the valley through a rugged pass of the Apennines. It was a sight worth seeing. There were originally four stupendous arches, one of which is yet standing, though its massive blocks of stone, started from their places, and hanging at a › dizzy height in the air, seemed ready at every moment to drop upon our heads. Some of their fellows have already yielded to the pressure of the hand of time, and left wide rents in the imperial structure. One of the piers, in the shape of a dilapidated tower, with a tuft of shrubbery springing from its top, has braved for nearly two thousand years the impetuous current of the Nar, which foams and dashes round the ruin. The complexion of this stream is exactly expressed by the epithet sulphureous, applied to it by the Latin poets, who were as chaste and discriminating in their colouring of objects, as were the great painters of modern Italy.

The passage of the Nar, through this long, rugged, and profound chasm is not only picturesque but grand. If it were the Tiber, instead of only one of its branches, the scene would be sublime. The abyss is several hundred feet deep, bordered on either hand by nearly perpendicular walls of rocks and hanging woods, thrown together with a good deal of rudeness. So rough is the channel as to keep the river in a constant foam for a mile or two. The hills on the right bank are perfectly sólitary, crowned with forests of great depth and richness. An old path, for miles winding along the opposite cliffs, forms a striking and romantic feature in the picture. The ancient town of Narni occupies the very summit of the hill, on the left bank, and from its ramparts the eye looks down into the yawning gulf, or turns to survey once more the sunny vale of Terni, in which the Nar seems to linger, enamoured of its flowery borders, before it hurries away through the mountain pass. Our ascent to the town from the ruins of the bridge was extremely arduous, and the streets form such a perfect labyrinth, that it was necessary to take a guide to show us the way to our coaches. Narni has never recovered, and apparently never will recover, from the ravages of the Venetians, in the 15th century, while they were in alliance, or rather co-operated with the Emperor Charles V. in scourging Italy. The houses are little more than miserable hovels, and the inhabitants appear to be sunk into the lowest depths of poverty.

After traversing for some distance the high banks of the

Nar, and thence passing a deep woody glen, we arrived a second time in sight of the Tiber, whose waters had been augmented by several large tributaries since leaving Perugia. The ruins of the old town of Ocriculum, in the territory of Umbria, break through the smooth green sward of a plain, which spreads between the road and the left bank of the river, rising in dark, insulated masses. It is said that a continuous faubourg, lined with ranges of palaces and temples, extended hence to the gates of Rome. Such a conjecture in its full extent is at least doubtful, as few traces of such magnificence have been found. The modern town of

Otricoli, stands upon a hill, within a short distance of its ancient namesake; and the former is almost in as ruinous a condition as the latter.

The vale of the Tiber is here extremely rural, and the current itself broad and strong, but quiet, bordered by extensive fields of grain and pasturage. It has a very scanty population, and the landscape exhibits an air of loneliness. From the ancient territory of Umbria, we crossed to the Sabine shore, on the Ponte Felice; a fine bridge, originally built by Augustus, and repaired by Pope Sixtus Quintus, who has taken good care that the public shall be fully on prised of his services, through the medium of numerous inscriptions.

In emerging from the gates of Borghetto, at the commencement of the next post, the team attached to the carriage of our friends became refractory and unmanageable. One of the horses fell with the postillion under him, by which it was subsequently ascertained, that his leg was fractured. But the poor fellow insisted on going to the next post, as he would otherwise lose his place; for his Holiness has made a regulation, that any coachman who happens to fall, whether by his own fault or that of the horses, shall forthwith be discharged from the line.

Civita Castellana is said to stand upon the site of old Veii. In entering it, the traveller crosses a bridge thrown over a deep and singular gulf, which appears like a fissure opened in the plain by some great convulsion of nature. It extends under the walls of the town like an artificial fosse. Its banks are naked and exhibit geological strata to a great depth. This region seems once to have been volcanic. The formation is a reddish sand-stone, covered with a light soil. A stately aqueduct stretches across the ravine, which

added to the massive ramparts, and the enormous castle whence the city derives its distinctive appellation, presents rather an imposing view. The interior offers nothing attractive, but much to sicken and sadden the heart. Pausing merely long enough to take some refreshment at a wretched hotel, we hastened across a sandy, solitary waste to Nepi, and thence to Monte Rosi.

Just before entering the latter town, a pretty lake was observed on the right of the road; while on the left, Mount Soracte had been full in sight, during a ride of many miles. It now bears the name of St. Oreste. Byron has in three lines presented an exact image of this hill, which

-"from out the plain

Heaves, like a long swept wave about to break,
And on the curl hangs pausing."

So true is the profile, that it was at once recognized. The mountain has little of the dignity, which might be inferred from Horace's description. Although the snow was still lying upon the peaks of the long chain of Apennines to the east, not a flake was visible upon the dusky brow of Soracte. It is indeed of moderate elevation; less, I should think, than that of the Catskill, rising from the waste in the shape of a long dark ridge, insulated from all other hills. Horace drew its likeness in mid winter, and the reason why he selected it in preference to others of greater altitude, was probably the rare phenomenon of its being buried in snow, and therefore presenting a more striking image of the intensity of cold.

From Nepi and indeed from Borghetto onward, the whole country is pretty much a region of desolation, so far at least as it regards human beings. The soil however does not appear to be sterile. In many places, the road is bordered with woods, shrubbery, and wild flowers. But with the exception of the few old towns scattered at distant intervals along the waste, and with scarcely inhabitants enough to guard the ruins, there is absolutely no population. The last of these depopulated villages, before reaching the Campagna di Roma, is Baccano, consisting of a cluster of old buildings situated in the bottom of a deep basin, shaped like the crater of a volcano. It is said to be peculiarly subject to Malariaan inference which might readily be drawn from its position, as an unbroken ridge of hills guards it effectually from ven

tillation, and causes a perfect stagnation of the air. The settlement, whatever may have been its ancient or modern extent, is now dwindled to a handful of inhabitants, and would probably be wholly abandoned, were it not necessary for the accommodation of travellers.

At 4 o'clock in the afternoon, on making our exit through an artificial notch in this crater, the Campagna di Roma burst full upon our view, spreading towards the south like a blue and boundless waste of ocean, with an interminable range of Apennines on the east, and Mont Albano, bearing a circle of white villages upon its brow, rising in the midst like a dim and distant island. With such scenery before us, and in the enthusiasm of the moment, it was to no effect that the coachman remonstrated against the delay of climbing the hills, by the side of the road, for the sake of extending the prospect. From these heights, and at the distance of fourteen miles, Rome itself, seated upon the Seven Hills in all its lonely grandeur, and elevated moderately above its lowlying environs, presented a long, faint line of buildings in the verge of the horizon. Over all, the dome of St. Peter's was conspicuous, and rose like a sun-lit beacon, to guide our path-way across the desert, which yet remained to be traversed, before reaching the gates of "the Eternal City."

Having gazed till the eagerness of curiosity was in some degree allayed, though by no means satisfied, we rejoined our carriages and commenced a rapid flight over the Campagna. I have compared this immense waste, which lies in a circular form, and is something more than a hundred miles in circumference, to the sea itself, to which its uniform expanse bears a striking resemblance. Perhaps its formation cannot be better illustrated, than by another comparison drawn from the same element. Its surface is not a dead level and marshy, as the remarks of some travellers had left me to believe, but is varied by undulations, of about the size of heavy swells of the ocean in a gale, The road crosses several pretty brooks, one of which (the Cremera) was reddened with the blood of the three hundred Fabii, who fell in battle with the old Vientes. In the whole distance of fourteen or fifteen miles, I did not observe a drop of stagnant water, or nuisances of any kind, which would be likely to breed pestilence. The soil is a light sandy loam-the last

* Lady Morgan speaks of people at work "in pestilential marshes."

in the world to which we should look for bad air and noxious exhalations.

The Campagna is by no means so barren, as many tourists have represented. It is uniformly covered with a lively green sod, like ordinary American pasture land; appearing to be fed close by the cattle, sheep, and goats, which are forever grazing upon it, both summer and winter. The whole region lies unfenced, though the herdsmen and shepherds of the proprietors have their prescribed limits. There are no trees of any kind, and the shrubbery along the road is scanty. The genista or broom, gay with its yellow blossoms, sometimes skirted the path; and in the most desolate parts of the Campagna, the wild poppy waved its crimson petals. This latter plant, with all its gaiety of dress, appears to be a recluse in its habits, loving unfrequented fields, and the most desolate ruins. It grows in such profusion, as to form a conspicuous feature in Italian landscape.

Scarcely a single acre of this immense tract, embracing twelve or fifteen hundred square miles, is under cultivation; but in my opinion, by proper tillage, by the use of gypsum and other manures, it might easily be reclaimed, and rendered highly productive of grass, grain, vegetables, and fruits. If the Pope, his seventy Cardinals, and the Roman nobility, would apportion out the neglected patrimony of St. Peter to a colony of Yankee emigrants, they would in less than half a century make the Campagna di Roma one of the finest countries in the world, besides expelling that dæmon of the waste, the Mal'aria, and restoring republican liberty to the Seven Hills. Such have been my remarks in crossing this region in several directions, and such is my full belief. Industry and enterprise would perform greater miracles, than even the Romish church has ever witnessed.

The Campagna has at present all that loneliness and solitude which have been ascribed to it. There are probably not a thousand inhabitants in as many square miles. It is in fact, an unpeopled desert. A few, very few miserable habitations, with still more wretched tenants, are scattered at distant intervals along the road. The rest is all silence and desoration. Sometimes the mind is almost startled at the dreari

ness of the picture, Bleak ruins are occasionally seen bursting the cerements of the green sod, and rising from the plain, as it were the sepulchral monuments of buried splendour, the shadowy spectres of other ages! Here and there