forms within the extent of about two miles, a number of the prettiest falls, which have been called, according to their size, Cascata, Cascatelli, Cascatellini. They leap foaming and singing down into a valley, where the Anio becomes tranquil, and makes for itself a convenient bed, whence to betake itself into the Tiber. The road follows the windings of the valley, and you have, during the whole ramble, the view of the cascades from the hill on the other side, between the ruined temples and fragments of houses, old and gray as the rocks upon which they stand. But the slopes of the hills are verdant from the silvery dew of the cascades, and almond and peach trees shine out with their white and pale pink crowns, like an elegant, lovely embroidery upon a green ground, through the whole extent of the valley, along which flows the Anio, calm and clear as a mirror, between the rushing cascades, and amongst blossoming orchards, out into the Campagna, on the extreme distance of which rises the dome of St. Peters, solitary and lofty, as if to say, with Michael Angelo, “Here lies Rome!”
We went leisurely, we seated ourselves upon the moss-covered stones under the trees; eyes, and ears, and all our senses occupied by the indescribable beauty and life of the scene; we lingered long; I could have lingered there forever! We were compelled, however, to turn back, but not before we had seen the last of the splendid cascatellini fling itself down from the ruins of the Villa of Mæcenas, and higher up had seen also that of Catullus.
We dined at the Hotel à la Sibylle. We recommend this Sibyl to all travelers who wish to have a
