ed not in words, but, pacing along his garden walks, struck off with his staff the heads of the tallest poppies. The hint was sufficient. Next day, the heads of the principal citizens of Gabii rolled on the ground. But in later times, thanks to Epicurus, who invented the luxury, we have had gardens in Rome. Pliny remarks, that, before the days of that great philosopher, it was not customary to live in the country within the city walls. "But latterly" he continues in another place, "the rabble of Rome offered daily to the eye, in their very windows, models of gardens." By these he means the small conservatories, which even the poor people of the city enjoyed within the walls of their own dwellings, until a municipal regulation cut off all such pleasant prospects by ordering that houses shall be joined together in blocks: a regulation which the indig nant Pliny calls" a robbery of a vast number of citizens." I said there were other gardens in Rome. There are those, which Julius Cæsar generously gave, during his dictatorship, to the people of Rome, at the same time when he authorized the distribution of money among the populace. It was one of his most popular acts, and those gardens were to him a part of his road to power. They still bear his name and the fine residences, built by the nobility in their vicinity, make these the most aristocratic neighborhood in Rome. Exhibitions, free to the public, of whatever is marvellous and amusing, are given there also, so that the Gardens of Cæsar are really a Roman Vauxhall, without tickets of admission. Nero's Gardens, next to his palace, although generally closed, have also been thrown open to the public occasionally. In fact, on the night, when the cruel emperor set Rome on fire, one of his benevolent tricks-to which he resorted largely in order to misdirect suspicion-was to fit up here some rude sheds for the poor people, who were rendered houseless by the conflagration. The trick, like all the rest, failed. In these gardens also, he made fireworks of living Christians, whom he was punishing as the authors of the arson. This trick also proved useless. We certainly have no desire to study natural beauty in Nero's Gardens. On the other side of Nero's Palace are the Gardens of Mæcenas, built on the site of a paupers' burying ground, and full of pleasant and fresh associations as of green lawns and bright flowers. If I remember rightly, these fell into the hands of Tiberius, after the death of Mæcenas. But it was before this, that the great historian and miser, Sallust, had begun to try to rival the splendor of the great patron of literature, by expending the proceeds of his rapacities in fine houses and grounds and furniture. I think, judging from present appearances, that his gardens-which after descending to his grandson, have passed into royal hands-must have been fully as fine as those of Mæcenas. Seneca's were also magnificent, for they were bought with the wealth amassed while he was See "Classic Vagaries," No. v. a favorite of Nero; but alas! after the favor of that despot had made the philosopher rich enough to be envied, a secret order from royalty led to his murder, and his gardens became the property of his kingly assassin. Nero has made these his own private park. Besides all these, there are the gardens of Servilius, where the emperor Vitellius once lay sick for a long time: which fact reminds me that, during the civil war between this prince and Vespasian, the partisans of the former mounted the high stone wall around Sallust's Gardens and withstood, with various missiles, the attacks of their foes, until they were dislodged by a charge of cavalry. There are also the gardens of Lucullus, perhaps the most celebrated, once, of any which I have mentioned. When they came into the possession of the consul Asiaticus, they excited the cupidity of Claudius as much as did Naboth's vineyard the covetousness of Ahab. The result was that Asiaticus was, like Naboth, doomed to be persecuted to the death. He committed suicide, by severing large veins in his body, and left his grounds to his emperor. But to Claudius they proved, as they ought to have done, a field of blood. It was in them, that his adulterous wife, Messallina, unable, in spite of the urgent solicitations of her old mother, through nervous weakness, to commit suicide,-fell by an order, extorted from her imbecile and reluctant husband, under the dagger of a soldier. You can visit, if you please, the gardens of the widow of Tullus, a rich old paralytic, who died a few days ago, leaving a young, beautiful and benevolent woman-long jeered at for her union to so old and helpless a mate-in possession of several fine country seats and houses in the city. She is, just at present, the heroine of Roman gossip. One of the gardens she owns was bought one day during the life-time of Tullus, and before night, the old nabob had drawn elegant and ancient statues, marbles and monuments enough out of his barns and lumber-rooms, to adorn every corner in the whole of those extensive grounds. Some of the pleasantest gardens, after all, are those of Julus Martial, a relation of the poet, who calls them "more charming than those of the Hesperides." They are perched on the very summit of the Janiculum, reposing in part along its fine slopes. As disappointed office-seekers usually retire to their gardens, one of that class could hardly select a fitter spot for musing on past honors and the ingratitude of Rome, than this. He might stand in the pure atmosphere of the rounded top of the Janiculum, and see almost the whole city. If we take a short walk, we shall be able to catch a glimpse of Martial's grotesque villa, the delicate spires of which seem to prick the sky. Were you there, you would see below you the whole of the " seven lordly hills" on which the great city is built and take in all Rome at a glance; as well as the heights of Alba and Tusculum, which lie beyond. Just below you, you would see wagons rolling along the Flaminian way; and yet so far below, that you could scarcely hear the rumbling of the wheels. Almost under you, seemingly, would be the yellow Tiber, where it dashes through the bridge Mulvius-the ponte Molle and bears on its "sacred" bosom vessels of every clime. Yet you would be so far above it, as to hear very faintly the loud orders of the captains, the monotonous song of the row-master, giving time to the oarsmen, or the shrill heave-yo of the bargemen, who are dragging their boats up stream by means of ropes. But as our object is to visit a garden, not for the sake of the prospect it affords, but to inspect its internal arrangements, I propose that we start at once for Tuscany, and seek out Pliny's most charming villa: for he owns four, all in the Campagna di Roma, not very far from the city; one at Tusculum, one at Tivoli and one at Præneste. One hundred and fifty miles are soon passed over in the barque of fancy, and we are now in front of the Tuscan country-seat. We are standing in the middle of a wide plain, surrounded by an amphitheatre; such an amphitheatre, however, according to Pliny, "as can be erected by nature alone." High mountains, crowded from summit to base with forests, are sloping towards us on every side. On them you can find large quantities and every variety of game. Occasionally, there are seen amid the dense underwood, smooth, alluvial hills, whose soil is as fertile as the plains below, and as free from stones. At the bottom of these eminences is a complete circle of vineyards, woven together into a continuous arbor, and bordered with low shrubs. Then you have the plains and the meadow-ground; the latter filled with the trefoil and other herbs, and flowers and buds, looking as soft and fresh as if new ones were starting up every moment. Not a marsh blots the view any where, for the Tiber drains the whole surface of the country. Far behind you, lost in the clouds, are the Apennines. In short, the landscape seems, as if this were laid out under the eye of an artist, with so much exactness and variety and effect is the whole prospect arranged. We will not enter the villa to-day. Hereafter, we may explore its many buildings; its courts, where fountains are playing and trees growing in the middle of the dwelling; its bath-rooms and chambers; its studios and closets-too beautiful almost to admit of a credible description. At present, we will for a moment stand here, on the south side (which is the principal front of the main building,) and observe the scene. We have really been insensibly escending; for, although the villa stands at the foot of a hill, it commands an extensive view below as well as around it. Just behind us is the close portico, or piazza, divided into apartments and admirably adapted for coolness and quiet. As we stand on the terrace, we observe that the plats are bordered with box and modelled into various forins. Various plants and flowers adorn it, but it seems to me that the upper terrace of Pliny's Laurentine grounds, completely carpeted over with violets, is the more beautiful of the twain. But there are some violets here; the white vio let-the earliest child of Flora-and another of true ianthine hue, the well-known purple-and-gold blossom, whose modest beauty is appreciated the world over. The terrace terminates in a gentle slope, which to you, I know, presents a grotesque appearance, and you will smile still more when I tell you that this is what the Romans call "landscapegardening." The box is fancifully trimmed into shapes of animals, which correspond to each other on each side of the walk. We step between vegetable lions, and vegetable ships and vegetable birds. A wilder exhibition of false taste cannot be conceived, and yet to trim or "shave" (as the Romans call it) the graceful natural shapes of trees and shrubs into these monstrous representations, is the principal work of the Roman Gardener. Let us burry away from the scene-for which we are indebted, I believe, to the inventive genius of Marius, the friend of Cicero and Julius Cæsar. At the foot of the slope is a lawn of acanthus, a mossy carpet, so soft, that we may, with Pliny, call it "almost liquid." This is hedged about with evergreens, upon which the gardener's shears have wrought their outré and ridiculous handiwork, Outside of this is the "carriage-way," or a broad, smooth, circular walk, which encloses a round hedge of box and low shrubs. A high stone wall surrounds the whole; and this is covered with box, which is shorn into a short verdant slope, descending to the very ground; entirely "relieving" the abruptness of the tall barricade. Beyond this wall lies the garden proper. As we pass through the opening, the whole of the "raceground"-as the Romans denominate the upper part of their gardens-bursts upon the view. It is completely surrounded with plane-trees, the tallest and straightest of Roman shade-trees. Their broad deep-colored leaves cast a most refreshing shade, and their column-like trunks, (wreathed with masses of silver leaved ivy-"the beard of Jupiter"-which, clinging from bough to bough, binds rich festoons all around the area,) seem clothed in royal robes. Did you ever walk among shadows more cool and deep? No wonder, that it is hither the Roman brings his flagon, in the heat of the day, to drink his Falernian and take his siesta. These are such trees as Hortensius "watered" with wine, teaching them, Pliny says, to love liquor. This was done as one of those expensive delusions for which Hortensius and Lucullus have always been noted. You remember the altercation of Crassus and Domitius, about their respective extravagances. The plane-tree figured in that debate. "Which," exclaimed Crassus, "is the most luxurious; for me to buy ten marble columns for $3,000, or for you to pay $70,000 for ten little shade-trees?" Xerxes became so enamored of a plane, that, when it withered, he had a gilded representation of it carved, to console himself for its death. When the plane-tree is thus wreathed with ivy, it is said to be • "Landscape gardening" is an exact translation of " topiaria," sc. ars. 66 "married," and the modern comparison of woman's nature to the climbing plant is, therefore, only an old one reversed. Clear and forcible is that poetic fancy of Horace, wherein he calls the ivy wanton and ambitious." How steadily and firmly it creeps upward, taking advantage of seeming obstacles to farther its progress? and how lasciviously it strays from tree to tree, clasping the new love as tightly as the old. It is, you know, sacred to Bacchus, and significantly so. For the habitual love of wine is always invading higher and higher qualities of its victim, until, having chained his senses, it wreathes itself about the summit of his intellect and the loftiest beauties of his character, and brings all to the earth. And yet, how insidiously and lovingly it mounts, and how, for the time, it seems to add fresh charms to that which it embraces? And then, when it has crushed its victim, how hale and strong it still remains, rioting on the mouldering and rotting ruin it has made? Truly there is much deep meaning under these ancient lies of gods and goddesses. But let us look around us. Between these bay-trees are boxtrees, which, as you have already decided in your own mind, are special favorites with Roman horticulturists, on account of their plasticity under the shears. Just behind this grove is a second row of bay-trees; the wondrous bay, to gain a sprig of which, many a peril has been met, many a fearful task has been undertaken; many a crime and many a glorious act perpetrated and achieved. The imagination of the Romans makes Franklin's invention superfluous here, for they believe that the bay-tree is a conductor of the electric fluid. Tiberius carried the superstition so far during his life, as to wear a bay-wreath to protect him against the lightning of heaven. But the regular appearance of the "carriage way," or rather "6 race-course,' ," is broken at the farther end. The two lines of trees sweep off into semi-circles, and instead of the airy planes, we see, skirting the path, the "black and funeral cypress." Who can look at its dark branches and thick shade, and be surprised that twigs of it should be strewn on the bier and borne by the funeral train to the pyre? or that it should be planted in cemeteries? But the Roman custom has a deeper meaning. They have a tradition that if the cypress is cut down, nothing will ever spring from its root. As the popular belief is that there is no hope beyond the grave, the tree is a suitable emblem of their ideas of death. But how inappropriate to Christian burials would the cypress be! None but amaranthine plants should be scattered where bodies are sown in corruption, to be raised in incorruption." You are familiar, perhaps, with Horace's meaning stanza on the vanity of life, addressed to one who has not only wealth and the means of enjoyment, but worth and virtue besides. Piety will not arrest unconquerable death," says the poet; "but "Thy costly grounds must all be left; 66 |