down ſhe ſank, with a deep ſob, on a ſofa that ſtood behind her.
‘There lies, about a ſtone’s throw from the iſland, acceſſible only by a draw-bridge, guarded by a well-appointed watch, a ſtrong tower, built on a ſteep rock, and compleatly ſurrounded by the ſea. Here, in the age of paganiſm, was the reſidence of joy. Here are now the ruins of a celebrated temple conſecrated to the jovial god of wine. The gate of the temple may ſtill be ſeen, as alſo the canals, along which the gifts of Bacchus flowed in copious ſtreams into a capacious reſervoir[1]. Chriſtian charity has converted this Heatheniſh abomination into a fortreſs of famine, and it is now frequented by bats and owls alone. The unhappy victims of a deſpot’s jealouſy here found inevitable deſtruction. I was forced into this abominable dun-
- ↑ Theſe remains are ſtill viſible, according to Tournefort.
‘geon
