pavements is peculiar and solemn.

A visit to it is an episode in a man's life that he can never forget. An old column or a broken wall of a once populous city interests us. We stand and muse over the ruined pile till it becomes eloquent with the history of the past. If one single complete temple be found, how it increases the interest. But to wander through a whole city standing as its inhabitants left it in their sudden fear, adds tenfold to the vividness of the picture. The little household things meeting you at every turn, give speciality to the whole. As I strolled from apartment to apartment, I almost expected to meet some one within the door. I felt like an intruder as I passed into the sleeping rooms of others—as if I were entering the private apartments of those who were merely absent on a ride or a visit. The scenes were familiar, and it appeared but a short time since the eyes of those who occupied the dwellings rested on the same objects. In turning the corners of the streets, it would hardly have surprised me to have met the inhabitants just returning, and looking on me as a stranger and an intruder. It required an effort to convince myself that these streets and these dwellings were thronged and occupied for the last time nearly two thousand years ago. I assure you the struggle was not to call up the past, but to shake it off—and when I finally stood at the gate and gave a farewell look to the lonely city that faintly shone in the light of the setting sun, a feeling of indescribable sadness stole over me, and I rode away without the wish ever to see it again.

But the view of the bay, and the careless laughing groups we met at every step, soon restored our spirits. The streets were filled with loungers, all expressing in their manners and looks the Neapolitan maxim, "dolce far niente" (it is sweet to do nothing). You have heard of the bright eyes and raven tresses and musiclike language of the Neapolitans; but I can assure you there is nothing like it here, i. e. among the lower classes. The only dif ference that I can detect between then and our Indians is, that our wild bloods are the more beautiful of the two. The color is the same, the hair very like indeed, and as to the "soft bastard Latin" they speak, it is one of the most abominable dialects I ever heard. I know this is rather shocking to one's ideas of Italian women. I am sure I was prepared to view them in a

CHARACTER OF THE PEOPLE.

75

favorable, nay, in a poetical light; but amid all the charms and excitements of this romantic land, I cannot see otherwise. The old women are hags, and the young women dirty, slip-shod slatterns. Talk about "bright-eyed Italian maids!" Among our lower classes there are five beauties to one good-looking woman here. It is nonsense to expect beauty among a population that live in filth, and eat the vilest substances to escape the horrors of starvation. Wholesome food, comfortable apartments, and cleanly clothing, are indispensable to physical beauty; and these the Italians, except the upper classes, do not have, The filthy dens in which they are crammed, the tattered garments in which they are but half hid, and the haggard faces of hundreds of unfed women and children that meet me at every step as I enter the city at night, overthrow all the pleasures of the day, and I retire to my room angry with that political and social system that requires two-thirds to die of starvation, that the other third may die of surfeit. The King of Naples has five palaces, while thousands of his subjects have not one blanket.

Men talk of travelling when the mind is matured, but I advise every one who wishes to enjoy Italy to visit it before he has thought of the irregularities and miseries of the world. Let him come into this beautiful clime while the imagination holds supreme sway, and life is a golden dream. He then will see but its temples and arts, hear but the voice of the past, and grow enthusiastic on a soil where every stone is a monument, and every wall a history. I could weep when I see the havoc that tyranny and avarice make of the happiness of man. Why is it that these thousands around me should weep and suffer and die, that one lazy Prince may gorgeously furnish five palaces he enters but five times a year? Why should Lazzaroni multiply to be cursed by every stranger, merely that a few lazy nobles may turn a whole country into beautiful villas to gallop through? Italy abounds in lovely scenery, and is rich in classic associations; but he must be a stupid observer, or a heartless one, who can see and feel nothing else. As I wander through the grounds of a princely noble, I enjoy the beauty and taste that surround me, until mounting some point of view I look down on a lovely country filled with half-fed men, and then I could hang him on one of his

own oaks. There stands a glorious statue, but under it lies a live sufferer. There is a magnificent church, but on its ample steps are heaps of rags, each enveloping a living, suffering man. But, as the Italians say, "la pazienza e la confidenza." Yes-patience and confidence: for the ridiculous farce of Kings will have an end, and humanity yet shake off its rags and lay aside its shame, and assert and take its long-withheld rights.

Yours, &c.

ASCENT OF VESUVIUS.

LETTER XVII.

Ascent of Vesuvius.

NAPLES, March, 1843.

DEAR E.-We have been to Mount Vesuvius, and to-day has been one of the richest days of my life. The morning was bright and clear, and the road lay along the Bay of Naples. We made a short stop at Portici, where the King has a palace. It is beautifully situated, with gardens and promenades around it, and all the luxuries that royalty can so easily afford. The taste and beauty of the interior, however, are chiefly owing to Madame Murat, the ex-Queen of Naples, who reformed not only this, but all the royal palaces of the city. When the dethroned Ferdinand returned from Sicily, he was exceedingly pleased with the improvements his conqueror had made, and very good-humoredly remarked that "Murat was an excellent upholsterer." The portraits of Napoleon's and Murat's families are still there, and said to be excellent likenesses. The whole palace is in excellent taste, but the only thing remarkable in it is a porcelain room, the walls and ceilings of which are entirely covered with china from the celebrated manufactory of Capo di Monti, specimens of which are now seldom found. These porcelain panels are painted with landscapes, and bordered with wreaths in alto-relievo; colored like life, and as large; with squirrels and birds mingled in charming confusion. The frames of the mirrors and the chandeliers are of the same material, and the effect of the whole is singular and pleasing. I hurried through the rooms, anxious to be on the side of Vesuvius.

We soon came to the place where horses and donkeys are taken for the ascent, and here a scrambling and squalling and quarrelling commenced that would not have disgraced a steamboat landing at New York. In the morning when we started, a man

"I can take

mounted the box of the carriage with the driver, as if he owned it. I asked him what he was doing there. He inquired if I did not wish a guide. I replied, "Yes, of course, to ascend the mountain." Supposing all was right, we went on. But here I discovered that a horse could not be had without a guide to accompany him. I turned to my friend of the coach-box and asked what it meant, and why he had presumed to fasten himself on me in this way. He seemed to be somewhat flustered, but replied with a great deal of suavity, "Oh, sir, to see you are not cheated, and to have everything arranged on your return." care of that," said I; "I don't mean to be cheated by you or others either." But the day was advancing, and this was no place or time to quarrel with him, for it would only swell the Babel that already clattered around me. My friend at length mounted a good-looking horse, while the most villanous donkey that ever went unsheared was led up to me. I asked my supernumerary guide if this was the animal he had come thus far to provide me with. He said he thought it was an excellent beast. I replied I was sorry I could not agree with him, and deliberately walked away. The owner then threw himself before me, with his demure, shaggy, long-eared friend, determined I should take him. I asked him if he called that a horse. "No, your excellency, but an eccellentissimo Ass." "No," said I very coolly, "you are mistaken; it is neither an ass nor a horse." He looked in astonishment at me, as much as to say, "What do you mean? what is it then?" The others had become quiet by this time, and stood waiting the issue. Why," said I, "don't you see it's a rat-a large water-rat-you are wishing me to ride ?" The men looked at each other in astonishment for a moment, and then burst into a loud laugh. Seeing I was not to be duped, they led me out a very nice grey pony, which I mounted; and galloped

away.

The guide, with a strong stick in one hand, seized my friend's horse by the tail, and trotted after. The ascent for some time was gradual; the road passing through vineyards from which Lachryma Christi, tears of Christ (as a certain kind of wine is called), is made. The scene gradually grew drearer until we came to the region of pure lava. I can convey to you no idea