“_February 18, 1851._—You will be glad to hear that I have returned to Rome from my walking tour without having been robbed, or murdered; but, indeed, I must repeat, that the good gentleman your informant must have been dreaming. We received nothing but kindness and civility, and I believe that _you_ might walk along the same mountain paths with equal safety. As for us, we looked much too rough a lot to tempt robbers, being rather like banditti ourselves. One of my companions wore a venerable beard, and I am afraid we both looked picturesque ruffians. Our other companion looked tame, and carried an umbrella. We used to take a cup of coffee and a roll soon after sunrise, then walk to some romantic village about ten miles off, and there breakfast. Our breakfast consisted of an omelette, a _frittata_ as they call it here, which we cooked ourselves. We used to rush into an _osteria di cucina_ in a state of ravenous hunger. ——, my friend with the beard, who is a very good cook, seizes the frying-pan, I beat up the eggs, and S—— is degraded into scullion, to cut up some ham and an onion!! I believe the people think us mad. They could not conceive why we liked to cook our own breakfast, and walk when we might have ridden. After breakfast, it was so hot that we used to select a convenient spot on the hill-side, and lie down for an hour, and then continue our walk till about sunset, when we reached our resting-place for the night. In this way we saw some of the most beautiful country you can imagine. Every little exertion we made in climbing a rock was amply rewarded by something most strange and picturesque. The towns are particularly striking, some of them being built on the very top of mountains nearly 3,000 feet high, and reached with difficulty, by a narrow winding path. I am convinced that a walking tour is the only plan of really seeing Italian scenery. I made some sketches, but am sorry to say that, coming into Rome on Saturday night, my pocket was picked of my sketch-book (a very useless prize to anyone but the owner, and perhaps you), so I lost them all. I am excessively vexed, for I wanted to show you the sort of places where we took our mid-day’s rest. Tivoli was our last stage, and perhaps the most interesting,—there is such a splendid waterfall there. Even if I do not see Turin, I shall be quite satisfied with my recollections of it.” After this he hastened home, meeting with no more serious adventure than the one recorded in a letter to the same correspondent, as follows:—