Beyond the Ponte Sodo the precipices disappear and the ground slopes down gently to the edge of the river.  Here the valley of the Formello opens up—­a quiet green pastoral spot rising on the right hand into bare swelling downs, without a tree, or a bush, or a rock to diversify their surface.  On the sloping banks of the river the rock has been cut into a number of basins filled with water, where Sir William Gell supposes that the nymphs of Veii, like those of Troy, “washed their white garments in the days of peace;” but they were in all likelihood only holes caused by the quarrying of the blocks of stone used in the construction of the walls and buildings of the city.  The slopes of this valley seem to have formed the principal Necropolis of Veii.  Numerous tombs were discovered in it; but after having been rifled of their contents they were filled up again, and all traces of them have disappeared.  Only one sepulchre now remains open in the Necropolis, half way up the slope of a mound called the Poggio Reale.  It is commonly known as “The Painted Tomb,” or La Grotta Campana—­after its discoverer, the Marchese Campana of Rome—­who got permission forty-five years ago from the Queen of Sardinia, to whom the property then belonged, to dig in this locality for jewels and other relics of antiquity.  Instead of closing the tomb, as was done in the other cases, this accomplished antiquarian, with the good taste for which he was distinguished, left it in the exact condition in which he had found it, so that it might be an object of interest to future visitors.  Ascending the slope, we entered a long narrow passage about six feet wide and about fourteen feet deep cut through the tufa rock.  This was the original entrance to the tomb; and the discoverer had cleared it out by removing the earth that had accumulated in the course of ages.  A solitary crouching lion, carved in a species of volcanic stone, guarded the entrance of the passage.  Its companion had been removed some distance, and lay neglected on the slope of the hill.  The sculpture is exceedingly uncouth and primitive.  At the inner end of the passage a couple of similar lions crouch, one on each side of the door of the tomb.  They were placed there in all likelihood as symbols of avenging wrath to inspire fear, and thus prevent the desecration of the dead.  Originally the tomb was closed by a great slab of volcanic stone:  but this having been broken to pieces and carried away to build the first sheepfold or the nearest peasant’s hut, it has been replaced by an iron gate.  The walls around were damp and covered with moss and weeds, and the bars of the gate were rusty.  Our guide applied the key he had brought with him, and the gate opened with a creaking sound.  Lighting a candle, he preceded us into the tomb.  I cannot describe the strange mixture of feelings which took possession of me,—­wonder, curiosity, and awe.  This was my first visit to an Etruscan tomb.  In Rome I had been familiar with the monuments of a remote past; I had gazed with interest upon objects over which twenty centuries had passed.  But here I was to behold one of the mysterious relics of the world’s childhood.  I had previously read with deep interest the graphic account of this tomb, which Mr. Dennis gives in his Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, and was therefore prepared in large measure for what I was about to see.