the shades of evening stopped my carriage epistle. I think I told you we were to sleep at Monterosi. Vain hope! There indeed we passed the night, but to sleep was utterly impossible. After travelling more than two hours in total darkness,-our olfactory nerves frequently assailed with strong fumes of sulphureous water—our vetturino quaking with the fear of robbers-and ourselves quaking with cold; hungry and weary, we reached at last the wished-for inn, where neither fire, food, nor rest was to be had.