descends rapidly towards the Tiber, and the eye may follow its source to the bridge, where the mausoleum of the family Plotia is erected in the form of a tower. The high road to Rome is also visible in the plain. It was the ancient Tibur tine way, then bordered by sepulchres; and at present, haystacks of a pyramidical form remind the spectator of the tombs, which they resemble in shape.

It would be difficult to find, in the rest of the world, a place more likely to beget powerful reflections. I do not speak of Rome, though the domes of that city are visible, by which I at once say much for a prospect; but I speak only of the district and its truly interesting remains. There you behold the house in which Mecenas, satiated with the luxuries of the world, died of a tedious complaint. Varus left this hill to shed his blood in the marshes of Germany. Cassius and Brutus abandoned these retreats, in order to overthrow their country. Under these pines of Frascati, Cicero pursued his studies. Adrian caused another Peneus to flow at the foot of that hill, and transported into this region the charms

and recollections of the valley of Tempe. To wards this source of the Soltafare the queen of Palmyra ended her days in obscurity, and her city of a moment disappeared in the desert. It was here that king Latinus consulted the god Faunus in the forest of Albunea. It was here that Hercules had his temple, and the Sybil dictated her oracles. Those are the mountains of the ancient Sabines, and the plains of Latium, the land of Saturn and Rhea, the cradle of the golden age, sung by all the poets. In short, this is the smiling region of which French genius alone has been able to describe the graces, through the pencil of Poussin and Claude Lor

rain.

I descended from the Villa d'Est about three o'clock in the afternoon, and crossed the Teverone over the bridge of Lupus, for the purpose of re-entering Tivoli by the Sabine gate. In passing through the grove of olives, which I before mentioned to you, I perceived a white chapel, dedicated to the Madonna Quintilanea, and built upon the ruins of the villa formerly belonging to Varus. It was Sunday-the door

of the chapel was open, and I entered. I saw three altars disposed in the form of a cross; and on the middle one was a silver crucifix, before which burnt a lamp suspended from the roof. A solitary man, of most unhappy mien, was prostrate against a bench, and praying with such fervour that he did not even raise his eyes at the noise of my footsteps, as I approached. I felt what I have a thousand times experienced on entering a church-a sort of solace to the troubles of the heart, and an indescribable disgust as to every thing earthly. I sunk upon my knees at some distance from the man, and, inspired by the place, could not refrain from uttering this prayer:

"God of the traveller, who sufferest the pilgrim to adore thee in this humble asylum, built on the ruins of a palace once occupied by a great man of this world,-mother of affliction, who hast mercifully established thy worship in the inheritance of this unfortunate Roman, who died far from his country among barbarians— there are at the foot of your altar, only two prostrate sinners. Grant this stranger, who seems to

be so profoundly humbled before your greatness, all that he implores of you, and let his prayer obtain for me the removal of my infirmities; so that we two Christians, who are unknown to each other, who have never met but for one instant during our lives, and who are about to part and no more see each other here below, may be astonished when we again meet at the foot of your throne in mutually owing part of our happiness to the intercession of this day, and to the miracles of your charity."

When I look at all the leaves, which are scattered over my table, I am alarmed at having trifled to such an extent, and hesitate as to sending such a letter. The fact is that I am aware of having said nothing to you, and of having forgotten a thousand things which I ought to have said. How happens it, for instance, that I have not spoken of Tusculum, and of that wonderful man, Cicero, who, according to Seneca, was the only genius ever produced by the Roman nation, equal to the vastness of its empire ? "Illud ingenium quod solum populus Romanus par imperio suo habuit." My voyage

to Naples, my descent into the crater of Vesuvius,* my tours to Pompeia, Capua, Caserta, Solfatara, the Lake of Avernus, and the grotto of the Sibyl would interest you. Baiæ, where so many memorable scenes occurred, would alone deserve a volume. I could fancy that I still saw Bauli, where Agrippina's house stood, and where he used this sublime expression to the assassins sent by his son : "Ventrem feri.†” The isle of Nisida, which served as a retreat to Brutus, after the murder of Cæsar, the

* There is only some fatigue attendant on a descent into the crater of Vesuvius, but no danger, unless indeed a person should be surprised by a sudden eruption; and even in that case, if not blown into the air by the explosion of the matter, experience has proved that he may still save himself on the lava, which flows very slowly, but congeals so rapidly that a person can soon pass over it. I descended as far as one of the three small craters, formed in the middle of the large one, by the last eruption. The smoke, towards the side of the Torre del Annunciata was rather thick, and I made several abortive efforts to reach a light which was visible on the other side towards Caserte. In some parts of the mountain the cinders were burning-hot, two inches under the surface. + Tacitus.