is an undoubted original, numerous copies have been taken, which are scattered throughout Europe.  It is in consequence somewhat effaced, but it still shows the characteristic features of the poet—­the purity of the profile, the fineness of the mouth, and the spiritual beauty and fascinating expression of the whole face.  But the incoherence of the adaptation makes it painful to think that this is the best representation of the poet we possess.

The extensive garden behind the convent combines a considerable variety of natural features.  The monks grow large quantities of lettuce and fennochio; and interspersed among the beds of vegetables are orange and other fruit trees, and little trellises of cane, wreathed with vines.  A large tank is supplied with water from a spring whose murmur gives a feeling of animation to the spot.  The garden rises at the end into broken elevated ground showing the native rock through its grassy sides.  A row of tall old cypresses crowns the ridge—­their fluted trunks gray with lichen-stains, and their deep green spires of foliage forming harp-strings on which the evening winds discourse solemn music, as if the spirit of the poet haunted them still.  On one side are the picturesque ruins of a shrine overarching a fountain, now dry and choked up with weeds, and fringed with ferns.  Cyclamens—­called by the Italians viola pazze, “mad violets”—­grow on its margin in glowing masses; sweet-scented violets in profusion perfume all the air; and a few Judas-trees, loaded with crimson blossoms, without a single leaf to relieve the gorgeous colour, serve as an admirable background, almost blending with the clouds on the low horizon.  On the other side the hill slopes down in a series of terraces to the crowded streets of the Trastevere, forming a spacious out-door amphitheatre, in which the Arcadian Academy of Rome used to hold its meetings during the summer months, and where St. Filippo Neri was wont to give those half-dramatic musical entertainments which, originating in the oratory of the religious community established by him, are now known throughout the world as oratorios.  Between these two objects still stands the large torso of a tree which bears the name of “Tasso’s oak,” because the poet’s favourite seat was under its shadow.  It suffered much from the violence of a thunderstorm in 1842, but numerous branches have since sprouted from the old trunk, and it now affords a capacious shade from the noonday heat.  It is a variety of the Valonia oak, with delicate, downy, pale-green leaves, much serrated, and contrasts beautifully with the dark green spires of the cypresses behind.  The leaves at the time of my visit had but recently unfolded, and exhibited all the delicacy of tint and perfection of outline so characteristic of young foliage.  The garden was in the first fresh flush of spring—­that idyllic season which, in Italy more than in any other land, realises the glowing descriptions of the poets.