kinds of trees, and bushes, and flowers, of all countries, from the tropics up to the high north. Clear fountains of water spring from marble basins, amongst acacias and pines; thou wanderest in groves of roses and laurels, and from amongst the laurels, beautiful, thoughtful heads glance forth; the living laurels whisper around, caressing Dante, Ariosto, Beccaria, Filangieri, Galileo, Volta,—all those poets, thinkers, and statesmen, who were the glory of Italy, and are so still. They stand now here in peace, beneath the beaming heaven of the fatherland. Italy clasps her mighty sons, with grateful acknowledgment, to her maternal bosom.
Thou wilt also find some heads of ancient, noble Romans: Scipio Africanus, Cicero, Cæsar, Pompey, Tacitus! What a glorious museum is Monte Pincio, the former garden of Sallust, the Villa of Lucullus, then a heap of ruins, lastly transformed by Napoleon the Great, into the most beautiful promenade of Rome! Every capital ought to have its Monte Pincio; even that of Sweden might have hers; great men are not wanting amongst us.[1] The execution of many of these marble busts is, in the mean time, not satisfactory; real artists have not always been selected for the work; and that is a pity.
But the immortal dead occupy our attention here merely during quiet hours, for the living life around us, both in small and great, is so beautiful and so rich that it captivates soul and sense.
- ↑ The lofty sand-hills, where the Observatory now stands, would be exactly suited for such a purpose. But the busts of our heroes must be of bronze; our laurels must be the evergreen pines.—Author's Note.
