No one ever
thinks of repairing or restoring an old temple; and the consequence is,
that in every part of the country may be seen half-finished structures
of enormous magnitude--the respective founders having died before they
were completed.--_Crawfurd's Embassy to Ava._
* * * * *
Valmontone, on the road from Naples to Rome, is a strange but enchanting
spot, enveloped in shade, with magnificent rocks (agglomerated volcanic
ashes) hollowed into caverns, which afford coolness in this burning
climate, and where an incredible number of nightingales make the whole
air musical. The little town rose picturesquely on its rocky pedestal,
with a large building like a monastery inhabited by myriads of swallows,
darting in and out at its sashless windows. A solitary guardian eyed us
through a door a-jar, but did not come out, while we went round the
church, and admired some good pictures remaining on its walls. The
stillness of death prevailed in the town--a sort of unburied Pompeii
through its narrow lanes, up and down zig-zag stairs cut in the rock, we
sauntered alone, and the noise of our iron-shod heels on the pavement,
was the only sound we heard.
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