We went on again，as soon as we had seen these things，and going over a rather bleak country(there had been nothing but vines until now：mere wailing—sticks at that season of the year)，stopped，as usual，between one and two hours in the middle of the day，to rest the horses；that being a part of every Vettur i no contract．We then went on again，through a region gradually becoming bleaker and wilder，until it became as bare and desolate as any Scottish moors．Soon after dark，we halted for the night，at the osteria of La Scala：a perfectly lone house，where the familywere sitting round a great fire in the kitchen，raised on a stone platformthree or four feet high，and big enough for the roasting of an ox．On theupper，and only other floor of this hotel，there was a great wild ramblingSala，with one very little window in a by-corner，and four black doorsopening into four black bedrooms in various directions．To say nothing ofanother large black door，opening into another large black Sdla，with the staircase coming abruptly through a kind of trap—door in the floor，andthe rafters of the roof looming above：a suspicious little press skulking in one obscure comer：and all the knives in the house lying about in various directions．The fireplace was of the purest Italian architecture，SO that it was perfectly impossible to see it for the smoke．The waitress was like a dramatic brigand’S wife，and wore the same style of dress upon her head．The dogs barked like mad；the echoes returned the compliments bestowed upon them；there was not another house within twelve miles；and things had a dreary，and rather a cut-throat appearance．
They were not improved by rumours of robbers having come out，strong and boldly，within a few nights；and of their having stoppedthe mail very near that place．They were known to have waylaid sometravellers not long before，on Mount Vesuvius itself,and were the talk at all the roadside inns．As they were no business of ours，however(for we had very little with US to lose)，we made ourselves merry on the subject，and were very soon as comfortable as need be．We had the usual dinner in this solitary house；and a very good dinner it is，when you are used to it．There is something with a vegetable or some rice in it，which is a sort of shorthand or arbitrary character for soup，and which tastes very well，when you have flavoured it with plenty of grated cheese，lots of salt，and abundance of pepper．There is the half fowl of which this soup has been made．There is a stewed pigeon，with the gizzards and livers of himself and Other birds stuck all round him．There is a bit of roast beef, the size of a small French roll．There are a scrap of Parmesan cheese，and five little withered apples，all huddled together on a small plate，and crowding one upon the other，as if each were trying to save itself from the chance of being eaten．Then there is coffee；and then there is bed．You don’t mind brick floors；you don’t mind yawning doors，nor banging windows；you don’t mind your own horses being stabled under the bed：and SO close，that every time a horse coughs or sneezes，he wakes you．If you are good-humoured to the people about you，and speak pleasantly，and look cheerful，take my word for it you may be well entertained in the very worst Italian Inn，and always in the most obliging manner，and may go from one end of the country to the other(despite all stories to the contrary)without any great trial of your patience anywhere．Especially，when you get such wine in flasks，as the Orvieto，and the Monte Pulciano．
It was a bad morning when we left this place；and we went，for twelve miles，over a country as barren，as stony，and as wild，as Cornwall in England，until we came to Radicofani，where there is a ghostly，goblin inn：once a hunting-seat，belonging to the Dukes of Tuscany．It is full of such rambling corridors，and gaunt rooms，that all the murdering and phantom tales that ever were written might have originated in that one house．There are some horrible old Palazzi in Genoa：one in particular，not unlike it，outside：but there is a winding，creaking，wormy，rustling，door—opening，foot-on-staircase-falling character about this Radi—cofani Hotel，such as I never saw，anywhere else．The town，such as it is，hangs on a hill—side above the house．and in front of it．The inhabitants are all beggars；and as soon as they see a carriage coming，they swoop down upon it，like SO many birds ofprey．
When we got on the mountain pass，which lies beyond this place，the wind(as they had forewarned US at the inn)was SO terrific，that we were obliged to take my other half out of the carriage，lest she should be blownover，carriage and all，and to hang to it，on the windy side(as well as wecould for laughing)，to prevent its going，Heaven knows where．For mereforce of wind，this land-storm might have competed with an Atlanticgale，and had a reasonable chance of coming off victorious．The blastcame sweeping down great gullies in a range of mountains on the right：SO that we looked with positive awe at a great morass on the left，and sawthat there was not a bush or twig tO hold by．It seemed as if,once blownfrom our feet，we must be swept out to sea，or away into space．There was snow，and hail，and rain，and lightning，and thunder；and there wererolling mists，travelling with incredible velocity．It was dark，awful，and solitary to the last degree；there were mountains above mountains，veiledin angry clouds；and there was such a wrathful，rapid，violent，tumultuous hurry，everywhere，as rendered the scene unspeakably exciting and grand．
