So severe a critic as Francesco Milizia declares that this fountain is justly considered to be the best work produced in Rome during the eighteenth century. It has elicited extravagant praise from other authorities, and in later times some adverse criticism. It has been woven into many of the romances connected with Rome, and until quite recently there were few American and English visitors to the Eternal City who left her without paying a moonlight visit to Trevi, there to toss a coin into the water while they drank to their certain return. Romans of the eighteenth century often saw Alfieri, the tragic dramatist, crouched beside the fountain, lost in a day-dream evoked by the tumult and beauty of the water; and it is recorded that the day after Michelangelo’s death there was found in his house no wine whatever, but five jars of water, presumably the Trevi, as it was the only pure drinkable water in Rome. The Trevi fountain has become a feature in the city’s life. It is the chief fountain of the one water which modern Rome inherits directly from her great past. The fountain consists of a vast semicircular basin, sunk so far below the level of the pavement that it is necessary to descend a flight of steps in order to stand beside it. This device, which was rendered necessary by the low head of the water, is excellent from an æsthetic view-point, as the spectator, being on a different grade from the piazza and its surroundings, feels that he is in another world and is able to forget the city and give his entire attention to the scene before him. Looking up, he sees a great ledge of broken rock, over which the water pours in many streams and waterfalls, disappearing and reappearing among the rocks like a veritable mountain torrent. The main stream descends in a series of three quite lovely cascades, their semicircular-shaped basins being prototypes of the great lower basin, into which all eventually flow. Their edges are smooth, as if they had been water-worn, and the force of the water feeding them is so great that it boils and roars among masses of broken rock as it does in a natural waterfall. Above all this finely simulated wildness rises the ornate group of Neptune riding in a chariot made of an enormous sea-shell and drawn by two sea-horses. The horses are placed well to each side of the central cascades, and the group is terminated by Tritons who are restraining the onward dash of the horses and are blowing conches. The background or frame-work to this scene of commotion and tumult is the highly finished conventional façade of a Roman palace; Neptune issues forth not from a rocky cavern but from a Renaissance tribune constructed with four Ionic pillars and a richly carved roof, on the frieze of which runs the following inscription: