[Footnote 1:  It was known from the account of Pliny that other towns had been destroyed by the same eruption as Herculaneum, and eight years after the date of this letter some fresh excavations led to the discovery of Pompeii.  Matthews, in his “Diary of an Invalid,” describes both, and his account explains why Pompeii, though the smaller town, presents more attractions to the scholar or the antiquarian.  “On our way home we explored Herculaneum, which scarcely repays the labour.  This town is filled up with lava, and with a cement caused by the large mixture of water with the shower of earth and ashes which destroyed it; and it is choked up as completely as if molten lead had been poured into it.  Besides, it is forty feet below the surface, and another town is now built over it....  Pompeii, on the contrary, was destroyed by a shower of cinders in which there was a much less quantity of water.  It lay for centuries only twelve feet below the surface, and, these cinders being easily removed, the town has been again restored to the light of day” (vol. i. p. 254).]

DANGER OF MALARIA—­ROMAN CATHOLIC RELICS—­“ADMIRAL HOSIER’S GHOST”—­CONTEST FOR THE POPEDOM.

TO THE HON.  H.S.  CONWAY.

RE DI COFANO, vulg.  RADICOFANI,

July 5, 1740, N.S.

You will wonder, my dear Hal, to find me on the road from Rome:  why, intend I did to stay for a new popedom, but the old eminences are cross and obstinate, and will not choose one, the Holy Ghost does not know when.  There is a horrid thing called the malaria, that comes to Rome every summer, and kills one, and I did not care for being killed so far from Christian burial.  We have been jolted to death; my servants let us come without springs to the chaise, and we are wore threadbare:  to add to our disasters, I have sprained my ancle, and have brought it along, laid upon a little box of baubles that I have bought for presents in England.  Perhaps I may pick you out some little trifle there, but don’t depend upon it; you are a disagreeable creature, and may be I shall not care for you.  Though I am so tired in this devil of a place, yet I have taken it into my head, that it is like Hamilton’s Bawn,[1] and I must write to you.  ’Tis the top of a black barren mountain, a vile little town at the foot of an old citadel:  yet this, know you, was the residence of one of the three kings that went to Christ’s birthday; his name was Alabaster, Abarasser, or some such thing; the other two were kings, one of the East, the other of Cologn.  ’Tis this of Cofano, who was represented in an ancient painting, found in the Palatine Mount, now in the possession of Dr. Mead; he was crowned by Augustus.  Well, but about writing—­what do you think I write with?  Nay, with a pen; there was never a one to be found in the whole circumference but one, and that was in the possession of the governor, and had been used time out of mind to write the parole with:  I was forced to send to borrow it.