according to Pliny,* covered whole acres, and "made land scarce."

In the Cathedral,-a paltry structure, is a paltry monument to Cardinal York, the last of the Stuarts, who was Cardinal Bishop of this diocese; and another to Prince Charles Edward, the Pretender. The inscription, which is sufficiently simple, you It is as follows: may perhaps like to see.

Hic situs est Carolus Odoardus cui Pater Jacobus III. Rex Angliæ, Scotia, Franciæ, Hiberniæ, Primus Natorum, paterni Juris et regiæ dignitatis successor et heres, qui domicilio sibi Romæ delecto Comes Albaniensis dictus est.

Vixit Annos 57 et mensem, decessit in pace.Pridie Kal. Feb. Anno. 1787.

It was not over the dust of the last of this ill-fated race, that we could recal to mind their errors; pity for their misfortunes could not fail to find its way to our hearts; yet we could not but reflect, that had they sat on the throne of their fathers, and their royal tomb arisen in the land of their birth; we might now have had cause to mourn for our country, instead of her kings.

* Pliny, l. iv. c. 6.

LETTER XCIII.

GROTTO FERRATA.-CICERO'S VILLA —DOMENICHI

NO'S FRESCOS.-MARINO.

NOTHING can exceed the beauty of the drive from Frascati to Albano; for nine miles, we continue to pass through a varied succession of the most romantic and picturesque scenery. We first drove through the grounds of the Villa Giustiniani, and along a road shaded with umbrageous woods of oak and ilex, to the church and convent of Grotto Ferrata, one of the supposed sites of Cicero's Tusculan Villa. The situation is delightful; the ancient trees, and soft verdant meadows around it, almost reminded me of some of the loveliest scenes of England: and the little brook that babbles by," was not the less interesting from the thought that its murmurs might, perchance, have once soothed the ear of Cicero. It is now called the Marana, but is generally thought to be the Aqua Crabra, which he celebrates. No ruins or vestiges of his

villa, however, have been found here. It is said, that a part of a broken bust, inscribed with his name, was dug up; but even, if true, this would prove nothing, for his bust may have adorned many a Tusculan Villa. Two small bas reliefs were preserved in the church, and are now placed in the adjacent Episcopal Palace, (formerly inhabited by Cardinal York, now in the possession of Cardinal Gonsalvo.) One represents a philosopher, (young,) sitting with a scroll in his hand; the other, (a strange subject,) martial figures, supporting legs of a semi-colossal size.

The Convent of Greek Basilian Monks was founded by a St Nilo, or Nilus, in the tenth century, and if there was any thing so heathenish as a vestige of Cicero's Villa at that time, no doubt, he would piously sweep it all away. But the loss of the ruins of Cicero's Villa did not give me half so much pain as the sight of the ruins of Domenichino's Frescos, which are mouldering on the mildewed walls of the musty old Chapel of the Saints, already so destroyed, that the next generation will probably never behold them. Yet there is one of the four, (the Demoniac Boy,) which is, beyond all comparison, the finest of his works,—not even, I think, excepting the Communion of St Jerome, nor do I know any painting in the world that surpasses it, but some of Raphael's. You will remember that the subject is the same that forms the lower and principal picture of the Transfiguration, but Domenichino has avoided all approach to it, as completely as if he had never seen the work of his great 2 A

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predecessor. The poor possessed boy,-the touching agony expressed in his twisted muscles and distorted features,-his upturned eyes, his gasping mouth, his convulsed limbs, and his whole figure, struggling in the arms of his afflicted father, perhaps equal, and, if I may be allowed to say so, surpass the Demoniac of Raphael. In other respects, the composition is less learned and complicated. There are fewer figures,-consequently not the same room for the masterly variety, and contrast of forms, expression, and attitude, that excite never-ending admiration, in the crowd without confusion, that fills the canvas of Raphael. But the few figures that Domenichino has introduced, perhaps possess, from that very circumstance, a deeper interest, and an expression that takes more forcible hold on the mind. The saint, whose finger is pressed on the lip of the poor sufferer, while his other hand reaches the sacred oil that is to work the cure, is strikingly fine; and the earnest attention of the two little boys looking on, is nature itself. But the mother kneeling, watching in breathless suspense the fate of her child, as if life hung upon its gasp, the whole expression, countenance, attitude, and drapery of this incomparable figure, are a masterpiece of perfection, and may well stand a comparison with the female in the Transfiguration.

The next in merit of these frescos, is a miracle which took place at the building of the very Chapel in which we are standing. We behold the fall of a column upon the affrighted people, in conseof the ropes breaking, by which the workmen were

raising it; but it luckily happens that the saint is looking at the plan of the building at the moment, and therefore their heads are not broken-being, it would seem, so miraculously thick as to resist it. This is an admirable production, but it is even more injured than the other.

The third, full of spirit and life, is the Meeting of the Emperor Otho and St Nilo, with all the pomp of attendants and horses. The fourth, and least to be admired, is St Nilo, standing alone below, with the Virgin, Redeemer, and all the heavenly host, in the skies.

At Marino; a pretty little town, most picturesquely situated on the summit of a rocky hill, overhanging a romantic woody dell; we stopped to see the churches, which, being Friday evening, were crowded with people. I could tell you of a fine painting of Guercino's, St Bartholomew on the Cross, with two ruffian executioners by his side; and the martyrdom of another saint; both in the Cathedral ; but that I must already have exhausted your patience on this head. Pursuing our way, we walked down the steep hill into the romantic dell below, the carriages following; at the bottom, the bridge crossing the brawling stream; the rocks overhanging it, shaded by drooping plants; the ruined ivy-covered Gothic tower, that rose far above the deep thick woods of oak and ilex; and the bright verdure of the gay meadows; formed one of the most delightful scenes I ever beheld, and the most admirably calculated for painting. In the foreground, was the road winding abruptly round, and at one corner, a