* * * * *

Man has done what he can to deform this lovely region.  The most horrible places we have yet met with are Itri and Fondi, which look like recesses of depravity and dirt, and the houses more like the dens and kennels of wild beasts, than the habitations of civilized human beings.  In fact, the populace of these towns consists chiefly of the families of the briganti.  The women we saw here were bold coarse Amazons; and the few men who appeared had a slouching gait, and looked at us from under their eyebrows with an expression at once cunning and fierce.  We met many begging friars—­horrible specimens of their species:  altogether I never beheld such a desperate set of canaille as appear to have congregated in these two wretched towns.

At Mola I remarked several beautiful women.  Their head-dress is singularly graceful:  the hair being plaited round the back of the head, and there fastened with two silver pins, much in the manner of some of the ancient statues.  The costume of the peasantry, there, and all the way to Rome, is very striking and picturesque.  I remember one woman whom I saw standing at her door spinning with her distaff:  her long black hair, floating down from its confinement, was spread over her shoulders; not hanging in a dishevelled and slovenly style, but in the most rich and luxuriant tresses.  Her attitude as she stood suspending her work to gaze at me, as I gazed at her with open admiration, was graceful and dignified; and her form and features would have been a model for a Juno or a Minerva.[O]

LINES.

    Quenched is our light of youth! 
      And fled our days of pleasure,
    When all was hope and truth,
      And trusting—­without measure.

    Blindly we believed
      Words of fondness spoken—­
    Cruel hearts deceived,
      So our peace was broken!

    What can charm us more? 
      Life hath lost its sweetness! 
    Weary lags the hour—­
      “Time hath lost its fleetness!”

    As the buds in May
      Were the joys we cherished,
    Sweet—­but frail as they,
      Thus they passed and perished!

    And the few bright hours
      Wintry age can number,
    Sickly, senseless flowers,
      Lingering through December!

Rome, March 15.—­We arrived here yesterday morning about one, after a short but delightful journey from Velletri.  We have now a suite of apartments in the Hotel d’Europe; and our accommodations are in all respects excellent, almost equal to Schneiderf’s at Florence.

On entering Rome through the gate of the Lateran, I was struck by the emptiness and stillness of the streets, contrasted with those of Naples; and still more by the architectural grandeur and beauty which everywhere met the eye.  This is as it should be:  the merry, noisy, half-naked, merry-andrew set of ragamuffins which crowd the streets and shores of Naples, would strangely misbecome the desolate majesty of the “Eternal City.”  Though we now reside in the most fashionable and frequented part of Rome, the sound of carts and carriages is seldom heard.  After nine in the evening a profound stillness reigns; and I distinguish nothing from my window but the splashing of the Fountain della Barchetta.