rd out of the
Adytum, which spoke Greek during a full half-hour, but nobody understood
it. But quitting my Romanities, to your great joy and mine, let me tell
you in plain English, that we come from Albano. The present town lies
within the inclosure of Pompey's Villa in ruins. The Appian way runs
through it, by the side of which, a little farther, is a large old
tomb, with five pyramids upon it, which the learned suppose to be the
burying-place of the family, because they do not know whose it can be
else. But the vulgar assure you it is the sepulchre of the Curiatii, and
by that name (such is their power) it goes. One drives to Castle
Gandolfo, a house of the Pope's, situated on the top of one of the
Collinette, that forms a brim to the basin, commonly called the Alban
lake. It is seven miles round; and directly opposite to you, on the
other side, rises the Mons Albanus, much taller than the rest, along
whose side are still discoverable (not to common eyes) certain little
ruins of the old Alba Longa. They had need be very little, as having
been nothing but ruins ever since the days of Tullus Hostilius. On its
top is a house of the Constable Colonna's, where stood the temple of
Jupiter Latialis. At the foot of the hill Gandolfo, are the famous
outlets of the lake, built with hewn stone, a mile and a half under
ground. Livy you know, amply informs us of the foolish occasion of this
expence, and gives me this opportunity of displaying all my erudition,
that I may appear considerable in your eyes. This is the prospect from
one window of the palace. From another you have the whole Campagna, the
City, Antium, and the Tyrrhene sea (twelve miles distant) so
distinguishable, that you may see the vessels sailing upon it. All this
is charming. Mr. Walpole says, our memory sees more than our eyes in
this country. Which is extremely true; since, for realities, Windsor or
Richmond Hill is infinitely preferable to Albano or Frescati. I am now
at home, and going to the window to tell you it is the most beautiful of
Italian nights, which, in truth, are but just begun (so backward has the
spring been here, and every where else, they say) There is a moon! there
are stars for you! Do not you hear the fountain? Do not you smell the
orange flowers? That building yonder is the convent of S. Isidore; and
that eminence, with the cypress trees and pines upon it, the top of M.
Quirinal. This is all true, and yet my prospect is not two hundred yards