The last Etruscan site in the great central plain that I have to describe is Orvieto, which lies on the extreme verge of the plain to the north-east. From Bolsena it is distant eight or nine miles; from Monte Fiascone, nearly eighteen. Both roads are “carriageable.” I took the latter; and in default of a better mode of conveyance was fain to journey on an ass, with another for my luggage.

This mode of transit is pleasant enough in a fine country and fair weather; and in Italy one sacrifices no dignity by such a monture. But when nebulœ malusque Jupiter rule the heavens, or the road is to be travelled with all speed—preserve me from the pack-saddle! I cannot then exclaim—delirium est asinus!—be he as excellent as any of sacred or profane renown, from the days of Balaam to those of Apuleius or Joan of Arc, or even as Dapple himself of immortal memory. Asses, like men, are creatures of habit.

Palo is well known to travellers as the half-way house between Rome and Civita Vecchia ;but few bear in mind hat the post-house, the ruined fortress, and the few fishers' huts on the beach, represent the Alsium of antiquity—one if the most hoary towns of Italy, founded or occupied by he Pelasgi, ages before the arrival of the Etruscans on these shores.

It is strange that no record is preserved of Alsium during the Etruscan period; but this may be owing to its dependence on Cære, with whose history and fortunes its own were probably identical. That it was occupied by the Etruscans we learn from history, confirmed by recent researches. The earliest notice of it by Roman writers is its receiving a colony in the year 507. At no time does it seem to have been of much importance; the highest condition it attained, as far as we can learn, being that of a small town. This may have been owing to its unhealthy position, on a low swampy coast. Yet it was much frequented by the wealthy Romans; and even the Emperor Antoninus chose it as his retreat, and had an Imperial villa on this shore.

“Can any good come out of Nazareth?” was asked of old. “Can any good come elsewhere than from Arezzo?” one is ready to inquire, on beholding the numerous tablets in the streets of that city, recording the unparalleled virtues and talents of her sons. Here dwelt “the monarch of wisdom,” —there “an incomparable pupil of Melpomene,” —this was “the stoutest champion of Tuscany, the dread and terror of the Turks,” —and that,—the world ne'er saw his like,—for

no unapt metaphor for a city of potters, as this was of old. Verily may it be said, “Parlano in Arezzo ancora i sassi ” —the very stones are eloquent of the past glories of Arezzo, and of her maternal pride. Yet some of her children's names have filled the trump, not of Tuscan, but of universal fame; and the city which has produced a M%cenas and a Petrarch may be pardoned for a little vanity.

It is not for me to set forth the modern glories of Arezzo —her Cathedral with its choice monuments of sculpture and painting—the quaint-fashioned church of La Pieve— the localities“ immortalised by Boccaccio—the delightful promenade on the ramparts—the produce of her vineyards, renowned in ancient times, and sung at the present day, as the juice which

But I may assure the traveller that nowhere on his journeyings in Etruria will he find better accommodation than at La Posta or Le Armi d’ Inghilterra, at Arezzo.

On approaching Leghorn from the sea, I have always been inclined to recognise in it, Triturrita, with the ancient port of Pisa. It is true that the modern town does not wholly correspond with the description given by Rutilius.

It has now more than a mere bank of sea-weed to protect it from the violence of the waves ; it embraces an ample harbour within its arms of stone ; but it lies on a naturally open shore; it has an artificial peninsula, on which the Villa Triturrita may have stood ; and, by a singular coincidence, there are still three prominent towers to suggest the identity.

NO traveller, now-a-days, omits to make a trip hence to Pisa. Like the Itinerant Gaul, he leaves his vessel in the port, and hurries away to lionise that city. He now needs no friendly loan of a carriage, or of saddle-horses ; but, thanks to the railroad, he may run to Pisa and back, while the steamer is taking in coals; for presuming on his privilege as “roba di vapore,” he may set custom-house officers, and all the usual stumbling-blocks of travellers, at defiance.

Another Etruscan site of great interest, but very little known, is Bieda, a village five or six miles south-west of Vetralla. It is the representative of the ancient town of Blera, of which its name is an Italian corruption. Blera could not have been a place of importance, under either Etruscans or Romans. Not once is it mentioned by ancient historians, and its name only occurs in the catalogues of geographers. We know that it was a small town at the commencement of the Empire; that it was on the Via Clodia, between the Forum Clodii and Tuscania; and there ends our knowledge of it from ancient sources. That it had an existence in Etruscan times, we learn, not from the pages of history, but from the infallible records of its extant monuments.

Bieda is best visited from Vetralla. The road for the first two miles is the highway to Corneto and Civita Vecchia. We then turned off to the left, crossed some downs by a mere bridle-path, forded a stream in a wild, deep hollow, and reached the brow of a hill, whence the village of Bieda came into view, crowning an opposite height. The scenery here was very romantic. The height of Bieda was lofty and precipitous, and as usual was a tongue of rock at the junction of two glens, which separated it from corresponding heights of equal abruptness.

This work is the fruit of several tours made in Etruria between the years 1842 and 1847. It has been written under the impression that the Antiquities of that land, which have excited intense interest in Italy and Germany during the last twenty or thirty years, deserve more attention than they have hitherto received from the British public; especially from those swarms of our countrymen who annually traverse that classic region in their migrations between Florence and Rome. A few Englishmen, eminent for rank or acquirements, have long been practically acquainted with the subject—but till the appearance of Mrs. Hamilton Gray's work on “The Sepulchres of Etruria” the public at large was in a state of profound ignorance or indifference. That lady is deserving of all praise for having first introduced Etruria to the notice of her countrymen, and for having, by the graces of her style and power of her imagination, rendered a subject so proverbially dry and uninviting as Antiquity, not only palatable but highly attractive. Her work, however, is far from satisfactory, as all who have used it as a Guide will confess; for there are many sites of high interest which she has not described, and on some of those of which she has treated many remarkable monuments have been subsequently discovered. It is to supply such deficiencies that I offer these volumes to the public.

Few roads in Italy are more frequented, and none are more generally uninteresting, than that from Civita Vecchia to Rome. He who approaches the Eternal City for the first time, has his whole soul absorbed in her—in recollections of her ancient glories, or in lively conceptions of her modern magnificence. He heeds not the objects on the road as he winds along the desert shore, or over the more desolate undulations of the Campagna, save when here and there a ruined bridge or crumbling tower, in melancholy loneliness, serves to rivet his attention more fixedly on the past. How should he? He has Coriolanus, Scipio, Cicero, Horace, and a thousand togaed phantoms before his eyes; or the dome of St. Peter's swells in his perspective, and the treasured glories of the Vatican and the Capitol are revealed to his imagination. The scattered towers along the coast, to his view are simply so many preventive stations or forts, and, with the inns by the way-side, are mere mile-stones—indices of the distance he has travelled and has yet to travel, ere he attain the desire of his eyes. And truly, as far as intrinsic beauty is concerned, it would be difficult to find in Italy a road more unattractive, more bleak, dreary, and desolate; and to one just making an acquaintance with that land of famed fertility and beauty, as so many do at Civita Vecchia, nothing can be more disappointing.

Orbetello makes a threatening front to the stranger. A strong line of fortifications crosses the sandy isthmus by which he approaches it; principally the work of the Spaniards, who possessed the town for a hundred and fifty years—from 1557 to 1707. On every other side it is fenced in by a stout sea–wall. But its chief strength lies in its position in the midst of the wide lagoon, protected from all attacks by sea by the two necks of sand which unite Monte Argentaro to the mainland ; and to be otherwise approached only by the narrow tongue, on whose tip it stands—a position singularly like that of Mexico.

This Stagno, or lagoon, the “sea-marsh” of Strabo, is a vast expanse of stagnant salt-water, so shallow that it may be forded in parts, yet never dried up by the hottest summer; the curse of the country around, for the foul and pestilent vapours, and the swarms of musquitoes and other insects it generates at that season, yet blessing the inhabitants with an abundance of fish. Orbetello has further interest for the antiquary. The foundations of the sea-wall which surround it on three sides, are of vast polygonal blocks, just such as are seen on many ancient sites of Central Italy—Norba, Segni, Palestrina, to wit—and such as compose the walls of the neighbouring Cosa.

South of Grosseto, the next place of Etruscan interest is Telamone, or Talamone, eighteen miles distant. For the first half of the way the road traverses a wide plain, crossing the Ombrone by a ferry. This, the Umbro of antiquity—non ignobile flumen—is a stream of no great width, and ought to be spanned by a bridge. In Pliny's time it was navigable; but for what distance we know not. Passing Alberese and its quarries, the road enters a wooded valley, with a range of hills on the right renowned as a favourite haunt of the wild-boar and roebuck—

Hither accordingly the cacciaatori of Rome and Florence resort in the season, taking up their quarters at Collecchio,a way-side inn, twelve miles from Grosseto. Where this range sinks to the sea, a castle on a small headland, a few houses at its foot, and a vessel or two off the shore, mark the port of Telamone.

Telamone lies nearly two miles off the high road, and to reach it you have to skirt the sandy shores of the little bay, sprinkled with aloes, and fragments of Roman ruin.

The places described in the last chapter lie within the Roman State. On the other side of the frontier is Pitigliano, an Etruscan site, and now the principal town in this part of Tuscany. The road to it from Valentano has already been mentioned. With a competent guide it may be reached also from Castro or Farnese, twelve miles distant; but woe to the traveller who would “take the track into his own hands.” Before leaving the Roman State, it would be well to have passports en règle, though he may never be questioned, “Whence or Whither?” Certain it is he will meet no doganiere at the frontier, which he will cross at a brook in a lonely wood. More likely would he be to encounter an unlicensed collector of taxes, for borderdistricts are proverbially unsafe, and this in particular is said to be the resort of outlaws from both States. Yet for the traveller's comfort, let me add that these are Will-o'-the-Wisp perils, ever distant when approached. The country here, however, is not suggestive of security, as it is peculiarly wild,—dense, gloomy woods, or open moors on every hand, and not a house by the wayside, save a farm on a green spot, about half-way to Pitigliano.

In former chapters I have spoken of the ancient city of Vetulonia, and of various sites that have been assigned to it; and have shown that all of them are far from satisfactory. In the course of my wanderings through the Tuscan Maremma in the spring of 1844, I had the fortune to fall in with a site, which has stronger claims to be considered that of Vetulonia than any of those to which it has hitherto been referred.

Vague rumours had reached my ear of Etruscan anti-quities having been discovered at Magliano, a village between the Osa and the Albegna, and about eight miles inland; but I concluded it was nothing beyond the excavation of tombs, so commonly made at this season throughout Etruria. I resolved, however, to visit this place on my way from Orbetello to Saturnia. For a few miles I retraced my steps towards Telamone, but, turning to the right, crossed the Albegna some miles higher up, at a ferry called Barca del Grassi; from this spot there was no carriage-road to Magliano, and my vehicle toiled the intervening five miles through tracks sodden with the rain.