The Velino is a river of considerable volume which rises in the highest
region of the Abruzzi, threads the upland valley of Rieti, and
precipitates itself by an artificial channel over cliffs about seven
hundred feet in height into the Nera. The water is densely charged with
particles of lime. This calcareous matter not only tends continually to
choke its bed, but clothes the precipices over which the torrent
thunders with fantastic drapery of stalactite; and, carried on the wind
in foam, incrusts the forests that surround the falls with fine white
dust. These famous cascades are undoubtedly the most sublime and
beautiful which Europe boasts; and their situation is worthy of so great
a natural wonder. We reach them through a noble mid-Italian landscape,
where the mountain forms are austere and boldly modelled, but the
vegetation, both wild and cultivated, has something of the South-Italian
richness. The hill-sides are a labyrinth of box and arbutus, with
coronilla in golden bloom. The turf is starred with cyclamens and
orchises. Climbing the staircase paths beside the falls in morning
sunlight, or stationed on the points of vantage that command their
successive cataracts, we enjoyed a spectacle which might be compared in
its effect upon the mind to the impression left by a symphony or a
tumultuous lyric. The turbulence and splendour, the swiftness and
resonance, the veiling of the scene in smoke of shattered water-masses,
the withdrawal of these veils according as the volume of the river
slightly shifted in its fall, the rainbows shimmering on the silver
spray, the shivering of poplars hung above impendent precipices, the
stationary grandeur of the mountains keeping watch around, the hurry and
the incoherence of the cataracts, the immobility of force and changeful
changelessness in nature, were all for me the elements of one stupendous
poem. It was like an ode of Shelley translated into symbolism, more
vivid through inarticulate appeal to primitive emotion than any words
could be.