Notes on a Tour in France, Italy, and Elba. 79 
Pompeii, and gazing at its untombed wonders, its edifices, its altars, 
and its gods; in groping my way in the deep and dark theatre of 
Herculaneum ; visiting the lake of Tartarus, now Avernus; the old 
city of Puteoli, where St. Paul resided seven days; the tomb of 
Virgil; the Grotto del Cane; the Monte Nuova, or New Mount, 
formed in thirty six hours by a volcanic explosion of 1538 ;”’ the 
Stygian Lake, the Elysian Fields, &c. &c., or inhaling the sul- 
phurous odors of the still smoking Solfaterra, or in clambering up the 
lofty, ashes-clad Vesuvius. This being accomplished, and more, I 
came to Rome by land, travelling on the Via Appia, much of whose 
ancient pavement is yet visible, consisting of stones a foot or more 
in length, six or eight inches in width, and perhaps as many in depth, 
and passing near the spot of ground on which the second orator the 
world has produced was basely murdered, and over the Pontine 
marshes, of which our company felt no dread. 
I shall say nothing of Rome, except to remark, en passant, that 
it is far the most interesting city I ever entered. I do not mean 
modern Rome. Burn St. Peter’s, and what adjoins it, and young 
Rome would be infinitely inferior to London, to Paris, to Edin- 
burgh, and to many other cities in Europe. No, sir, it is the old 
Rome, with which I was enraptured; where Horace was, and 
Cicero, and St. Paul; where Cato lived, and Virgil sung, and Ce- 
sar bled; where are monuments still visible, which tell the tales of 
other times, the Via Sacra, the Tarpeian rock, the triumphal arches, 
the aqueducts, the Coliseum! What a luxury it would be to you, 
sir, who are an admirer of the Latin classsics, to plunge into this 
ocean of speaking ruins, and spend weeks and months in it! 
A voiturin conveyed me to Florence, over a country of hills and 
dales, of mountains and valleys, overspread with the best of earth’s 
blessings—corn, wine and oil; a land of figs, and almonds, and 
pomegranates and olives. I did not sojourn long in this splendid 
city. The heat was oppressive, and yet not more oppressive than 
it often is at Washington or Philadelphia. Indeed, the summer heat 
of Italy is, 1 am persuaded, quite as tolerable as that of Maryland or 
Virginia, and the climate not a whit more unhealthy. My stay in 
Florence was, however, long enough to give me an opportunity to 
examine most of its curiosities. I early betook myself to the church 
called ‘‘ Santa Croce,” where repose the ashes of Italy’s noblest 
sons. On one of the walls is placed a simple epitaph over the tomb 
of that wonderful man, Galileo. On the opposite side are the chaste 
