bright flowers, embroidering every hill-side, and casting sweet perfumes in thy balmy breezes!" Time cannot wither, or custom stale thy infinite variety," may be said more truthfully far of Italy than of poor faded Cleopatra, centuries ago food for envious worms. But a truce to rhapsody, and enter matter of fact. From the kiosk we descended into a dark ilex wood covering that side of the rising ground, ancient trees, old enough to have bent under the same hurricane that marked the hour of Cæsar's murder and clave the bronze wolf on the Capitol. In a dell at the bottom was a tiny lake, surrounding a moss-covered pile of ruined marble, radiantly green, from whence sprang up a liquid jet, whose gurgling broke the solitude, and answered to the wind whistling overhead; the nymph of this fair domain audibly and evidently flirting with Boreas, who had become most eloquently pressing, judging from the noise he made. In an open space over this sweet dell the Casino (Anglicè, house) appeared, where the Princess Piombino repairs when she makes her villeggiatura, and wishes to enjoy nature, which the Italians have no notion of doing, not in the very least appreciating its beauties. The ladies especially, who never go out until the fall of the day, whatever be the season, care as little about the enchanted land, and the flowers, and the fragrant shade, and the delicious breezes, as a Venetian does for a horse. They never walk, never wander about as we English delight to do, but order their carriage, and where that carriage cannot take them they never go. The Casino is rather an ugly building, without the slightest pretension except of comfort. Within the inner hall are the famous frescoes of Guercino, his Aurora, and the Night and Morning. The Aurora is, alas! but a milkmaid after Guido's Goddess, and the black and brown piebalds but Flemish stallions in comparison to those ethereal steeds that skim through the azure main around. However, it is a fine work, and has great force and justness of colouring. The various figures, too, emblematic of night, disappearing in different discomfited attitudes behind dark lowering clouds, all flying at the approach of day, are beautifully conceived; and did one see such frescoes anywhere but at Rome, and so near the Rospigliosi palace, one might well get up an ecstasy about it. On either side of the hall are the figures of Night and Morning, both too well known to need more than a casual mention. I admired them much. The dead, heavy sleep of the one, whose eyes are closed over a manuscript she holds in her hand, while the owl, the night birds, and the sleeping child all tell of repose around her, contrasts capitally with the joyous, merry freshness of Day spreading his wings to the morning beams with a soul-inspiring glee, full of youth, of hope, of promise. Other frescoes there are; landscapes of Dominichino and Guercino, no way remarkable except for the excessive greenness of the former's colouring-a defect I had already observed in his frescoes at the Farnese palace. The house is a centre, from which innumerable walks radiate through the delicious groves around. Before it wave great trees of cypress, tall and funereal as fancy can desire, mixed with immense solemn pines, whose twisted, knotted branches spread out in strange agonised shapes from the lofty trunks. High hedges border all the walks, lending a mysterious, intriguing air to the grounds, suggestive of romantic meetings, and escapes, and assignations. Such hedges as these, tell-tale, hollow, and treacherous, must have divided Louis Quatorze from the still innocent Lavallière, when overhearing her confes sion of love and admiration for himself (the Grand Monarque) to her fellow-maidens, one day in the gardens of Fontainebleau. Oh, it was a rare scene here, in these lovely gardens. I could have wandered for a whole livelong day. One walk there was under an avenue of dark ilex trees, forming a sombre shade, as some stray sun-gleams came straggling in as if by chance. Beyond was grass, over which the great boughs feathered down, lending a solitary, lonely character to the scene. On the other side the great walls bounded the view, lit up by the sun. This walk was interminably long-two miles, I should think-diversified by temples and statues at intervals as it wound round the base of the walls. We followed it to a part of the grounds bordered by low houses for preserving the orange-trees in winter, on one side; while at the other, the wall had been turned into a kind of green-house for flowering plants, whose blossoms peeped out prettily between the rents time had made in them. The walls of ancient Rome, and a modern conservatory, yet, "why of that loam might they not stop a beer-barrel?" I thought again of what Hamlet says of Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, The past and the present jostle each other strangely in these classic spots. Time would fail me, and any reader's patience, if I told all the wonders of this enchanted ground, beautiful as the "delectable country" in "Pilgrim's Progress." There were caves deep down, bordering pretty small lakes overshadowed with willows. Rising hills and descending valleys, clothed with whole acres of lilacs, arbutus, and laurel, magnolias, oleanders, and the Lord knows what sweet-scented trees beside. Then there were bridges-some rustic, some architectural-and paths leading winding down among the verdant artificial woods, bordered by plantations of huge grotesque aloes, with thorns quite suicidal in length and sharpness. A large park-like space opened out here, planted with firs, and crossed by roads, along which the meek mouse-coloured bullocks pulled classically-shaped carts. Finally, we emerged from this charming labyrinth into a great broad walk, screened with high hedges of cut cypress, advancing and receding in rounded folds, looking in the distance like rich green velvet, so smooth and bright. The sun now really setting came stealing through in long, slanting, golden rays across the verdant mass, chequering the walk and deepening the shadows. Two or three other large casinos in the grounds we did not see at all. But we were allowed to enter the gallery of sculptures, where I saw an immense deal of modern restoration, and very little original antiquity. Some of the statues are interesting, but not many. One, which I took for Virginius in the act of sacrificing his daughter, whom he holds by one hand, proved to be a Gaul slaying no one knows whom, and so I lost my interest, particularly as the figure is altogether modern. Here is a good Bernini Plutus carrying off Proserpine, only she fights too de bonne fois to be graceful, and he looks too satyr-like to be interesting; still there is great power in it; and I recognised the same master-hand that called the Daphne and Apollo into life. There are some curious old Termini, almost the only originals in the collection. On the whole, I never spent a pleasanter day than at the Villa Lodovisi, wandering in its lovely groves. 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In his own particular department, he can only be compared to the Changarniers, the Cavaignacs, the Lamoricières, the St. Arnauds-the élite of the African army in theirs. Still in the prime of life, he is in military rank only a lieutenant of Spahis; but as le tueur de Lions his reputation has spread all over Europe and Africa; the Arabs go in quest of him from the most remote duars or encampments, in order to enlist his services against their most formidable enemy. Travellers and romancers have vied with one another in giving currency to his exploits. We are not quite sure if the inimitable Dumas does not boast of having shared a cotelette de lion with the African chasseur. We grieve to find that so resolute a lion-exterminator complains of wear of constitution by toil, privation, fatigue, exposure, and excitement. "My limbs," he tells us," are no longer supple, my rifle weighs heavily in my hands, my breathing is oppressed on ascending the most trifling eminence-my eyes alone have remained good. The whole machine has worn itself out in the field of honour; may you one day be able to say as much. But I shall nevertheless go on to the end, too happy if Saint Hubert grants me the favour of dying in the claws and the jaws of a lion."* M. Jules Gerard has, according to his own account, spent six hundred nights alone in the African wilderness, exploring the ravines most favoured by the king of beasts, or waiting at the most frequented passes and fords; he has in that time only seen twenty-five lions. Such a rencounter is not a thing of every day; it requires a vast fund of assiduity, endurance, and perseverance, and not the least curious part of such devoted enmity to the lion tribe is its origin-one which a traveller in the East can almost alone be expected to sympathise with. The spirit of the "Lion-Killer" was of that select nature which cannot bear to succumb before man or animal-the very proof of this is his readiness on the other hand to bow down before the Creator, or to worship him through Saint Hubert-his patron saint. But he could not bear to be called a dog of a Christian. He saw that the Arabs were courageous-far more so than it is given to Europeans to be-but he saw also that they looked with supreme contempt and the most insufferable disdain at their French conquerors, and this he could not tolerate. He *La Chasse au Lion et les autres Chasses de l'Algérie, par Jules Gérard, précédées d'une introduction par M. Léon Bertrand, Directeur du Journal des Chasseurs. July-VOL. CI. NO. CCCCIII. S |