p
ascent; here and there are patches of forest. There is not a house to be
seen on this route and from there being a good deal of wood, and no
appearance of cultivation, one fancies oneself rather in the wilds of a new
country like America, than in so old a one as Italy.

Ronciglione is an old rubbishing town half in ruins and contains no one
thing remarkable.

The next morning at four o'clock we started from Ronciglione and reached
Baccano to breakfast.

Baccano contains only two buildings; but they are both very large and
roomy; the one is the inn, and the other serves as a barrack for the
Military. There is always a strong military detachment here for the
security of the road against robbers, who occasionally infest this
neighbourhood. The inn is of immense size. Travellers, who arrive here
late, would do well to halt here the whole night, as not only the road is
dangerous on account of robbers, but because if they arrive at Rome after
five o'clock p.m., they cannot release their baggage and carriage from the
Custom house till next day. Every carriage public or private that arrives
in Rome is bound, unless a special permission to the contrary be obtained
from the Government, to drive direct to the Custom house (_Dogana_). In the
like manner, on travelling from Rome to Florence, people generally prefer
to start from Rome at twelve o'clock and bring to the night at Baccano, so
as to avoid the bad inn at Ronciglione and sleep in preference at Viterbo.
I here speak only of those who travel by short stages as the _vetturini_
do.

Ariosto has given a celebrity to this wretched place Baccano in his poem of
the _Orlando Furioso_, in the story of Giocondo in the 28th Canto, as being
the identical place where Fausto, the brother of Giocondo, remained to
await the return of his brother from Rome, to which place he had gone back,
when half way between Baccano and Rome, to fetch the _monile_ which he had
left behind him, and found his wife not _alone_ and _dying with grief_ as
he apprehended, but _sotto la coltre_ with a servant of the family.

The country between Baccano and Rome is as unpleasing and even worse than
that between the former place and Ronciglione. It is hilly, but not a tree,
nor a house, nor a sign of cultivation to be seen except the two or three
wretched hovels at La Storta. There is nothing at all that announces the
approach to a capital city; and in addition to the dismal landscape there
is a sight still