The treasures of this place—at least those which could be removed—have long since been conveyed to the museums of Rome, Paris, London, Munich, and other cities. Amidst this city of memories and splendid buildings, the imperial architect had a throne raised for himself in a semi-circular temple, commanding a view of Rome.
But more striking to me than all these magnificent erections, was the faith in the duration and security of human life, which must have been possessed by these great ones of the earth, who would be worshiped as gods, and who built for themselves thrones and temples!
| “ | But they y-vanish, y-vanish anon, |
| And their memories vanish when they are gone!”[1] |
We came to Tivoli. The sun shone brightly between flying clouds, and lit up the cascades, which, white-foaming and rushing, were hurled down the lofty rocks, where the temples of Vesta and Sibylla, stand in solitary beauty. All around whispered the deep and beautiful woods. I cannot express how delightful and happy was the whole of this day, spent in rambling through this exquisite region, and in cordial society.
So much has been written about Tivoli, its cascades, villas, and temples, that I will make my description short.
It is the river Anio, which comes dancing in wild, youthful joy from the Sabine hills, where it has its source, down the rocks at Tivoli—a portion of which rocks consist of immense petrified tree-trunks—and
- ↑ “The Angel of Death,” by J. O. Wallin.
