g-necked,
straw-covered flask, nothing to attest its relationship to the generous
juice at the Three Moors except the singular, unique flavor! After this
little disappointment we left Viterbo, and drove on through the same
sort of scenery, which seemed to grow more and more beautiful in the
rosy light of the sinking sun. But it is hard to tell, for nothing makes
a journey so beautiful as to know that Rome is the goal. As the last
rays were flushing the hill-tops we came in sight of Orte, with its
irregular lines of building clinging to the sides of its precipitous
cliff in such eyrie-wise that it is difficult to say what is house and
what is rock, and whether the arched passages with which it is pierced
are masonry or natural grottoes; and there was the Tiber--already the
yellow Tiber--winding through the valley as far as eye could follow.
Here we waited for the train, which was ten minutes late, and tried to
make up for lost time by leaving our luggage, all duly marked and ready,
standing on the track. We soon began to greet familiar sites as we
flitted by: the last we made out plainly was Borghetto, a handful of
houses, with a ruined castle keeping watch on a hill hard by: then
twilight gathered, and we strained our eyes in vain for the earliest
glimpse of Mount Soracte, and night came down before we could descry the
first landmarks of the Agro Romano, the outposts of our excursions, the
farm-towers we knew by name, the farthest fragments of the aqueducts.
But it was not so obscure that we could not discern the Tiber between
his low banks showing us the way, the lights quivering in the Anio as
the train rushed over the bridge; and when at length we saw against the
clear night-sky a great dark barrier stretching right and left, we knew
that the walls of Rome were once more before us: in a moment we had
glided through with slackening speed, and her embrace enfolded us again.

[Illustration: THE TIBER, FROM ORTE.]

[Illustration: BORGHETTO.]

[Illustration: ST. PETER'S AND THE VATICAN, FROM THE FALLS OF
THE TIBER.]

The Tiber, winding as it does like a great artery through the heart of
Rome, is seldom long either out of sight or mind. One constantly comes
upon it in the most unexpected manner, for there is no river front to
the city. There is a wide open space on the Ripetta--a street which runs
from the Piazza del Popolo, at the head of the foreign quarter, to
remoter parts--where a broad flight of marble steps desc