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trast between it and the massive pyramid in its vicinity, remind one of a delicate snowdrop, germing beneath a colossal oak. This monument, so applicable to the youth and beauty of her whose fate it commemorates, is the work of Mr. Richard Westmacott, to whose taste and skill it is highly creditable.

Sir William Gell and Count Paul Esterhazy came to see us depart; and never did the Palazza Negroni present such sad faces, as those assembled there when the heavily laden carriages drove round to the door. Poor Gell! I still seem to feel the pressure of his hand, and the tears that bedewed mine as he pressed it to his lips, and murmured his fears that we should meet no more.

“ You have been visiting our friend Drummond's grave to-day," said he, “and if you ever come to

” Italy again, you will find me in mine.”

I was tempted to be angry with our courier when I saw his smiling face, and heard the gay cracking of his whip, as we drove away. He, in the excitement of resuming his wonted occupation, after a winter's repose, had little sympathy with our regrets, and probably anticipated with pleasurable emotions the buona mano he may count on receiving at every inn where we stop, for many days to come.

We noticed the whiteness of the cows feeding along the banks of the ancient Clitumnus, a peculiarity ascribed to the effect of its waters. The animals looked very picturesque, and reminded one of those offered for sacrifice in days of yore.

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Saw the celebrated waterfall to-day. I have heard the majority of those who have spoken of it, declare that it disappointed them; but it has not had this effect on me, perhaps because I expected less. One of the advantages of time and travel, is to lower expectations within bounds more likely to be satisfied in reality. I thought of Byron as I gazed on this fine cataract, for he has painted it in never fading colours.

The roar of waters !—from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ;
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald :-how profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,

Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent.

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,
With many windings, through the vale :--look back!
Lo! where it comes, like an eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread,--a matchless cataract,


Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn :

Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,
Love watching Madness with unaltered mien.

The verdure occasioned by the eternal showers of spray, which fall to a considerable distance around, I have nowhere seen equalled, except in Ireland. I noticed this aloud, and an Irish servant in our suite remarked, sotto voce, to one of his companions, _“Yes, our poor Ireland is as green as the wounds inflicted on it, and to which no healing balsam has yet been applied."

The vivid hue of the verdure greatly adds to the beauty of the cataract, to the snowy foam of which it forms so fine a contrast. The naïve remark of the painter, on beholding this magnificent work of nature-“ Well done water, by !” rude and simple as the phrase is, struck me as being much more poetical than the tame observation of Addison, who wrote_“I think there is something more astonishing in this cascade, than in all the water-works of Versailles. And well might he think so! but who, except Addison, with one spark of poetry in his heart, could have made such a reflection? He is less anti-poetical when he asserts his belief that this is the gulf through which Virgil's Alecto plunged

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herself into the infernal regions. An hypothesis in which Addison is neither supported by similarity of names, nor the opinions of the learned.

There are some sights in nature, and this is one of them, well calculated to exclude, while beholding them, the self-occupation to which mortals are so prone.

Who can remember one's own puny cares and puerile gratifications, when gazing on this marvel, the eye dazzled by its grandeur, and the ear filled with its mighty roar? Imagination soars from its mansion of clay, to make acquaintance with objects so new, so glorious, and when exhausted by its exertions, returns to its abode, drooping and dejected at the consciousness of how far it falls short of the power to conceive or paint what has awakened it to rapture. These mighty waters, instinct with life, and fraught with super-human vigour, seem animated by a spirit of madness, into the terrible velocity with which they dash from rock to rock.

The dryness of the atmosphere, the heat of the climate, and the volcanic soil, which, even in the most fertile parts of Italy betrays its nature, render water more beautiful as an object, and more agreeable as a refrigeration, than in our colder clime, where, even in the midst of summer, a certain dampness is felt. The prismatic colours with which the showers of the cascade are invested by the sun have a most dazzling effect, varying from the goldentinted topaz to the fiery-streaked opal.

The valley of Terni is watered by the Nera, and


is fertile and well cultivated. We paused not to examine the ruins or objects of antiquity collected at Terni, though much pressed to do so by our cicerone, who looked on us with an expression approaching to contempt in his countenance, when we declined his offer of conducting us to them. After a six year's residence in Italy, and many pilgrimages made to view its most celebrated ruins and antiquities, we were not disposed to give up the time required for inspecting those of Terni; and hence increased the displeasure of our guide, whose amour propre seemed wounded by our not showing more respect to his birth-place. We, however, somewhat consoled him by remembering it was also that of Tacitus the historian, and of two of the Roman emperors.

It is amusing to detect the various resources vanity finds for its indulgence when excluded from personal gratification. He who cannot be vain of himself, becomes so of his country; and if its present abasement checks this feeling, glories in its former greatness. In reply to our excuse for not examining the antiquities of Terni, namely, that we had inspected nearly all those of the south of Italy, our guide said that “nevertheless, objects might be seen there that could be nowhere else found ;” nor did our liberal douceur bestowed at parting, quite mollify his feelings for the slight he imagined we had offered to the place of his birth.


* Tacitus and Florianus.

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