below next caught our attention; every now and then we passed little wayside shrines or chapels adorned by pious hands with daisy chains or wreaths of wild flowers-sometimes only a few narcissi had been thrust through the bars; there is a naïve simplicity about these humble offerings which is touching; once we saw a little child, only just able to walk, nearly overbalance itself by holding up a bunch of buttercups sadly faded by his small hot hands. Per la Madonna,' he said to his grandmother, a wrinkled old contadina, who lifted up the baby that he might deposit his tiny offering at the Virgin's shrine.

The woods of Castel Gandolfo offer the most extraordinary variety of green tints, from the almost black of cypress and ilex to the pale yellow of poplar and willow; deep blue squills grow by thousands in the brown fields among the canne, making quite a carpet; sometimes we came upon a small black wooden cross let into the trunk of a tree, with a date, and the words 'Jesu, miserere' roughly cut upon it, probably marking the spot where a murder once took place. The people we met were simple, kindly, and courteous, with that charming smile which, whatever else may be their faults, makes the Italians so winning; even the importunate beggars who pestered us would receive our shake of the head with a smile, and Never mind, we shall meet another day,' or our driver, as on another occasion, who asked leave to get a glass of wine at a hovel, where a red rag, hung flag-wise from a pole, announced a wayside osteria, having received our permission with the ever ready smile, to our astonishment reappeared at the carriage door with a very clean glass and a small measure of wine, to ask: Will not the ladies taste first?' Of course we complied, his whole manner was so full of deference that there was no awkwardness, and his pleased look was almost a compensation for the sourness of the liquid.

Suddenly we reached the top of a steep hill where the wind blew freshly and was charged with a strange unpleasant odour very much akin to the 'foxy' smell so dear to the huntsman; it proceeded from the asphodel which covers the slopes round the Lake of Albano; seen in this luxuriance it is certainly beautiful, though in other respects the Poet's flower' is, to my mind, overrated. Below us lay the lake, opposite Palazzulo occupying the site of Alba Longa; however bright the day, something strangely weird and unnatural hangs about this sheet of water; it is beautiful as it lies there bosomed in green hills, whose sameness is relieved by the deep blue shadows cast by the scudding

clouds; its very existence is a mystery, whence does it derive its waters? Do hidden streams bubble up at unknown depths? Yet it is fed copiously, for the ancients found it needful to tunnel an overflow channel under the south-west edge of the deep basin which serves now to prevent floods rising over the few fields which line its shore on that side; no babbling brooks or foaming streams give life to the scene; it might be a miniature Dead Sea of fresh water. Then, passing through the beautiful gallerie or avenues bordered by magnificent old ilex-trees, we clattered gaily along the roughly paved street of Albano, and across a splendid viaduct, seven hundred feet long, built by Pius IX., overlooking the woods of the Parco Chigi, and reached L'Arricia, another picturesque little town whose grey roofs are dotted over with brilliant orange-coloured lichen, imparting a warm tone to the place. Next we passed Genzano, with its great villa SforzaCesarini, the grounds of which slope down to the Lake of Nemi, and finally, after some very steep climbing, we reached the little town of Nemi built on the site of the ancient Nemus, and most exquisitely situated on the edge of a precipitous cliff washed by the waters of the lake beneath, which occupies the basin of another extinct volcanic crater, not unlike that of Albano, but smaller, being only three miles in circumference. The village itself is small, clustering round an immense feudal castle, with a circular tower, which, after being successively in the possession of the Colonna, Borgia, Piccolomini, Cenci, and Frangipani families, now belongs to Prince Orsini. After walking through the hamlet, looking into picturesque interiors of vaults without any windows, where barrels stand all round, we finally reached the castle, and were admitted by the caretaker. It is a perfect specimen of an ancient feudal stronghold; everything is massive, sombre, and severe: from the entrance, where are some Latin inscriptions, bas-reliefs, and broken columns found in the grounds, a grand marble staircase leads up to the piano nobile, consisting of immense rooms which struck a chill into us, but must be deliciously cool during the hot Italian summer; the lofty ceilings are of oak, the wooden shutters gaily painted, suits of armour, tattered flags, old tapestry, arms, and hunting trophies adorn the walls; there are several curious family portraits, besides one of Cosimo di Medicis, and another of Juan Mirandola della Pica: wrought-iron lamps hang from the ceiling, and grinning bears' heads from the door handles, a bear being the Orsini crest. In the principal sitting-room is a huge fireplace with an opening

nearly six feet high, where logs from four to five feet long rested inside on quaint wrought-iron andirons. A magnificent marble sarcophagus in perfect condition, an equally beautiful carved oak coffer, and a strange flat dower-chest studded with brass nails formed the chief furniture of this apartment, though a few very incongruous articles of modern upholstery were dotted about, looking poor and tawdry beside the rude grandeur of the rest. Finally we stepped out on to a wide stone balcony from which we looked sheer down to the lake; the banks are covered with green, and on the slopes, facing the south, are cultivated the strawberries for which Nemi is so celebrated in the Roman market.

Afterwards we went into the garden and grounds, which extend over half the mountain-side; the views are too exquisite for words on the opposite side of the Lake rises Genzano with the Villa Sforza Cesarini; beyond stretches the vast Campagna, from the Promontory of Circe to Porto d'Anzio. The solitude and silence of these wilds is complete, some mouflons occupy an enclosed space, leaping from rock to rock with graceful agility. Down by the shores of the lake are the remains of a temple of Diana, not far off is a fountain of Egeria, recalling Ovid's description of how Diana changed the nymph into a fountain in consequence of her inconsolable grief at the death of Numa. Historical and classical names met us on every side, and sounded strange on the lips of the ignorant countryfolk who point out these sites to the stranger.

One more drive was alone possible, so we decided to wend our way to Rocca Priora, about an hour and a half from Frascati; it was quite different in character to any of the foregoing, and brought a totally different scene before us. The afternoon we chose was a stormy one, the sky being heavy with great masses of cloud through which sunshine occasionally burst. On and on we drove right into the heart of the hills; here was no vestige of olive, cypress, or asphodel, it might almost have been a Yorkshire or a Welsh landscape: the brown fields were full of peasants at work, long blue wreaths of pungent smoke rose from mounds of burning weeds, flocks of sheep or goats browsed peacefully on the green uplands and a fresh breeze blew off the higher downs. Each curve of the road revealed surprises and new beauties: mules and donkeys laden with sacks of charcoal, the driver walking behind, holding on to the animal's tail, passed us in files, or once it was a mule carrying two large faggots of

brushwood, upon which was seated an old man holding his two little grandchildren in his arms, and followed by women who had turned up their red aprons over their heads as shelter from a passing shower; suddenly a flock of wood-pigeons darted out from behind a belt of trees, startled by a wine-cart with tinkling bells, lamp swinging beneath, an olive-branch stuck behind the horse's ear, and the driver fast asleep inside, but watched over by a bright-eyed little lupetto dog; or we met an overseer wrapped in a wide cloak, and wearing a slouched hat, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, looking for all the world like a brigand. Wilder and wilder grew the country with a grand desolation, till after a final steep ascent we reached Rocca Priora, occupying the site of Corbio, a city destroyed 455 B.C. Such a place! built high up on the top of the Monte Algido, with two square towers which are beacons for miles round, dirty tortuous streets, often mere flights of stairs climbing from one house to another; on the doorsteps many a girl sat knitting with a pig beside her instead of a cat; the roadways were strewn with barrel-staves from the neighbouring chestnut-woods; oxen, children, dogs, pigs, all seemed to live together. In winter the inhabitants fill the snowpits round the town as a means of livelihood, and we wondered whether this source of income had anything to do with the dedication of a church to Santa Maria della Neva! Leaving Rocca Priora, the road commanded wondrous views of the plain, and indeed, go where you will round Rome, that marvellous Campagna is always before you with its exquisite play of light and shadow, dotted and streaked with colour; that particular evening masses of cloud with rifts of azure would one moment cast a dark shadow, the next a flood of sunshine on the distant snowpeaks of the Apennines, while the nearer landscape seemed to move as the eye sought to distinguish its features through the purple, blue, or translucent green patches which flecked its surface.

Coming back, we passed through some more of those strange rockbuilt fastnesses perched on hilltops: Monte Compatri crowned by the great monastery of S. Silvestro; Colonna retaining its mediæval character, and Monte Porzio; the latter, inheriting its name from the Porcian Villa of the younger Cato, stands on an olive-covered hill commanding lovely views into the Sabina, the houses are gaily painted, women were washing their clothes in the great stone troughs where the mules came to drink, babies tightly swaddled being laid down or tossed about like lifeless

bundles; a convent bell somewhere in the distance began to ring the Angelus; its echoes, dying away, warned us not to loiter till the chill evening air caught us in its clammy embrace, perchance to leave far other than pleasant recollections of our spring wanderings among a few of the innumerable places within easy reach of Rome.

Days and weeks might be spent in discovering others; the only wonder is that more travellers do not visit these classic spots, and realise the idyllic surroundings to which the descriptions of Virgil (in the Æneid) still apply.

BEFORE THE FLITTING.

BARE walls, cold floor, and empty grate,
Pictures and books and friends are gone,
And, dearer still, your face, my sweet!
I've nothing left to smile upon.

Not even a fallen crumb recalls

The feast we spread.

My little chamber only holds
One narrow bed.

Yet am I neither starved nor sad,
Though supperless and lone to-night.
To-morrow's songs are in my ears;
My feet are tired, my heart is light!
As tranquil as a happy child

Whose prayers are said,

I'll nestle down when darkness shrouds
My narrow bed.

ELSIE KENDALL.