There is a poetry, notwithstanding, about these hermitages that makes them pleasing objects to the traveller. I may have seen, first and last, a hundred of them in Europe, though many are now untenanted: these of Italy are generally the finest. At Spoleto there was another rush of coaches, and the _Grognon_, looking war and famine, made his appearance at the same inn as ourselves. The scuffling for breakfast and rooms was sufficiently disagreeable, though, preceding all the others, we escaped the _mêlée_. The valley beyond Spoleto was very beautiful. On one side there is a _côte_, as the French term it, and houses and churches were clinging to its side, almost buried in fruit-trees. While trotting along pleasantly, beneath this teeming hill side, we came up to a small brick edifice that stood near the highway, and between it and the meadows, which had spread themselves on our left, more like a country north than one south of the Alps. This little building was about the size of the small temples of the Campagna so often mentioned, and, like them, it is, beyond question, of Roman origin. It is called the Temple of Clitumnus, from the circumstance of its standing at the sources of that classical stream; but is now a Christian chapel. You would be surprised to find these temples so small, for this makes the twentieth I have seen, all of which are still standing, that has not been much larger than a large corn-crib. The workmanship of this is neat but plain; though it is probable that its marbles have shared the fate of those of so many amphitheatres, theatres, forums, and temples that are found all over Italy. It is with these ruins as with our departed friends: we never truly prize them until they are irretrievably lost. We reached Foligno in good season, and, by a little manœuvring, managed to get nearly the whole of a retired but very respectable inn to ourselves. As we intended to diverge from the beaten path at this point, we now flattered ourselves with being so far out of the current, that we should no longer be compelled to scuffle for our food, or to wrangle for a room or a bed. LETTER XXVIII. The Col Fiorito of the Apennines.—A race for a good breakfast. Tolentino.—Macerata.—Reconati.—Loretto: The _Santa Casa_, or Shrine.—Infirmary: Designs by Raphael.—Ancona.—Sinigaglia.—Castle at La Catolica.—Scenery near the Adriatic.—Rimini.—Procession for rain.—San Marino.—The Rubicon.—Cesena.—Forli.—Napoleon and his roads.—Faenza.—Imola.—Country from Ancona to Bologna.