see. The violence of the mountain, when living, has split it in a
variety of places, and driven it to a breadth of base beyond
credibility, its height being no longer formidable. Whichever way you
turn your eyes, nothing but portions of this black rock appear
therefore; so here is extent without sublimity, and here is terror
mingled with disgust. The inside of the house is worthy of the prospect
seen from its windows; wild, spacious, and scantily provided. Never had
place so much the appearance of a haunted hall, where Sir Rowland or Sir
Bertrand might feel proud of their courage when

The knight advancing strikes the fatal door,
And hollow chambers send a sullen roar.

MERRY

To this truly dismal reposing place is however kindly added a little
chapel; and few persons can imagine what a comfortable feel it gave me
on entering it in the morning after hearing the winds howl all night in
the black mountain. Here too we first made acquaintance with Signor
Giovanni Ricci, a mighty agreeable gentleman, who was kindly assistant
to us in a hundred little difficulties, afterwards occasioned by horses,
postillions, &c. which at last brought us through a bad country enough
to Viterbo, where we slept.

The melancholy appearance of the Campagna has been remarked and
described by every traveller with displeasure, by all with truth. The
ill look of the very few and very unhealthy inhabitants confirms their
descriptions; and beside the pale and swelled faces which shock one's
sight, here is a brassy scent in the air as of verdigris, which offends
one's smell; the running water is of an odd colour too, like that in
which copper has been steeped. These are sad desolated scenes indeed,
though this is not the season for _mal' aria_ neither, which, it is
said, begins in May, and ends with September. The present sovereign is
mending matters as fast as he can, we hear; and the road now cutting,
will greatly facilitate access to his capital, but cannot be done
without a prodigious expence. The first view of Rome is wonderfully
striking.

Ye awful wrecks of ancient times!
Proud monuments of ages past
Now mould'ring in decay.

MERRY.

But mingled with every crowding, every classical idea, comes to one's
recollection an old picture painted by R. Wilson about thirty years ago,
which I am now sure must have been a very excellent representation.

Well, then! here we are, admirably lodged at Strofani's in the