of the city, the charm was rudely broken by the appearance of the king; who, attended by a numerous party of his guards and huntsmen, had been wild boar shooting in the neighbouring woods.  The waterfowl, scared by the report of fire arms, speedily disappeared, and the guards shouted to each other, and galloped round the smooth sloping banks; cutting up the turf with their horses’ hoofs, and deforming the whole scene with uproar, confusion, and affright.  Devoutly did I wish them all twenty miles off.  The famous Grotto del Cane is on the south bank of the lake, a few yards from the edge of the water.  We saw the torch, when held in the vapour, instantaneously extinguished.  The ground all around the entrance of the grotto is hot to the touch; and when I plunged my hand into the deleterious gas, which rises about a foot, or a foot and a half, above the surface of the ground, it was so warm I was glad to withdraw it.  The disagreeable old woman who showed us this place, brought with her a wretched dog with a rope round his neck, bleared eyes, thin ribs, and altogether of a most pitiful aspect.  She was most anxious to exhibit the common but cruel experiment of suspended animation, by holding his head over the mephitic vapour, insisting that he was accustomed to it, and even liked it; of course, we would not suffer it.  The poor animal made no resistance; only drooped his head, and put his tail between his legs, when his tyrant attempted to seize him.

Though now so soft, so lovely, and so tranquil, the Lago d’Agnano owes its existence to some terrible convulsion of the elements.  The basin is the crater of a sunken volcano, which, bursting forth here, swallowed up a whole city.  And the whole region round, bears evident marks of its volcanic origin.

* * * * *

This morning we visited several churches, not one of them worthy of a remark.  The architecture is invariably in the vilest taste; and the interior decorations, if possible, still worse:  white-washing gilding, and gaudy colours, every where prevail.  We saw, however, some good pictures.  At the San Gennaro are the famous frescos of Domenichino and Lanfranco:  the church itself is hideous.  At the Girolomini there is no want of magnificence and ornament; but a barbarous misapplication of both, as usual.  The church of the convent of Santa Chiara was painted in fresco by Ghiotto:  it is now white-washed all over.  At this church, which I first visited during the merry days of the carnival, I saw a large figure of our Saviour suspended on the cross, dressed in a crimson domino, and blue sash.  To what a pitch, thought I, must the love of white-washing and masquerading be carried in this strange city, where the Deity himself is burlesqued, and bad taste is carried to profanation!  To-day I saw the same crucifix in a suit of mourning; why should not our South Sea missionaries come and preach here?