waters that they seem to be growing at the bottom of the river and can be counted with ease.  The water is as cold as snow and as pure in colour.  Hard by the spring stands an ancient and venerable temple with a statue of the river-god Clitumnus, clothed in the customary robe of state.  The Oracles here delivered attest the presence of the deity.  Close in the precinct stand several little chapels dedicated to particular gods, each of whom owns his distinctive name and special worship, and is the tutelary deity of a runlet.  For beside the principal spring, which is, as it were, the parent of all the rest, there are several smaller ones which have their distinct sources but unite their waters with the Clitumnus, over which a bridge is thrown, separating the sacred part of the river from that which is open to general use.  Above the bridge you may only go in a boat; below it, you may swim.  The people of the town of Hispallum, to whom Augustus gave this place, furnish baths and lodgings at the public expense.  There are several small dwelling-houses on the banks, in specially picturesque situations, and they stand quite close to the waterside.  In short, everything in the neighbourhood will give you pleasure.  You may also amuse yourself with numberless inscriptions on the pillars and walls, celebrating the praises of the stream and of its tutelary god.  Many of these you will admire, and some will make you laugh.  But no!  You are too well cultivated to laugh at such things.  Farewell.

Clitumnus still gushes from its rocks among the cypresses, as in Pliny’s day.  The god has gone from his temple, on the frieze of which you may read this later inscription—­’Deus Angelorum, qui fecit Resurrectionem.’ After many centuries and almost in our day, by the brain of Cavour and the sword of Garibaldi, he has made a resurrection for Italy.  As part of that resurrection (for no nation can live and be great without its poet) was born a true poet, Carducci.  He visited the bountiful, everlasting source, and of what did he sing?  Possess yourselves, as for a shilling you may, of his Ode “Alle fonte del Clitumno,” and read:  for few nobler poems have adorned our time.  He sang of the weeping willow, the ilex, ivy, cypress and the presence of the god still immanent among them.  He sang of Umbria, of the ensigns of Rome, of Hannibal swooping down over the Alps; he sang of the nuptials of Janus and Comesena, progenitors of the Italian people; of nymphs, naiads, and the moonlight dances of Oreads; of flocks descending to the river at dusk, of the homestead, the bare-footed mother, the clinging child, the father, clad in goat-skins, guiding the ox-wagon; and he ends on the very note of Virgil’s famous apostrophe

     Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra...

with an invocation of Italy—­Italy, mother of bullocks for agriculture, of wild colts for battle, mother of corn and of the vine, Roman mother of enduring laws and mediaeval mother of illustrious arts.  The mountains, woods and waters of green Umbria applaud the song, and across their applause is heard the whistle of the railway train bearing promise of new industries and a new national life.