Though not flattering to our self-love, this is the true emblem of the traces left by our memory in the hearts of men, who are only dust and ashes.* Before I took my departure for Naples, I passed some days alone at Tivoli. I traversed the ruins in its environs, and particularly those of Villa Adriana. Being overtaken by a shower of rain in the midst of my excursion, I took refuge in the halls of Thermes near Pécilet under a figtree, which had thrown down a wall by its growth. In a small octagonal saloon, which was open before me, a vine had penetrated through fissures in the arched roof, while its smooth and red crooked stem mounted along the wall like a serpent. Round me, across the arcades, the Roman country was seen in different points of view. Large elder trees filled the deserted apartments, where some solitary black-birds found a retreat. The fragments of masonry were garnished with the leaves of scolopendra, the satin verdure of which appeared like mosaic work upon the white marble. Here and there lofty cypresses replaced the columns, which had fallen into these palaces of death, The wild acanthus crept at their feet on the ruins, as if nature had taken pleasure in re-producing, upon these mutilated chefs d'œuvre of architecture, the, ornament of their past beauty. The different apartments and the summits of the ruins were covered with pendant ver. dure; the wind agitated these humid garlands, and the plants bent under the rain of Heaven. While I contemplated this picture, a thousand confused ideas passed across my mind. At one moment I admired, at the next detested Roman grandeur. At one moment I thought of the virtues, at another of the vices, which distinguished this lord of the world, who had wished to render his garden a representation of his empire. I called to mind the events, by which his superb villa had Remains of the Villa. Job. been destroyed. I saw it despoiled of its most beautiful ornaments by the successor of Adrian--I saw the barbarians passing like a whirlwind, sometimes cantoning themselves here; and, in order to defend themselves amidst these monuments of art which they had half destroyed, surmounting the Grecian and Tuscan orders with gothic battlements-finally, I saw Christians bringing back civilization to this district, planting the vine, and guiding the plough into the temple of the Stoics, and the saloons of the Academy.* Ere long the arts revived, and the monarchs employed persons to overturn what still remained of these gorgeous palaces, for the purpose of obtaining some master-pieces of art. While these different thoughts succeeded each other, an inward voice mixed itself with them, and repeated to me what has been a hundred times written on the vanity of human affairs. There is indeed a double vanity in the remains of the Villa Adriana: for it is known that they were only imitations of other remains, scattered through the provinces of the Roman empire. The real temple of Serapis and Alexandria, and the real academy at Athens no longer exist; so that in the copies of Adrian you only see the ruins of ruins. I should now, my dear friend, describe to you the temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli, and the charming temple of Vesta, suspended over the cascade; but I cannot spare time for the purpose. I regret, too, that I am unable to depict this cascade, on which Horace has conferred celebrity. When there, I was in your domain, for you are the inheritor of the Grecian APHELIA, or the "simplex munditiis," described by the author of the Ars Poetica; but I saw it in very gloomy weather, and I myself was not in good spirits. I will further confess that I was in * Remains of the Villa. some degree annoyed by this roar of waters, though I have been so often charmed by it in the forests of America. I have still a recollection of the happiness which I experienced during a night passed amidst dreary deserts, when my wood fire was half extinguished, my guide asleep, and my horses grazing at a distance-I have still a recollection, I say, of the happiness which I experienced when I heard the mingled melody of the winds and waters, as I reclined upon the earth, deep in the bosom of the forest. These murmurs, at one time feeble, at another more loud, increasing and decreasing every instant, made me occasionally start; and every tree was to me a sort of lyre, from which the winds extracted strains conveying ineffable delight. At the present day I perceive that I am less sensible to these charms of nature, and I doubt whether the cataract of Niagara would cause the same degree of admiration in my mind, which it formerly inspired. When one is very young, Nature is eloquent in silence, because there is a super-abundance in the heart of man. All his futurity is before him (if my Aristarchus will allow me to use this expression) he hopes to impart his sensations to the world, and feeds himself with a thousand chimeras ; but at a more advanced age, when the prospect, which we had before us, passes into the rear, and we are undeceived as to a host of illusions, then Nature, left to herself, becomes colder and less eloquent. "Les jardins parlent peu."* To interest us at this period of life, it is necessary that we have the additional pleasure of society, for we are become less satisfied with ourselves. Absolute solitude oppresses us, and we feel a want of those conversations which are carried on, at night, in a low voice friends.† among I did not leave Tivoli without visiting the house of the poet, whom I have just quoted. It faced the Villa of Mecænas, and there he greeted "floribus et vino genium memorem brevis avi."* The hermitage could not have been large, for it is situated on the very ridge of the hill; but one may easily perceive that it must have been very retired, and that every thing was commodious, though on a small scale. From the orchard, which was in front of the house, the eye wanders over an immense extent of country. It conveys, in all respects, the idea of a true retreat for a poet, whom little suffices, and who enjoys so much that does not belong to him—“ spatio brevi spem longam reseces.”† After all, it is very easy to be such a philosopher as Horace was. He had a house at Rome, and two country villas, the one at Utica, the other at Tivoli. He quaffed, with his friends, the wine which had been made during the consulate of Tully. His sideboard was covered with plate; and he said to the prime minister of the sovereign, who guided the destinies of the world: "I do not feel the wants of poverty; and if I wish for any thing more, you, Mecænas, will not refuse me." Thus situated, a man may very comfortably sing of Lalage, crown himself with short-lived lilies, talk of death while he is drinking Falernian, and give his cares to the winds. I observe that Horace, Virgil, Tibullus, and Livy all died before Augustus, whose fate in this respect was the same as Louis XIV experienced. Our great prince survived his cotemporaries awhile, and was the last who descended to the grave, as if to be certain that nothing remained behind him. *There he greeted with flowers and wine the genius who reminds us of the brevity of life. † Closed in a narrow space of far extended hopes. HORACE. if It will doubtless be a matter of indifference to you I state the house of Catullus to be at Tivoli above that of Horace, and at present occupied by monks; but you will, perhaps, deem it more remarkable that Ariosto composed his "fables comiques"* at the same place in which Horace enjoyed the good things of this world. It has excited surprise that the author of Orlando Furioso, when living in retirement with the cardinal d'Est at Tivoli, should have fixed on France as the subject of his divine extravaganzas, and France too when in a state of demi-barbarity, while he had under his eyes the grave remains and solemn memorials of the most serious and civilized nation upon earth. In other respects, the Villa d'Est is the only modern one which has interested me, among the wrecks of proud habitations belonging to so many Emperors and Consuls. This illustrious house of Ferrara has had the singular good fortune of being celebrated by the two greatest poets of its age, and the two men, who possessed the most brilliant genius, to which modern Italy has given birth. Piacciavi generose Ercolea prole It is the exclamation of a happy man, who returns thanks to the powerful house, which bestows favors on him, and of which he constitutes the delight. Tasso, who was more affecting, conveys in his invocation, the acknowledgments of a grateful but unfortunate man ; Tu magnanimo Alfonso, il qual ritogli, etc. He, who avails himself of power to assist neglected * Boileau. |