Half-way to Rome we changed horses at Palo,—­a little grim settlement, composed of a post-house, inn, stables, a line of straggling fishermen’s-huts, and a desolate old fortress, flanked by four towers.  This fortress, which once belonged to the Odescalchi family, but is now the property of the Roman government, looks like the very spot for a tragedy, as it stands there rotting in the pestilential air, and garrisoned by a few stray old soldiers, whose dreary, broken-down appearance is quite in keeping with the place.  Palo itself is the site of the city of Alsium, founded by the Pelasgi, in the dim gloom of antiquity, long before the Etruscans landed on this shore.  It was subsequently occupied by the Etruscans, and afterwards became a favorite resort of the Roman nobility, who built there the splendid villas of Antoninus, Porcina, Pompeius, and others.  Of the Pelasgic and Etruscan town not a vestige remains; but the ruined foundations of Roman villas are still to be seen along the shore.  No longer are to be found there the feasts described by Fronto,[A] of “fatted oysters, savory apples, pastry, confectionery, and generous wines in faultless transparent goblets,”—­nor would it now be called “a voluptuous seaside retreat”; but good lobsters are still abundant there, and one can get a greasy beefsteak, black bread, an ill-cooked chicken, and sour wine, at only about twice their market value.  The situation is lovely, with the sea washing in along the rounded rim of the coast, close up to the door of the inn; and on a sunny day, when the white wings of feluccas may be seen gleaming far off on the blue Mediterranean, and the fishermen are drawing their nets close into shore, it seems as if it might really be made “a voluptuous seaside retreat,” but for the desolating malaria which renders it dangerous to rest there for a single night.

[Footnote A:  De Feriis Alsensibus, Epist.  III.  See Dennis’s Etruscan Antiquities, Vol.  I.]

Here, of course, we stopped as short a time as possible; and then, bidding adieu to the sea, struck inland over the Campagna to Rome.  The country now grows wild, desolate, and lonely; but it has a special charm of its own, which they who are only hurrying on to Rome, and to whom it is an obstruction and a tediousness, cannot, of course, perceive.  It is dreary, weird, ghostly,—­the home of the winds; but its silence, sadness, and solitude are both soothing and impressive.  After miles and miles up and down, at last, from the crest of a hill up which we slowly toiled with our lumbering carriage and reeking horses, we saw the dome of St. Peter’s towering above the city, which as yet was buried out of sight.  It was but a glimpse, and was soon lost.  The postilion covered the worn-out lace of his shabby livery with a heavy cloak, which he flung over his shoulder to keep out the dampening air, gave a series of wild flourishes with his whip, broke into guttural explosions of voice to urge along his horses, and on we went