_1st May._ Leaving Ronciglione, we passed by the Lago di Vigo, a small lake, which lay beneath us as we wound up a very steep hill, from the top of which we enjoyed a magnificent view. In the plain beneath us lay Horace's Soracte; and beyond this mountain, and stretching towards the north as far as the eye could reach, the chain of the Appenines, whose lower regions were clad in the fresh green of spring, while the higher ridges were mostly covered with snow, above which rose the more distant summits of the Velino and many other snowy peaks, now hidden by light fleeting clouds, and then again glittering in a morning sun. At the bottom of the hill we passed through Viterbo, and after a drive of some hours over a hilly country, we came to Montefiascone, a small place, celebrated for its wine, which, if the following anecdote be true, once cost a reverend prelate his life. He was a great friend of good wines, and when on a journey used always to send a courier on before to taste the wines of the different places through which he was to pass, and when it was good he was ordered to write to his master _est bonum_, and when remarkably good, _est, est_. On tasting the wine at Montefiascone, the courier wrote _est, est, est bonum_, and his judgment seemed to have been right; for when his right reverend master arrived, he drank such a quantity of it that it occasioned his death. From the hill on which the town stands is a fine view of the lake of Bolsena, which appears to be the crater of an immense volcano of a former world. In the middle of the water rise two islands of solid rock, seemingly basalt, which is found in considerable quantity on the banks, and appears in some very remarkable formations near Bolsena, and the whole country around is volcanic tufa. Bolsena is the ancient capital of the Etruscans; it lies rather above the road, and we did not pass through it, but drove on to St. Lorenzo, a miserable collection of a few houses, where we stopped for the night at a very bad inn.