Rome in the Footsteps of an XVIIIth Century Traveller

Every street in Magliano is clean, every house in good order and repair, while the piazza, one of whose sides is formed by the Masciarelli Palace, is the perfection of feudal propriety and quiet. I believe there is no authentic record of the existence of Magliano before A.D. 1350, although it is said by some to occupy the site of an ancient town- Mallianum: possibly, it has originated like Massa, Capelle, and other neighbouring villages, in the dispersion of the population of Alba. Its walls and fortifications are owing to a Cardinal Colonna, during the wars of that family with the Orsini. Don Tita Masciarelli, my new host, is one of the most important proprietors of the Marsica: the fertile estates of Paterno, on the banks of the Lake of Fucino,- the territory around Magliano and the valley nearly to Sant'Anatolia, are all possessed by him, or shared by his younger brother Don Vincenzo, who resides in a Casino nearer Monte Velino. Don Tita himself is the picture of plain but hearty friendliness and sincerity, and has a well cultivated mind. He goes but little from his estates, the care of which is his great hobby; and he feels a just pride in his model town of Magliano, of which he is as it were the little monarch. His Palace, as might be expected from its owner, is all neatness and arrangement, with a quiet air of solidity and somewhat of luxury throughout: witness the rooms I occupied during my stay, - the sitting apartment of which was thoroughly well furnished, and the carpetted bedroom, containing its four-post bed with chintz hangings, opening into a capital little dressing-room, full of all the usual requisites and comforts. I could have fancied myself in old England. At dinner, Donna Pepina Masciarelli, the lady of the house, (all married as well as single women are called by their Christian names here) a ladylike and good-looking person, joined our party; and their daughter Cecilia a pretty little creature of seven years old. The order of the repast, plateservice, &c., &c., were such as one might meet in the houses of substantial but unostentatious persons in our own country. (..) I remained three days at Magliano, never annoyed in any instance by officious attentions, but treated with the most simple and cordial warmth of hospitality. (..) Two afternoons I devoted to visiting Alba, the ancient Alba Fucinensis, which stands on a double hill, about two miles only from Magliano, though the walk thither across the plain, covered with stones, is as fatiguing as treble the distance on a decent road. (..)
August 26th, 27th, 1843. This morning I took leave of my good friends the Masciarelli, and sorry I was so to do. I had not been at all prepared to find such plain excellent people, from whose lips I did not hear one compliment during my stay - a rare occurrence in Italy. My next halt was Avezzano, where I remained two days.

* * *

August 28th, 29th, 1843. I decided on a short visit to Civita D'Antino and the valley of the Liris, and taking all I required in the ample pockets of a shooting-jacket and a large portfolio, I set off from Avezzano without any introductory letters, determined on trying my fortune for a night's lodging. By sunrise I had reached the town of Luco, where some people who had heard of our visit to Trasacco insisted on my taking coffee with them. After this hospitable interlude, I began to scale the great wall of mountain which confines the Val di Roveto down to Balzorano and Sora; and this was no light undertaking towards nine o'clock on an August morning. At the commencement of the ascent I passed several peasants slowly toiling up the path, all of whom affectionately conjured me not to attempt to proceed, as the exploit was not fit for "gente di città." In spite, however, of their prophetic warnings, I got to the summit, to their great amusement, before them all. With the marked friendliness of these people, they made me eat some pears and drink wine-luckily, not vino cotto; three of them also offered me clean shirts--"é pericoloso lo stare sudato in cima di queste montagne alte." One cannot but be struck with these little incidents. Far below my feet, though yet high above the valley of Roveto, through which the Liris glides, lay the town of Civita D'Antino; and a long descent through splendid forests of beech brought me to its level.

Civita d'Antino

A feeling of dreariness, of which I can give no idea, pervades the surrounding scenery. Opposite were the savage crests of Serra di Sant' Antonio, (whose deep recesses shelter a considerable waterfall) and, as far as eye can reach, the Vale of the Liris is closed on each side by long lines of solemn mountains, of an indescribably stern and gloomy character, clad to their summits with thick forests, which, until within the last quarter of a century, bears were not uncommonly known to inhabit. Civita D'Antino, a wild and scattered place, has a poetical and sullen grandeur in its aspect, as if it were altogether out of the world of life: no other dwellings are in sight, and its own bear the stamp of desolate and melancholy antiquity. The present town, containing about twelve hundred inhabitants, occupies but a small portion of the extensive site of the ancient city, the capital of the Antinates, the remains of which are here and there to be traced by fragments of cyclopean architecture. This spot has been more frequently visited than most of the towns of this region, vide Sir R. C. Hoare, K. Craven, &c.: and good accounts of it may be read in their works. I easily found the spacious palace of Don Antonio Ferrante, a wealthy man, and the great proprietor of the district. Don Antonio was absent; but although I had no introduction beyond a simple request for a night's shelter, I was as well received as if I had been travelling with a suite of domestics, and shewn to a handsome and clean room in the most friendly manner possible. And indeed, the comforts of the interior of Civita D'Antino are exceedingly striking, after the external appearance of the town: old and modern pictures in profusion, looking-glasses, china, bedeck the walls, and the number of rooms is bewildering; one suite where the present King Ferdinand has sojourned during some of his progresses is comparatively splendid. And in like taste and order was the repast this friendly family prepared for me, (their own dinner-hour being over) all things much as you might find them at any country gentleman's in our own country. A white wine of the district was highly commendable; and the lamb-cutlets might have done credit to South Down or North Wales hospitality. The representative of my absent host, a merry little physician of Sora, apologized that Don Antonio Ferrante's second son, Manfredi, was unwell, and unable to have the pleasure of receiving me: the Doctor also assured me, that I lost much in not having met with Don Antonio himself, who, he repeatedly declared, was "un vero fulmine," though in what respect his learned friend (for Don Antonio had once been an Advocate) resembled a thunderbolt, he did not precisely say. After dinner and a siesta, il Dottore shewed me a most delightful garden, attached to the house, and commanding the whole of the vast Swisslooking valley of Roveto. Nothing could be more unexpected or charming than this well-kept villa, in so wild a spot; and I could easily believe, that for months, nay years, the family do not go beyond their own grounds. In truth, the toil of ascent to these eyrie homes must make it infinitely desirable that they should contain all things to satisfy the wants of their owners. A nook in the garden contained a solitary wild boar, lately taken in the woods near the house, who seemed no wise reconciled to the garden luxuries of his new home. I was anxious to obtain a faithful representation of Civita D'Antino, but was scarcely able to do so, when a terrific thunder-storm, whose warning clouds had clothed the scene with inconceivable grandeur, drove me to the Palazzo Ferrante, where, till evening, I was amused by the good performance on the piano-forte of Don Manfredi Ferrante, whom I found on my return to the house. At supper, our party was further increased by Donna Maria Ferrante, and one daughter, who, though far from being so handsome as her sister Donna Costanza Coletti, was yet extremely pretty. The mistress of the mansion was still as remarkable for the beauty of her face as for her agreeable manners. The lady-like quiet self-possession and simple friendliness of these Abruzzese females, of the higher orders, much delighted me, and I fancied I saw the fac similes of the dames of our own country, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

Civita d'Antino - II

August 29th, 1843. I passed the morning in drawing, though the magnitude of the mountain lines prevents Civita d'Antino from being easily transferred to paper; and some time was devoted to the ancient Cyclopean remains round the town. After our noon-day dinner I set off, (though much entreated to stay by these good people) Don Manfredi accompanying me for two or three miles. (..) Below Civitella di Roveto, (from which the valley is named) I crossed to the right bank of the clear stream, and followed its course to the little village of Santa Croce, whence I toiled up a thickly-wooded hill of chesnuts to Canistro, a small neat town very high up on the mountains, my intention being to remain there until morning, as a married daughter of Baron Coletti resided there, and I partly hoped to have fallen in with some of my Tagliacozzo friends, who had been to her house on a visit. But on arriving there, I found my friends had departed that morning, so I hurried down again, and went on to Pesco Canale and Capistrello, reaching Avezzano (by very hard walking) at one hour of the night.

* * *

September 7th, 1843. Most bitter pass of Pescina! How the chilling wind wailed between your bleak rocks, as I set off towards Scanno at sunrise! (..) I could not accept Monsr. Richardon's invitation to pass the night at San Sebastiano, as my time was portioned out; so I pursued my route on a capital horse the good-natured man insisted on my taking to the top of the mountain, which is to be climbed before reaching Scanno. I had the greatest curiosity to see that town, having frequently heard of it from some of its inhabitants, who annually visit Rome during the holy week, where their curious head-dress makes them easily distinguishable. From the summit of the long hills there is the loveliest possible bird's-eye view of the whole Lake of Fucino, lying in unbroken deep-blue in its circle of purple hills. I turned from that beautiful scene with regret, and commenced following my guide through a long beechwood, till the mountains and vale of Scanno burst on the view in all their dreary majesty; no vegetation; no break in the hills to charm the eye with some milder scene beyond, but towering walls of bare rock, shivered into ravines, or formed by nature into gigantic buttresses, crowned with light gray crags and points against the dark-blue sky, and surrounding a long plain fully as barren as its confines. As I looked down on the desolate scene below me, a winding path among the great fragments of rock, with which this valley is thickly covered over, led my eye to the remotest part of it, where the dark indigo-coloured Lake of Scanno, with one bright building on its edge, and a fringe of trees at its upper extremity, lay solitary and gloomy in its mountain prison.

Lake of Scanno

At the end of a long descent I found myself opposite to the mournful little town of Villalago, in passing which I caught a glimpse of a chasm, the Gole or Foce di Scanno, which might be drawn as the Poet's Inferno; but my present way lay onward through the wild plain, whose appearance was by no means improved by a nearer investigation. Not so the Lago di Scanno, which is really one of the most perfectly beautiful spots in nature, and the more for being in so desert a place. Its dark waters slumber below bare mountains of great height; and their general effect might recall Wastwater in Cumberland, but that every craggy hill was of wilder and grander form; and that the golden hues of an Italian September evening gave it a brilliancy rarely known in our own north. At the upper end of the Lake, which may be a mile and a half in length, an avenue of beautiful oaks, dipping their branches into the water, shade the rocky path, and lead to a solitary chapel, the only building in sight, save a hermitage on the mountain beyond. The beauty and stillness of this remote Lake were most impressive. As yet, the town of Scanno was unseen. A wide, marshy plain, through which the river Sagittaria flows, and a tract of white stones were to be passed, until, on a considerable eminence, but shut out by enclosing mountains from any view but of the bleakest rocks immediately around, behold Scanno, a clean-looking town, with two or three Campanili and principal houses in prominent situations.

Scanno

As I wound up the ascent to its gate, I was struck by the cleanliness and silence of the place, and by the strange turbaned figures, gliding about the well-paved streets. The costume of the women of Scanno is extremely peculiar, and suggests an Oriental origin, particularly when (as is not unusually the case with the older females) a white handkerchief is bound round the lower part of the face, concealing all but the eyes and nose.

Costumes of Scanno (see a costume of Scanno at a museum of Sulmona)

In former days, the material of the Scannese dress was scarlet cloth richly ornamented with green velvet, gold lace, &c., the shoes of worked blue satin, and the shoulder-strap s of massive silver, a luxury of vestments now only possessed by a very few. At present, both the skirt and boddice are of black or dark-blue cloth, the former being extremely full, and the waist very short; the apron is of scarlet or crimson stuff. The head-dress is very striking: a white handkerchief is surmounted by a falling cap of dark cloth, among the poorer orders; but of worked purple satin with the rich, and this again is bound round, turbanwise, by a white or primrose-coloured fillet, striped with various colours, though, excepting on festa days, the poor do not wear this additional band.The hair is plaited very beautifully with riband; and the ear-rings, buttons, neck-laces, and chains are of silver, and in rich families, often exceedingly costly. It is the prettiest thing in the world to see the children, who have beautiful faces, and are all turbaned, even as little babies. As for the women, they are decidedly the most beautiful race I saw in the Abruzzi: their fresh and clear complexion, fine hair, good features, and sweet expression, are delightful; and owing to their occupation being almost entirely that of spinning wool, their faces have a delicacy, which their countrywomen who work in the fields cannot lay claim to. Everything about Scanno is odd and quaint, and unlike any other Italian town, and the sight of every house, with its fair inmates spinning at the old-fashioned wheels before the doors, was very pleasant, as I passed up the wellpaved streets to the house of the family, to whom the Giudice of Antrodoco had given me a letter of introduction. The inhabitants seemed particularly calm and silent, indulging little in that animated speech or action so characteristic of the people of the south. The whole population of the Abruzzi provinces, have, indeed, much more repose of manner than is usual with their countrymen, and are a great contrast to their noisy brethren nearer Naples. Of the men of Scanno, who dress in dark blue cloth with brown woollen gaiters, very few are seen in the town, as they are principally on the neighbouring mountains in summer, and during winter in Apulia, with the flocks in which the wealth of Scanno consists. Wool forms the great article of trade between Scanno and the neighbouring towns, and long files of mules laden with it are constantly passing through the narrow defile towards Solmona, one of the few outlets from this secluded valley. My new host is said to be very wealthy, and though his palace is very large now, yet he is doubling its extent. He was not at first within, but I found his mother, (a well-bred and handsome old gentlewoman, wearing the Scannese costume) overlooking the preparations for supper, (it was already Ave Maria) in a spacious kitchen or rather hall, whose nice order and complete appointments of crockery, and bright copper and tin utensils, would have done no discredit to the best farmhouse in Old England. Every part of the house seemed equally well cared for. Our party at supper consisted of the master of the house, his sister, and their uncle. When I asked if their mother was coming- "é occupata" was the answer. As for the sister she never said a word; no, not one; and I should have thought she was dumb if she had not arisen after a very slight meal, and, first saying "Prosit," with a loud voice, went out of the room. The uncle kept talking about the everlasting Thames Tunnel till I was bored to extinction.
September 8th and 9th, 1843. Scanno is an exceedingly cold place, and in winter is surrounded by snow for many months; the air is very pure and healthy. Nothing appears certainly known of the origin of the town, (..) it may have been called Sanno, from its having had a Samnite origin. It is more natural to suppose that it was from the union of several colonies from various parts during the turbulent times of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and to this the armorial insignia of the town - a cluster of castles, gives great probability. It contains about three thousand inhabitants. After drawing at the Lake, I returned to a fésta of the Madonna, which was more worth seeing than any I ever witnessed in Italy, on account of the procession of all the women of the place in their Gala dresses; and the display of beauty was really extraordinary. At dinner, the day being Friday, tench, barbel, and bream, were the only fare: the silent sister said "Prosit," as before; and the uncle would talk about that horrid Tunnel. In the afternoon, after I had finished my drawing, I rode on a good horse with Don ---; there is splendid scenery about Scanno, and I suspect the pass to Castel di Sangro would be worth exploring. At Ave Maria I was delighted by the harmony of a Litany sung by great numbers of the townspeople in the principal church: the air was from Lucia di Lammermoor, and the effect was very pleasing. There is a great deal of musical feeling in these country towns; snatches of melody continually strike the ear, and I often longed to have more leisure to gather such scraps. (..) September 9th, 1843. Drawing the beautiful Lake and the costumes of the servants in the house occupied me all day. But it was in vain to hope for a smile from these very obliging, but too sedate people, who were unlike the families I had hitherto seen. I thought, why do you build such rooms and a new palace, with nothing to fill it but this dulness? And how can you live day after day on tench and barbel, barbel and tench? It was my last evening at Scanno. (..) September 10, 1843. It was an object with me to make some drawings of the Foce or Gole di Scanno, and as the finest parts of the pass are too far from Scanno or Anversa, to be conveniently reached from either, I had obtained a letter from the French Agent at San Sebastiano, to a family in the little town of Villalago, which is the most central point. To this place, Don -- accompanied me, after I had bid farewell to Scanno and its good people. As we reached Villalago, my host, that was to be, happened to be outside the town, and half the population (who are very poor and not extremely prepossessing in appearance) were thronging round a small church, whose open doors displayed two large naked figures in the midst of flames representing purgatory. My new friend and his family had none of that cheerful cordiality I had hitherto so constantly remarked, and when Don -- left me on his return to Scanno, I could not help thinking that I had got into rather an odd place.

(left) Stretti di San Luigi; (right) Pass of Anversa

Don - , one of my new friends, volunteered to shew me a part of the Foce or pass; so down we went, and I want words to give even a feeble idea of the terrible magnificence of the scene. Villalago stands on the brink of a precipice above the tremendous abyss through which the Sagittaria, in winter a formidable torrent, rushes towards the plain of Solmona; a narrow mulepath follows its windings, now through an open space cumbered with fragments of shattered rock, -now through a chasm so contracted as to admit the river and path only. One of these passes, the Stretti di San Luigi, is of fearful height and narrowness, and except in summer weather is totally impassable. Eagles and ravens abound throughout the whole of this terrific gorge, whose aspect chills the mind, as much as the cold wind sweeping through it does the body. Towards Ave Maria we returned, halting at the Grotto and Chapel of San Domenico, a curious and ancient Hermitage in a cavern amidst the wildest possible mountain scenery, and thence we followed the upper pathway to my host's house in Villalago. They are the principal people in this little town, and I cannot conceive a much less comfortable residence than their Palazzo; its only recommendation is, that, placed on a perpendicular height, it commands one of the most extraordinary views I ever saw, down the ghastly gorge I have been describing. Although these good people were hospitable in their way, truth obliges one to say that the uncleanliness of both house and owners was something uncommon; and this, united to a curiosity unique as far as my experience went among the Abruzzese, was depressing and uncomfortable. A pale daughter-inlaw, who sighed as she told me she was a native of Ortona, "un paese almeno polito," was the only interesting person of the house, except her two little girls, who though sharing the family evil of neglect were pretty and intelligent; and we had great fun in playing cats-cradle (a common Abruzzo game) together. After they went to bed, two or three hours of severe penitenza ensued till supper,- the grumblings of the whole family against men and things in general being far from enlivening,- and I was glad to feign weariness and retire to a room, (the like of which happily one does not often see) where I sate in a chair and dozed till morning.
September 11, 1843. As much as possible I passed the day in drawing the scenery, the grand character of which is worth the closest attention: but though there are studies for a month in its neighbourhood, I resolved on leaving the town on the morrow. Yet, this same Villalago has formerly seen more prosperous days, judging by the remains of magnificently worked satin and velvet dresses still possessed by some of its very old inhabitants. At present, as an old beggar-woman said to me,-(one of the few I observed throughout the Abruzzo provinces) "siamo qui, senza denaro, senza pane, senza panni, senza speranza, senza niente!"
September 12, 1843. Long before sunrise I was on my way down the Foce with a man and luggage-mule, and my step was not less light from any regrets at leaving Villalago. Beyond the Stretti di San Luigi the pass becomes every moment more appalling and sublime, in one part widening out into a broad vale, over which on a precipitous rock, a little village, Castro di Valva, seems to hang suspended and tottering; but close to Anversa, (the castle of which is seen at the opening of the gorge) the stupendous rocks which enclose the path are really beyond imagining. It is a relief to escape from this cold prison, to the bright open hill beyond. The town of Anversa stands on a steep eminence, and its shattered Castle commands the entrance of the pass. The name of the Arciprete, Don Colombo Gatta, had been given me as the only person likely to receive strangers; so to his house I went, a clean and handsome palazzo: the absence of inns makes this sort of dependence on private hospitality irksome; but there is no other mode of seeing these unfrequented parts of Italy. "La fisonomia vostra vi basta per tutta raccomandazione," quoth the polite Don Colombo, who would not so much as hear the name of the person who desired me to mention him. ""Entrate subito per carita!" and the friendly clergyman forthwith led me to a neat room, where he insisted on my reposing till dinner, and from the windows of which a triangle of the bright shining plain of Solmona was visible, between the hills that shut in the valley of the Sagittaria. The Arch-priest's dining-room was a curious one, the walls being most quaintly decked with coloured zoological drawings, all of which had theirnames in large letters below each- Uomo, Donna, Cavallo, Cane, Civetta, Triglia, or Farfalla- a highly requisite precaution, considering the extreme improbability of the spectator's discovering what many of the paintings were intended to represent. No fault however could possibly be found with Don Colombo's dinner; his plain lamb-cutlets, good fish, roast fowl, with entrées of vegetables and pickles; his super-excellent wine with snow, and his melonsteaks fried with cheese and pepper, which at least were a novelty. In the afternoon I walked to Cocullo, a small town remarkable only for its possession of a relique-a tooth of S. Domenico-on account of which numerous pilgrims flock thither continually. Any person who is bitten by a snake or mad dog, be he either in Naples or Rome, loses no time in setting off to the shrine of S. Domenico, in Cocullo: and there is an annual fésta in the town, at which the number of snake-charmers is very great; the floor of the church, I have been told by many persons, exhibiting swarms of reptiles crawling over it. I was not fortunate enough to see this display, but I have no doubt of the fact. Cocullo is situated above Anversa, and looks down on the sullen opening of Scanno, with its grim wall of mountain. I had not time to draw the scene as I wished, for the sun had set, and though I made all haste, it was so late when I arrived at Anversa, that I found the good-natured Arciprete in a state of great agitation lest I should have become a prey to the "Pericoli della Notte," namely, il perdere la strada, il cascare in un precipizio, or essere ferito dai cani del campo: all of which evils he set forth diligently during supper-time.
September 13th, 1843. Drew much at the mouth of the pass; a scene so majestic that much time might be spent in doing it justice. As I sat below a huge rock, on which a little goat-herd was piping to his scattered charge, the sound of a chorus of many voices gradually roused the echoes of the mighty walls: a most simple and oft-repeated air, slowly chanted by long files of pilgrims, mostly women of Castel di Sangro, (perhaps fifty in number); they were on their way to the shrine of S. Domenico, in Cocullo, and came in succession down the winding path, carrying large bales of different coloured cloths on their heads, and walking with long sticks. Such little incidents are sought for in vain by the high-road traveller. Long after the last of the pilgrims had disappeared, the notes rang at intervals through the hollow, and then all was left to its own gloomy silence.
September, 14th, 1843. The Arciprete, who is a very rich Possidente, and looks over his vineyards and fields of Gran Turco far and wide from his high home in Anversa, had a party of his friends last evening, and amused them with my drawings. The lower orders speak in an almost unintelligible patois, totally different to that of the adjacent towns. In the afternoon I left my hospitable host; for although the pass contained many a day's work, I had yet to draw in the neighbourhood of Solmona, whither I went by a path, along the course of the Sagittaria through a narrow valley beneath them. (..) On entering Solmona, the old city of the Peligni, for the second time, I went to the friendly Palazzo Tabassi, where Don Francesco received me with the greatest possible friendliness..

* * *

September 21, 1843. Yesterday was a day of rest at Solmona, which to-day I left three hours before sunrise, and with regret, for none but pleasant memories are connected with my stay there. (..) I, my guide, and his ass, now followed the high-road to Naples, (a continual ascent) and arrived at sunrise at the town of Pettorano, which contains about three thousand inhabitants, where I lingered to draw a most glorious view over the plain of Solmona. (..) About nine miles from Solmona, after a long and steep ascent, we reached Rocca di Vall'Oscuro, a wretched little village,- picturesque enough; but one had no time to draw it. Two miles beyond, we arrived at the celebrated Piano di 5 Miglia, which I had heard and read so much of, that I looked forward to its passage with a curiosity not a little damped by the sight of a dull, narrow plain, with very little of the romantic in its appearance, and moreover, with a high road running from end to end. Yet, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, whoever was to pass this formidable spot, made his will previously; here in February, 1528, three hundred infantry of the Venetian League against Charles V. perished in the snow; and in the following year, March, 1529, more than five hundred Germans, under the Prince of Orange, met with a similar fate. So little, during summer, is there any appearance of danger in this melancholy plain, that one hardly believes in these fatal stories; but although the formation of a high-road has made the pass of the Piano di 5 Miglia less frightful than of old, the sudden falls of snow, and the high winds to which, from its elevated situation, it is very subject, cause it still to be hurried over with some anxiety during winter, and not the less so that its gloomy neighbourhood is in that season much infested by wolves. The Emperor Charles V. erected towers at frequent intervals across this pass to serve as shelter for travellers, but they were found so convenient for the marauders who then, and long after, harassed Italy, that these were all destroyed: at present a double line of high posts marks the direction of the road even when the snow lies deeply on the plain. The country is wild and not yery interesting beyond the Piano di 5 Miglia: a plain below the town of Rivisondoli, and a descent to the rather picturesque village of Rocca di Raso; and then, long windings of the road through fine oak woods to Castel di Sangro, the approach to which is extremely noble, and commands extensive lines of horizon with grand mountain forms; but the day was gloomy and the wind high, so I drew nought. It was dark when we entered Castel di Sangro, a considerable town on the confines of the province of Abruzzo Ulteriore Secondo. It boasts of one tolerable inn; and the excellent trout of the river Sangro furnished me with part of a very good supper.

Castel di Sangro

September 22, 1843. It was absolutely too cold to draw, though I worked hard till I had taken a correct outline of Castel di Sangro, some views of which are really splendid. A day or two might have been well devoted to visiting Alfidena and its Cyclopean remains, and had the weather been more favorable, I would certainly have done so. I was sorry also to give up all idea of visiting the fine mountains of the Province of Molise or Campobasso (the land of the Samnites), whose dark-blue crags lay southward, among cloud and gloom; but I felt desirous of leaving my present abode, which was chilly and comfortless after the bright cheerful vales of the Marsi and Peligni: so I hired a man and mule to convey me and my roba, to Monte Nero D'Omo, a town about twenty miles off, whither Don Saverio de' Tommasis, whom I had met at Magliano, had invited me. Our route lay along the banks of the Sangro, through a low close valley, by shady slopes of young oak, marked by no feature of striking interest.

Pizzoferrato