“The white streets of Tusculum.”
The reservoir that fed the aqueducts; the ruins of Forum and Theatre; piles of nameless stones breaking through uncultivated moors; on the side nearest Rome, mossy pillars of the old gateway; outside of this, a stone drinking-trough set there in the days of the Consulate, and through which still runs a stream of pure cold water,—this is what is left of the town founded by the son of Circe and Ulysses; erst the stanch ally of Rome, and the queen-city of Latium up to the battle of Lake Regillus. The best view of the encompassing country is to be had a little beyond the gateway. From this point is visible the natural basin, shut in by wooded hills, which contains Lake Regillus, now a stagnant pond, quite dry in summer. Under our feet were the stones from which the hoofs of Mamilius’ dark-gray charger struck fire on the day of battle.
Repeating the rhyme, we looked around to trace the route by which
“He rushed through the gate of Tusculum;
He rushed up the long white street;
He rushed by tower and temple,
And paused not from his race
’Till he stood before his master’s door
In the stately market-place.”
“Poetry—not history!” objected one.