ircle of the Sabine Hills rises on the horizon
to the left, terminating in the grand rugged peak of Monte Gennaro,
whose every cliff and scar are distinctly visible, and concealing in
its bosom the romantic waterfalls of Tivoli and the lone ancestral
farm of Horace. On the right the crested Alban heights form the
boundary, crowned on the summit with the white convent of Monte
Cavo--the ancient temple of Jupiter Latialis, up to which the Roman
consuls came to triumph when the Latin States were merged in the Roman
Commonwealth--and bearing on their shoulders the sparkling, gem-like
towns of Frascati and Albano, with their thrilling memories of Cicero
and Pompey; the whole range melting away into the blue vault of heaven
in delicate gradations of pale pink and purple. In the wide gap
between these ranges of hills--beyond the stone pines and ilex groves
of Praeneste--the far perspective is closed by a glorious vision of the
snow-crowned mountains of the Abruzzi, giving an air of alpine
grandeur to the view. And all this vast and varied landscape,
comprehending all glories of nature and art, all zones and climates,
from the tropical aloes and palms of the Pincian Hill to the arctic
snows of the Apennines, is seen through air that acts upon the spirits
like wine, and gives the ideal beauty of a picture to the meanest
things.

Italian poets share in the wonderful charm that belongs to everything
connected with their lovely land. They are seen, like the early Tuscan
paintings, against a golden background of romance. Petrarch, Dante,
Ariosto, invested with this magic light, are themselves more
attractive even than their poetic creations. But Torquato Tasso,
perhaps, more than them all, appeals to our deepest feelings. No
sadder or more romantic life than his can be found in the annals of
literature. He was one of those "infanti perduti" to whom life was one
long avenue of darkened days. In his temperament, in the character of
his genius, and in the story of his life, we can discern striking
features of resemblance between him and the wayward, sorrowful
Rousseau. Hercules, according to the old fable, "was afflicted with
madness as a punishment for his being so near the gods;" and the
imaginativeness of a brain which had in it a fibre of insanity, near
which genius often perilously lies, may be supposed to account for
much that is strange and sad in his career. The place of his birth was
a fit cradle for a poet. On the edge of a