This morning we set off to visit the Falls of Terni (la cascata di Marmore) in two carriages and four:  O such equipages!—­such ratlike steeds! such picturesque accoutrements! and such poetical looking guides and postilions, ragged, cloaked, and whiskered!—­but it was all consistent:  the wild figures harmonized with the wild landscape.  We passed a singular fortress on the top of a steep insulated rock, which had formerly been inhabited by a band of robbers and their families, who were with great difficulty, and after a regular siege, dislodged by a party of soldiers, and the place dismantled.  In its present ruined state, it has a very picturesque effect; and though the presence of the banditti would no doubt have added greatly to the romance of the scene, on the present occasion we excused their absence.

We visited the falls both above and below, but unfortunately we neither saw them from the best point of view, nor at the best season.  The body of waters is sometimes ten times greater, as I was assured—­but can scarce believe it possible.  The words “Hell of waters,” used by Lord Byron, would not have occurred to me while looking at this cataract, which impresses the astonished mind with an overwhelming idea of power, might, magnificence, and impetuosity; but blends at the same time all that is most tremendous in sound and motion, with all that is most bright and lovely in forms, in colours, and in scenery.

As I stood close to the edge of the precipice, immediately under the great fall, I felt my respiration gone:  I turned giddy, almost faint, and was obliged to lean against the rock for support.  The mad plunge of the waters, the deafening roar, the presence of a power which no earthly force could resist or control, struck me with an awe almost amounting to terror.  A bright sunbow stood over the torrent, which, seen from below, has the appearance of a luminous white arch bending from rock to rock.  The whole scene was—­but how can I say what it was?  I have exhausted my stock of fine words; and must be content with silent recollections, and the sense of admiration and wonder unexpressed.

Below the fall, an inundation which took place a year ago, undermined and carried away part of the banks of the Nera, at the same time laying open an ancient Roman bridge, which had been buried for ages.  The channel of the river and the depth of the soil must have been greatly altered since this bridge was erected.

When we returned to the inn at Terni, and while the horses were putting to, I took up a volume of Eustace’s tour, which some traveller had accidentally left on the table; and turning to the description of Terni, read part of it, but quickly threw down the book with indignation, deeming all his verbiage the merest nonsense I had ever met with:  in fact, it is nonsense to attempt to image in words an individual scene like this.  When we had made out our description as accurately as possible, it would do as well for any