FALLS OF TERNI. "The roar of waters!-from the headlong height The flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss; Of their great agony, wrung out from this 183 I will merely add by way of comment that this description is stretched a little. I will say, however, in justice to Byron, that I have ever found Childe Harold's descriptions faithful almost to the letter, except in this single instance, and here I excuse him on the ground that he had never seen any large cataracts, and hence was naturally impressed beyond measure with the sublimity of this really fine water-fall. But the "infant sea” he speaks of I could throw my hat across, and "the eternity" he thinks he sees "rushing on" is the smallest probably most men will ever experience. Yet the cataract is worth a visit. The rapid shoot of the waters at the summit-the long reckless leap of the torrent that is dashed into the minutest particles of foam at the bottom, which go rising up like smoke over the face of the rock—the dizzy height-the roar and the solitude, impress the mind with awe and wonder; and then the hidden and mysterious paths that lead to the bottom-now burying you in the side of the hill, and now carrying you to the very brink of some precipice, whose forehead is bathed in the falling spray, keep you in a state of constant excitement. The finest view, however, is from a rock on the opposite mountain. From this point you look directly on the face of the cataract, and take in the whole at a glance. In gazing on this waterfall I was struck with the power of a poetic imagination to impersonate every thing. Byron says, "While the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet," &c. And sure enough, there it is—the "sweat of their great agony." The spray, condensing on the black sides of the rocks, trickles down as if pressed out of them by their torment, under the eternal shock of the falling cataract upon them. As I stood gazing at this mad stream, breaking itself into a thousand fragments in its desperate leap, a thunder-cloud slowly threw fold after fold over the dwarf firs that fringed the top, till the heavy masses seemed fairly to press their dark bosom on the summit of the hill—while the roar of the blast, and the low growl of the distant thunder, mingling with the roar of the cataract, made it a scene of wild sublimity. I had missed the "Iris," but I was repaid by the storm. The day seemed changing into night, and I at length turned away to find some place of shelter before the cloud should burst over me. Descending, I met my peppery Captain and his sweet daughter. I had no particular solicitude about the Captain's skin, but I was anxious to save the little beauty from the shower I knew would soon be upon us. I besought her to return, assuring her she would be drenched if she proceeded. "What," said she, in a voice like a bird, "is not that point of rock I just saw you sitting upon the best spot from which to view the cataract?" Undoubtedly, madam; but if you attempt to reach it you will certainly be overtaken by the storm. "But I must see it," she replied. I urged her in vain to desist, and was on the point of offering my services, when wisely considering it would not improve my personal appearance to get a thorough drenching, nor make the rain any the less heavy on her, I concluded to let the wilful little creature take her soaking alone. I had scarcely reached our carriage before the rain came down in solid masses. I took shelter in a curious looking hole, tenanted by an old hag whose company was almost as bad as the thunder storm. I stood and looked out on the driving rain, and shrugged my shoulders as I thought of my English Hotspur and his wife and daughter. At length, tired of waiting the motion of the storm, I hired a half of an umbrella for two pauls, and started off, and such a wild-cat ride I never took before. The driver whipped his horses into a dead run till the carriage spun like a top. After we had fairly got home and down to our tea the Captain and his family arrived. He was cool as a cucumber, while the young authoress, drenched to the skin, crept demurely along, looking the very picture of desolation. In a few minutes, how ever, the Captain's blood was again up, and he came in sputtering away about fevers, and agues, et cetera, that he feared would follow this exposure. You must know an Italian is nervously afraid of getting wet, as in this climate it induces fever. So ends my trip to Terni, and the Cataract of Velino. It is singular that Terni and Tivoli, two of the finest waterfalls in Europe, should both be artificial. The Romans made this cascade by turning the waters of the Velinus from their original course, over this precipice. In this way they drained the rich plains of Rieti. It has been changed and modified much since, according as the inundations of the valley demanded it. Truly yours. LETTER XXXVIII. Perugia Clitumnus-Battle-Field of Thrasymene. DEAR E.-I have been five days on the road from Rome to this place, and designed to give you a letter filled with the occurrences of each day; but I will crowd the five into one letter, and by this process endeavor to give you the cream of the whole. Spoleto, with its ruined aqueducts and ancient gate, called the gate of Hannibal, I must pass over, and hurry away to Foligno, just bidding you stop a moment-and you must be very careful or you will pass it unnoticed-to see the tiny temple mentioned by Pliny, and dedicated in olden time to the river god, Clitumnus. Childe Harold is the best guide-book for this region, and Byron stopped here and sung "But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er And again At Foligno we staid all The rain had poured all day, lonely, while on every gloomy "And on thy happy shore a Temple still Of small and delicate proportions," &c. But you can read it for yourself. night, and a gloomy one it was. and the streets were muddy and church was painted a death's head and cross bones. With the uprising sun we were off, and the clear air of the open country quickly effaced the memory of the dirty town. Assisi sits on the slope of a hill, about a mile and a half from the road, one of the most picturesque towns in Italy. Its long rows of aqueducts, stretching from mountain to mountain-its lofty commanding citadel, and its old battlements and towers encompassing it around, combine to render it a striking object as it lies along the height. Dante gives a most beautiful description of it, beginning "Intra Tupino e l'acqua, che discende Dal colle eletto dal beato Ubaldo," &c., &c. Perugia comes next in the catalogue, situated on the top of a hill, and the capital of the second delegation of the Papal States. It is a polished city, abounding in works of art, and worthy a longer stop than travellers usually give it. It is true it contains now but 18,000 inhabitants, but its works of art are the relics of the period when it could lose 100,000 by the pestilence in one year and still be a large city. I visited the Etruscan tombs in this region, and would give you a learned dissertation on them if I could throw any light on this intricate subject. To stand before the urns and mouldering marble that were ancient when Rome stood, and Cæsar was a modern, and read, or rather attempt to read, characters that no man can read, fills one with strange sensations. These Etruscans understood the arts, especially sculpture, and were certainly to some extent a polished race. Their epitaphs have reached posterity, but, alas, posterity cannot read them. What a comment on human fame! The proud chieftain who built him a tomb before he died, and ordered his own marble and epitaph, lies in the midst of his garnished sepulchre utterly unknown. This wise world cannot make out the letters of his name. If he had dreamed posterity would ever have become so degenerate as to be unable to read the letters of his alphabet, he would probably have scorned to have attempted to send his name and race down to it. Perugia has a Lunatic Asylum, managed on the modern improved system, and an excellent University. The fortress, called the Citadello Paolina, was begun by Pope Paul III., who laid waste a part of the town to reduce the Perugians, who rebelled against a salt-tax he levied on them. The first cannon was smuggled in a corn-sack, and the Perugians commemorated this violation of their liberty by the couplet― "Giacchi cosi vuole il diavolo Evviva Papa Paolo!" "Since the devil will have it so, Long live Pope Paul." |