Who that has seen has not hailed with delight the exquisite little lake of Vico, which lies in the lap of the Ciminian Mount, just above Ronciglione? Its own singular beauty is charm enough, but in English eyes it possesses the additional interest of similarity to some of our own island lakes. The first time I saw it was one evening when I had strolled up from Ronciglione, and had come upon it unexpectedly, not aware of its close proximity. The sun was sinking behind the hills, which reared their broad, purple masses into the clear sky, and shaded half the bosom of the calm lake with their hues—while the other half reflected the orange and golden glories of an Italian sunset. Not a sound broke the stillness, save the chirping of the cicala from the trees, whose song served but to make the silence heard—and not a sign of human life was there beyond a high column of smoke wreathing up whitely in front of the dark mountains.