in behind. In the villages out of the city every public square was filled with gay dancers, bounding merrily under the light of a pleasant sun and an Italian heaven.

But amid all the shifting and fantastic characters that moved and sported around me, there was one plain unmasked figure that interested me more than all. It was an old blind man that I had often seen in the streets when the sun was pleasant and the air was mild, led by a little child. To-day he was alone. At first I thought I was mistaken. It could not be he—thus left alone amid the jostling multitude. But there was the same woollen cap over the grey hairs the same old rusty surtout coat-the same sightless eyeballs. He had selected a part of the street less thronged than the rest, and was feeling his way through Strada Balbi—one hand slowly passing along the walls of the palaces, and the other tremulously grasping a stout cane. But why was he there alone so sad and mournful? He could see nothing of this abounding gaiety, and his countenance wore none of the mirth that made the street ring around him. No one watched him-no one seemed to care for him. He seemed a walking reproof to the high-blooded and careless youth that shouted by. As I watched him hugging the wall, that he might not be caught away, and borne off by the living stream, and with slow and unsteady steps threading his way under the shadow of these mighty palaces, I immediately divined the whole. He could not find it in his heart to tie the child, that usually piloted him in his wanderings, to his side amid such rejoicings. All had gone off, leaving the old man behind, as unfit to be taken among the crowd. In his solitude he had sat, and heard the murmur and shouts without his dwelling, reminding him of his boyish days, till he could sit quiet no longer. Alone, unaid. ed, he had groped his way into the streets. The tread of hasty feet, the mirth and the laughter, quickened the blood in his old veins, and the scenes of his boyhood came back on his fading memory. Half sad, half glad and half fearful, he thus passed along, probably for the last time, the streets of his native city on the last day of Carnival. So I have seen an old blind man in my own country, sitting in the mild air of a summer evening, leaning on the top of his cane, and listening with a sad smile to the laughter and mirth of boys at play on the village green. Truly yours.

CIVITA VECCHIA.

65

LETTER XV.

Leghorn-Civita Vecchia-Naples.

CIVITA VECCHIA, March, 1843.

DEAR E.-I see you staring at the date of this letter, and wondering what I have to do in "Civita Vecchia" (old city)why just nothing at all, only calculating how long it will take me to get out of it. I have been in my share of villainous towns, but this has a combination of qualities in this respect, that defies all comparisons. The suburbs are barren as a desert, and the inurbs dirty as a choked up sewer. The people look like cutthroats that have starved at their business, and the inside of the churches, like the refuse of the almshouse. I walked over it with an English lady-an acquaintance of Dickens by the waywho tells me that Dickens is getting out a work, reflecting on us in a manner that will throw his "Notes on America" entirely in the shade. She says she supposed our rapturous reception of him was occasioned by the fear we had of his pen. Shade of Hector defend us! this is too much. However, we deserve it, or rather those of my countrymen deserve it, who out-did Lilliput in their admiration of the modern Gulliver; for I plead not guilty to the charge of "fool" in that sublimest of all follies ever perpetrated by an intelligent people. I will cry "bravo" to every pasquinade Dickens lets off on that demented class, who cried out every time they saw that buffalo-skin over-coat appear, "The Gods have come down to us."

Do you ask how I got here? by steam! They charge on the Mediterranean steamboats, at the rate of ten dollars for the distance between New York and Albany. Their mode of running, or rather their habit of stopping, is very convenient for travellers. We started in the evening from Genoa, and waked up in the morning in Leghorn. We remained in port all day, allowing

66

told her I did not, but I becatalogue of those who had She said he was an EngNew York and married an

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, are you an American?" I replied that I was. "And from what part of the United States ?" "From New York." She then asked me if I knew a painter by the name of Coates. I lieved I had seen his name in the paintings in the Academy of Design. lishman by birth, and had removed to 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." I 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.

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