a spot of the earth so lovely, that it has exhausted the power of lyre, pen, and pencil. What can I say of it, in a space so limited as that which it must needs occupy in this small volume? What need I say, when every form and variety of expression has been used, to convey an idea of its surpassing beauty? Earth, air, water, sky, cloud, flower, foliage, light, shade, mountain, rock, valley, enriched with associations classical and poetical, make up the enchanting picture! It is difficult to determine which is the most attractive point of sight from which this wonderful scene is to be viewed. If we ascend to the heights of the castle of St. Elmo, and gaze down and around upon the rich and varied panorama: or if from that point of the bay which commands Vesuvius and its neighboring campagna, we mark its own bold sweep, the rich tintings of its Mediterranean waters, and the varied grades of graceful and picturesque architecture-dome, spire, convent, and palace; or still further, if we wander round the bold and rocky promontory of Posilipo, with the rich bay, and the noble and admonitory Vesuvius on our left-all, all is alike, admirable and charming. I have seen much of nature's grandeur and loveliness, and much too that is noble and elevated in art; but in Naples, I found what I have never elsewhere met with, in such a state of wondrous and harinonious combination.

It needs a far more vigorous pencil than mine to sketch even the outward portraiture of the people of Naples; and who shall adequately depict the interior? All that can arise from the influence of climate-buoyant spirits-half-maddened vivacity-impetuous passions; all that can result from local associations-picturesque-fanciful-capricious; and all too that can proceed from such a civil government and such an ecclesiastical system-slavery, poverty, idleness, and moral degradation, are too visible on the very surface of the human current, as it ebbs and flows along the crowded avenues of the restless city. The whole population of Naples gives the idea of immortal creatures forced into a delusive miscalculation upon the purposes of existence; and who, contrary to all

42

NAPLES-MONTE FOSILIPO.

evidence, have come to the conclusion, that gratification is the business of life, and that life and its prospects are com pressible into a day. It would be difficult to associate the idea of a recognised responsibility with the aspect of a Neapo litan population. One would think that the almost only two faculties of the mind which they actively employ are the imagination and the memory; the former heightening the excitements of the present moment-the latter stimulating the causes of excitement. Alas! they are moral agents, yet without true freedom; and-nominally Christian, yet without Christ. Their freedom is but an evasive licentiousness. Their Christianity is the pageant of a depraved and fallen church. While my memory is filled with glowing pictures of the loveliness of Naples, my heart sickens at the idea of its moral degradation, which lies like a deep alluvion formed by the endless ebb and flow of human passions, corrupt systems, unbridled carnality and godless destitution. What human depravity, under the reign of paganism began-it has abundantly finished under the dominion of the papacy. Whatever may be the material for the regenerative influence of true religion to work upon, in the heart of the Neapolitans, I know not: but certainly, nothing would more fully prove the omnipotence of grace from on high, than the emancipation of such a people from their present debasement, and the uplifting of them to the true dignity of the children of God. But I forbear to dwell on this subject.

Having occupied a suitable time in forming some idea of the interior of Naples, we set out for some of its environs. Amongst the first objects of interest was the promontory of Posilipo, and the adjacent localities. We commenced our route by the way leading towards Puzzuoli and Baiæ; and found just on this side of the subterranean road or tunnel, hewn in the solid rock of Posilipo, the structure usually given in prints and drawings, as the tomb of the Bard of Mantua. But on reading the inscription, and examining the structure, we found it was not so ancient; that in fact, it was the monument of an admiring modern age, rather than the

tomb of Virgil. The tomb, we ascertained to be above-on the rock itself. Proceeding along the subterranean road, we met with a young Cicerone-a ragged Neapolitan elf, who led us by the delightful route over the Monte Posilipo, amidst vineyards and orchards of fig trees. At every step, some new and lovely scene presented itself—robed in that most magical combination of light and shade so common in this enchanting country. At length, after commanding one of the most superb views of Naples and its magnificent bay, we began to descend a little, and by degrees came to a spot, which might well have been selected by the Poet as the place of repose for his ashes. Though the silver cord shall be loosed, and the golden bowl be broken, and the pitcher be broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern; and though the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it; though the grave shall be the abode of darkness, forgetfulness, and of loathsome corruption; yet there is something charming in the way of anticipationhowever unusual the object of anticipation may be to lay our bones in a spot where the loveliness of nature is lavishea -as if to gaze upon it, out from the portals of the dark chamber, though debarred from all connection with the stir. ring interests and pursuits of human life. And thus the imaginative faculty of man carries a vague idea of consciousness and perceptiveness into the silence and solitude and forgetfulness of death. The remains of the Poet's tomb are but scanty, and consist of a small chamber of about twelve feet square, formed of rude stones on the exterior, and entered by a low arch, and lighted also by a similar one on the opposite side. Round the walls of the interior, are niches, in which have been deposited urns containing the ashes of the dead. The whole structure is of rough Roman masonry, gracefully overhung by a ponderous spreading branch of the Ilex, or evergreen oak—a chaplet woven and bestowed by nature in her poetic mood. The chaplet is as fresh and as green as the Poet's fame. The tomb itself ooks, as it were, far abroad upon the bay of Naples-towards those waters on which the

eye of genius so often rested, as if he and they were to grow old together. The one has passed away. The others remain, with all the weight of years, but yet with the freshness of youth, upon them.

I was anxious to visit Puzzuoli-the "Puteoli" at which St. Paul arrived, when, having "fetched a compass" from Syracuse and come to Rhegium, the south-western breeze bore him onwards to the Italian shore.* At length, my eyes rested on the honored spot; and, reviewing the course of my journey from Rome-partly along the Appian way, I was enabled to recall the scenes through which the great Apostle passed, pressing onwards to the "eternal city"—a prisoner in the hands of a Roman Centurion-a fearless witness of the "faith once delivered to the saints." Ages have rolled by -governments have flourished and decayed, and dynasties have crumbled; yet, amidst the wreck-two things have remained permanent; the track of the Apostle's journey in the cause of eternal truth, and the record of his apostleship, written in pages of living light by the finger of the Spirit of God.

Puzzuoli is now an insignificant town, as viewed at a little distance. Its inhabitants are very generally occupied in fishing. In the immediate neighborhood are the remains of a temple of Jupiter Serapis, many parts of which are in good preservation, and convey a pure idea of its original beauty. Indeed, the remains of ancient Rome, in the immediate neigh borhood, are all deeply interesting to the antiquary, the poet and the philosopher. Proceeding onwards from Puzzuoli, we reached Baiæ, the site of so many villas in the palmy days of Rome, when luxurious indulgence sought to vary and multiply its transient delights, which drew from Horace the sarcastic remark, that the Romans, not content with their own inland territory, sought to grasp the possessions of the ocean. In our way, we particularly noticed the remains of a villa of Cicero, remarkable for being the spot in which he composed his "Quæstiones Academicæ." The wing of genius had

Acts xxviii. 11-13.

CARMELITE MONASTERY.

45

been expanded there; and now-what is left? The broken arch, the ruined wall, and the mere echo of a name as immortal as genius could make it. Not far from this ruin, are those of the villas of Julius Cæsar and Nero. Cæsar, Nero, and their palaces, are alike dust. Time's wing has swept. away the mighty and the cruel; and a "has been" is all that can be said of either. Oh, what a dream is human existence, when viewed through the retrospective vista of long past years.

The baths of Nero are still remaining; and the peculiar feature of them is, that they are supplied with naturally boiling water, the product of the volcanic soil, lying at the more distant parts of long and low passages bored in the solid rock. So high is the temperature of these springs, that eggs are easily boiled by being put into a bucket and immersed below the surface. We found the temperature far too high to admit of our proceeding to the extremity; and, indeed, the attendant at the bath returned with eggs boiled, and dripping with perspiration from every pore. At Baiæ, also, we found the lake Averno, the fabled mouth of the infernal regions; and also the famous Sybil's cave of Cuma. The former is but little calculated at present to stimulate the imaginative faculty, whatever may be said for the latter, through which we were conducted through long subterraneous passages, illuminated by torch-light; and at length were fairly borne through water on the backs of our guides to the very secret recess of the Sybil's chamber.

During our stay in Naples, we availed ourselves of an opportunity of visiting the monastery of Carmelites, situated just below the heights of the castle of St. Elmo. The monks were at vespers when we arrived; yet we were readily admitted, and proceeded direct to the church, where we found some very fine and effective specimens of fresco painting and rich marbles. The principal altar abounds in precious stones. We afterwards walked round the cloisters, in the centre of which is a small square burial ground, with little wooden crosses about a foot in height, just serving to mark the spots in