I have already spoken of the solitude of the Campagna; but this part of the Appian Way, leading through it, is exceptionally lonely.  It might as well have led over an American prairie or Asiatic steppe on which the foot of man had never intruded.  You see along the white reaches of the road at a little distance what looks like a cluster of houses overshadowed by some tall umbrella pine, with all the signs of human life apparently about them; but, as you come near, the sight resolves itself into a mere mass of ruins.  The mirage of life turns out to be a tomb—­nay, the ruin of a tomb!  A carriage full of visitors may, perhaps, be seen at long intervals, their spirits sobered by the melancholy that broods over the scene; or a lumbering cart, laden with wine-casks from Ariccia or Albano, drawn by the soft-eyed mouse-coloured oxen of the Campagna, startles the echoes, and betrays its course by the clouds of dust which it raises.  There are no sights or sounds of rural toil in the fields on either side of the way.  Only a solitary shepherd, with his picturesque cloak, accompanied by two or three vicious-looking dogs, meets you; or, perhaps, you come unexpectedly upon an artist seated on a tomb and busy sketching the landscape.  For hours you may have the scene all to yourself.  Even Rome, from this distance, looks like a city of dreams!  Its walls and domes have disappeared behind the misty green veil of the horizon; and only the colossal statues of the apostles on the top of the church of S. John Lateran stand out in a halo of golden light, and seem to stretch forth their hands to welcome the approaching pilgrim.

It is well known to historians that the villa of Seneca, in which he put himself to death by command of Nero, stood near the fourth milestone on the Appian Way.  The circumstances of his death are exceedingly sad.  Wishing to get rid of his former tutor, who had become obnoxious to him, the bloodthirsty emperor first attempted to poison him; and when this failed, he accused him, along with his nephew the poet Lucan and several others, of being concerned in a conspiracy against his life.  This accusation was false; but it served the purpose of bringing Seneca within reach of his vengeance, under a colour of justice.  A tribune with a cohort of soldiers was sent to intimate his fate to the philosopher; allowing him to execute the sentence of death upon himself by whatever means he preferred.  Seneca was at supper with his wife Paulina and two friends when the fatal message came.  Without any sign of alarm he rose and opened the veins of his arms and legs, having bade farewell to his friends and embraced his wife; and while the blood, impoverished by old age, ebbed slowly from him, he continued to comfort his friends and exhort them to a life of integrity.  The last words of one so justly renowned were taken down, and in the time of Tacitus the record was still extant.  We should value much these interesting memorials; but they are now irrecoverably lost.  His wife, refusing to live without him, also endeavoured to bleed herself to death; but she was recovered by order of Nero almost at the last moment.  She remained pale and emaciated ever after from having followed her husband more than half-way on the road to death.