She then asked me if I knew a

I told her I did not, but I becatalogue of those who had She said he was an Eng

the passengers time to visit Pisa and return. The English Cemetery at Leghorn is very beautiful. I walked through it to find the tomb of Smollet, and while in quest of it met an English lady in search of the same thing; who civilly asked me if I could point it out to her. I returned with her to the tomb, and while there, remarked to the friend with whom I was in company, that he had better pluck a flower, to carry back as a memento to America. "What," said the lady to me, 66 are you an American?" I replied that I was. "And from what part of the United States?" "From New York." painter by the name of Coates. lieved I had seen his name in the paintings in the Academy of Design. lishman by birth, and had removed to New York and married an American lady. About the time the President was lost, he was expected in England, on his way to Italy. Since then he had never been heard of. Much anxiety had been felt on his account, and it was feared he had gone down in the ill-fated vessel. I replied, I supposed it was a very easy matter to determine that, by consulting the list of those who embarked in her. "Well,” said she, "if you ever see him in New York, tell him you met his mother at Smollet's tomb," and burst into tears, and turned away. She gave me no opportunity of making farther inquiries, and I saw her no more. It struck me as exceedingly singular, that she should be his mother, and yet not know whether he sunk in the President or not, and still more singular that she should expect I would see him before she would even know whether he was dead or alive. He must be a singular son, or "thereby hangs a tale," that the mother might unfold.

The wind blew like a hurricane from shore, as we came down the coast last night, but the sea kept smooth except when we were passing from point to point, across some large bay. The steamer was a snug sea-boat, and walked with almost noiseless step among the many islands that surrounded her. It was nearly midnight when we passed Elba, and I cannot describe to you the feelings with which I gazed on that island, casting its great, silent shadow over the sea. Bonaparte has left his image on every point of land he has touched; but one's reflections of him always

end painfully, and the mind runs down from Emperor, hero, warrior, to robber, where it stops. Strange, but the keen repartee said to have been inflicted on him once by an Italian lady, came to me as I looked on the Island. Said Napoleon once in company, speaking of the thieving propensities of the Italians, "tutti gli Italiani sono i ladroni," (all the Italians are robbers). "Non tutti," replied the lady, "ma bona-parte," not all, but the greater part, or, BONAPARTE. This is almost too good to be true.

I forgot to mention one thing of Civita Vecchia, and which I here record to the honor of the only decent man in it. The Englishwoman and myself were walking around the town, and finally, as promising some relief, stepped to the walls of the city for the purpose of looking off upon the sea; but at every attempt we were repulsed by a soldier, who said it was forbidden. The silliness of the command, just as if it were possible that any living man could be such an unmitigated fool as to wish to reconnoitre the walls for the purpose of ascertaining their weakness, so as one of these days to scale them, made me resolve to resist it. So stepping up to a soldier, who had just driven us back, I said in my blandest tone, "Why, you cannot be so ungallant as to refuse to permit a lady to look over the walls just for one moment." He looked around to see if any one was watching, and replied, "Well, for one moment, I don't care, but only one moment.' had conquered, so stepping up, we looked over, and lo, we saw— nothing. I thanked the fellow for his civility, and if I had any influence with his Holiness, he should be immediately promoted.

NAPLES.

I

It was a beautiful evening when we wheeled out of the contemptible little port of Civita Vecchia, and sped off for Naples. The wind had lulled, and the sea rolled with a gentle swell as our gallant little steamer shot along the Italian coast. Just at sunset we came opposite the Tiber, where it empties into the sea at Ostia, the ancient port of Rome. The dome of St. Peter's frowned grey in the distance, backed by snow peaks, and I began to feel the influence of the "eternal city" upon me. Around that port had clustered the Roman galleys, laden with the spoils of successful war--on their way to Cæsar's palace.

What a

change the centuries had wrought! I could not but picture to myself how Cæsar would have looked, if when lying off this port with his fleet, he had seen a steamer, breathing fire and smoke from her decks, and without sail, driving right down against wind and sea upon him. Methinks he would have told his helmsman, notwithstanding he "bore the great Cæsar," he had better haul a little closer in shore; and all the galleys would have huddled like frightened swans into Ostia. Really Cæsar's galley did look small beside our steamer. All this time my friend stood leaning over the rail, and gazing off on the shore, looking as if memory was busy with the mighty past. But just when I was expecting some extremely poetical sentiment, he drily remarked, without looking up, as he knocked the ashes from his cigar, “I wonder if Cassius ever did swim across that river with Cæsar on his back."

At length the full round moon rose over the scene, turning the sea into a floor of diamonds, over which our vessel went curtseying, as if herself half conscious of the part she was acting in front of old Rome. All seemed to feel the inspiration of the hour, and were scattered around on the moonlit deck in silent musing. It was an hour when home and its memories visit the spirit, and the heart travels back over the long interval to its place of repose. A Russian baroness and her niece, a sweet Finlandese, who were leaning over the side of the ship, humming fragments of melodies, at length burst into a native song, sending their rich voices far over the moonlit sea. A handsome Greek stood by with his dark eye and solemn face, drinking in the poetry of the scene and the music of the strain, till, unable longer to contain his feelings, he bowed his head on the bulwarks and covered his face with his hands. A French Count sat on the quarter-deck kicking his heels against the cabin, humming snatches from some opera by way of accompaniment to the song. He seemed quite unconscious of the discords he was making, while the Finlandese would ever and anon turn her blue eye inquiringly towards him, as if she would ask what he were trying to do, till she could contain herself no longer, and burst into a clear laugh, that rang almost as musical as her song. This broke up the poetry of the scene, and we subsided away into a good-natured chit-chat, until one

after another dropped off into the cabin, and my friend and myself were left alone with the moon and the night. That glorious moolight sail along the coast of Italy has left its bright impression on my heart for ever.

As I rose in the morning and went on deck, the first object that arrested my attention was the top of Vesuvius, which I caught through a notch in the mountain, sending up its dark column of smoke in the morning air. Islands came and passed us, till at length, rounding a point of land, the far-famed Bay of Naples opened before us. I cannot say the entrance struck me as peculiarly beautiful-the approach to Genoa is far more impressive. There is no striking back-ground of hills; and with the exception of St. Elmo, there is nothing on which the eye rests with peculiar interest. The beauty of the bay is seen in riding round it. In this aspect it is unequalled, for wherever you go there bends that same beautiful curve, sprinkled with villages, while Capri and Ischia sleep quietly out at sea. Take away the associations of both, and I think a stranger would be more impressed with the entrance to New York harbor, than with the entrance to the Bay of Naples. Association is everything. Clothe the shore with buried cities, and spread an air of romance over every hill-top, and it is wonderful how different rugged nature will look. the other hand, let all the associations be those of commerce, and the most beautiful scenery will have a very matter-of-fact appearance. There is a dreamy haze over everything around Naples that gives its scenery a soft and subdued aspect; added to this, there is a dreamy haze also over the spirit, so that it is quite imissible to see ordinary defects. But don't misunderstand me— the bay of Naples viewed from shore is the most beautiful bay I have ever seen, but, approached from the sea, inferior to that of New York. Set Vesuvius in motion, and pour its lava in firetorrents down the breast of the mountain, lighting up the shore and sea, and painting in lines of blood on the water each approaching vessel; and make a canopy of cinders and sparks borne hither and thither by the night wind, while the steady working of the fierce volcanic engine is like the sound of heavy thunder-and I grant you that the approach to Naples would be unrivalled.

f

Truly yours.

On

LETTER XVI.

Visit to Pompeii-Ruins-Character of the People.

NAPLES, March, 1843.

DEAR E.-The Neapolitan maxim, " Vedi Napoli e poi mori,” "See Naples and then die,”—is not so egotistical. The man who dies without seeing it, that is, in one of its most favorable aspects, loses no ordinary pleasure. There is a combination of scenery here to be found nowhere else, though particular portions of it may be seen in every country. But here is a beautiful bay, islands, cities, villages, palaces, vineyards, plains, mountains, and volcanoes, gathered into one "coup-d'œil." There is the grandeur of the past, and the beauty of the present; ruined temples, and perfect ones; living cities, and buried ones; and over them all a sky that would make any country lovely, however rugged. Day before yesterday I rode out to Pompeii. At 8 o'clock I landed from the steam-boat-at 10 I was on my way with an English gentleman and lady for the city of the dead. It lies twelve miles distant, and in the clear air and new objects that surrounded me, I forgot the object that had hurried me away. Now an old-looking vehicle would pass us, whose shape could hardly be made out, from the number of ragged, dirty beings that covered it-standing, sitting, lying, and indeed piled up in every direction, so as to occupy the least possible space. I counted on several of these two-wheeled, one-horsed vehicles, ten persons. There would sit a row of miserable-looking women outside of their houses, all engaged in the same occupation-looking heads. Here a little urchin would be sitting on the ground, with his head between the knees of a woman who was busy with his head, while behind her stood a third performing the same kind service, and all forming a group both ludicrous and revolting. In another direction would stand a man in the streets with a plate in one hand, while from the other lifted