Life in the Old World/Station 14

by Fredrika Bremer

 

FOURTEENTH STATION.

Arrival at Naples—Eruption of Vesuvius—Life in Naples—Unexpected arrival at Ischia—Mrs. M. and Mr. N.—An enchanted Island—The Princess Elsa and Waldo—Romantic Days and Weeks—The King and Queen of Naples—The People on the Island—Sorrento—Love and Disquiet—Noble and Ignoble Love—Folks-Festival and Folks-Life—Our Domestic-Life—Worship of the Virgin—The Prince of Syracuse—Days at Capri—Arnalfi—Salerno—Pestum—Pompeii—Something enchanted—The Romance continued—How will it end.

Naples, May 29th.—The first sight which meets me here is of a grand character, that of Vesuvius in full eruption. A primal phenomenon stands there speaking, in hieroglyphics of fire and smoke, of the mysteries of the creation and the abyss, and no human mind has been able to interpret them. The eruption commenced three days ago—the very day that we left Rome—and probably may prove one of the most important which has occurred for many years. Vesuvius, which I have hitherto called one of the earth's three thousand chimneys—for such probably is the number of volcanoes—and which I was determined to “take coolly,” impressed me so deeply, as it stood forth, crowned with its column of smoke, before us, as we hastened across the Campagna Felice towards Naples, that I was dumb. I felt something resembling reverence and dread before the giant of nature, the monarch of volcanoes, so huge, so majestically terrific did he appear. My traveling companions would not believe in the eruption, spite of the masses of smoke which burst forth from the mountain, because we saw, as yet, no fire. Here, however, in the Schiazzi Boarding House, on the Bay of Naples, one sees clearly the great fire which burns; not out of the mountain top, but which bursts forth in the abyss between the great cone of the mountain Somma, the second half of Vesuvius, and formerly connected with the cone. One seems to see an extent of valley filled with burning rivers. The highest point of Vesuvius is vailed in a dark cloud of smoke. The road thither is said to be cut off by the stream of lava; but from the neighborhood of the Hermitage an excellent view may be obtained of the burning valley.

The distant sight kept me awake through the night. The scene was so peculiar, especially when the full moon rose above it, half-hidden in a cloudy vail, seeming, like a timid vestal, to fly before the flames of the subterranean god, which shone ever redder as the moon advanced in her mild splendor. Again and again I could not but leave my bed during the night to contemplate, from my balcony, the contending lights, that of Loke, which tinged the heavens red, whilst a dull thunder-like noise sounded from his subterranean realm, and that of the moon, which gained ever more and more ascendency over space. The stillness of the night at length seemed to lull them to rest, the moon advanced into a bed of cloud, and the fire of Vesuvius seemed to burn slumberously.

The morning was cloudy, but the day has become bright and warm, and during the coming night, I shall more nearly behold his glowing majesty. Immense masses of smoke ascend from his jaws, and then sink over the whole mountain district to the left, around the bay of Naples, the heights of Terra del Greco, Sorrento, and Castel-a-Mare. I have a pleasant home on the Riviera di Chiaja. In front of it, between the quay and the sea, extends the beautiful promenade, Villa Reale; beyond this is the bay,—the grand, celebrated bay,—surrounded by the shores of Pozzuoli and Pompeii. The former is crowned with villas and parks. On the left is throned Vesuvius. The sea is full of joyous life, and the waves gleam in the sun. Exactly opposite, on the horizon, lies Capri, like a great block of stone, and suns itself on the dark blue, moving plain.

May 30th.—No, I was not able to pay my respects to Vesuvius, in his fiery neighborhood. About noon, yesterday, it pleased his majesty to envelop himself in a black robe of smoke, which looked like a threat of the deluge, or the last judgment, or something of that kind. Dull thundering sounds were heard, the air grew cold, and the wind drove eddies of sand through the air. This continued till evening, when the robe of clouds was lifted above the mountain, and displayed a lofty pillar of fire, which rose upwards, out of the great furnace. The dark cloud was tinged red by it, and the streams of lava appeared more intensely hot, and, as it were, nearer. Thick smoke ascended from the summit of the cone, and a new eruption was expected. Late in the evening, loud cracking sounds, and most strange noises, were heard.

The little company in the Schiazzi boarding-house were kept in a state of excitement by the scene, and related terrible things, and all the misfortunes which the eruption of Vesuvius might occasion, and which, in extreme occasions, might be looked for; and this made the grand spectacle at once dismal and interesting. The more remarkable personages in this company are, an American diplomate,—a Catholic,—an interesting and agreeable man; a young widow, elegant, refined, and particularly charming, of the Protestant faith, but suspected, in the boarding-house, of Catholic tendencies; and a large, stout Miss S.,—one of those originals which are only produced and sent forth by Great Britain. The view of Vesuvius, and the amiable young widow, animate her every evening to sermonize on God's providence, and to make violent onslaughts upon Catholicism and the Pope, both in verse and prose. Her fervency increases the while, she goes in and out through the door, strikes upon her breast, and calls the Pope “this man of sin,” “this antichrist,” and becomes, in the mean while, so fanatical and zealous, that it amuses me, but evidently annoys the young widow, who sits silently, with downcast eyes, and with an expression at the same time so good and so suffering, that it excites me to enter the lists against Miss S., in favor of Catholicism, which obtains for me a grateful glance from Mrs. M., as I will call the young widow, and new explosions from the other, who most certainly would have been a first-rate actress.

Whilst she preaches, and Vesuvius smokes, and I wait for an opportunity of visiting it in tranquillity, I will say a few words about the journey from Rome to Naples.

The journey was made by vetturino, in company with Mr. S., a young Englishman, Mr. H., and an amiable elderly married couple, Germans, who were called by their friends Philemon and Bancis. Philemon,—Dr. Steinheim,—who was also called “the learned Rabbi,” is a handsome old man, with snow-white hair, and a countenance which, in feature and expression, reminds one of Franklin. Bancis, again, is a little old woman, till handsome, comfortable, kind, and with a certain solemn dignity in her demeanor,—a true representative of the antique shepherdess. We had, for many reasons, resolved not to take the usual route to Naples, by Terracina, but to drive by way of the Abruzzi, Monte Casino, San Germano, and so on. I was glad to do so, because I wished to see the celebrated old Convent, Monte Casino, and Padre Tosti, whose patriotic work, La Lega Lombarda, did him great honor, as an Italian, and had obtained for him the honor, likewise, of eight months' imprisonment under the paternal protection of King Ferdinand of Naples.

This route—by way of San Germano, and Monte Casino—is advisable for such as love to see picturesque, wild mountain scenery, with views over fertile stretches of valley, and to make acquaintance with dirty little towns half overspread with cobwebs, but where the peculiar physiognomy and dress of the people, sometimes literally of rags, the dirt, and the half-naked, mendicant children who exclaim with expressive gestures “Morto di fame! morto di fame!” But all ought to be warned from this route who make a great point of good hotels and good living. The weather besides, was stormy and cold in the mountain district, and we enjoyed but few sunbeams. We had them however, in the valleys of Sacco and Liri, embosomed in the wooded heights of the Abruzzi, above which large wandering clouds cast their shadows, and a troop of women, like caryatides, came along with large water vessels on their heads from the fountain near the little town where we dined. Another such gleam of sunshine had we as we clambered up Monte Casino, and it was needed, for it was cold and the convent lies very high.

The convent and church are as magnificent as palaces, brilliant with marbles and precious ornaments; statues and busts adorn the courts and passages. The worthy fathers of the convent all, with the exception of three, go to sleep at noon, and the whole establishment seems to bear them company. The convent seemed deserted. On my inquiry, however, for Padre Tosti, he immediately made his appearance, a little man, with handsome, dark eyes, finely cut countenance, refined manners, and an expression which seemed to say that he had learned that it was not necessary to say all that one knows and thinks, if one wishes to live at peace. He seems now to have found this blessed peace and to employ it for his learned labors. We may trust him for writing something as high-minded and patriotic as the above-mentioned work. The printing presses of Monte Casino—where this work also was printed—have, since the transactions of 1848, been stopped, and Padri Tosti now writes under the watchful eye of the censor. He has in the mean time, at the last session of the Chapter in the Convent—received the title of Abbot, and he is said to have the prospect if he behaves well—of becoming in reality the Abbot of the Convent. He gives instruction merely an hour in the day, the rest of his time he devotes to his own learned labors. I complimented him on his Lega Lombarda, which seemed to give him a pleasure that he was half ashamed of showing. The number of the monks is not above twenty, and their life not under strict rule. They live well; take a good rest at noon; smoke cigars, walk about, read the newspapers, &c. The pupils who are educated here, for the greater part young noblemen—are above one hundred and twenty. Besides these there are forty alumni, so that the whole number of residents is about two hundred. Salt, cigars, &c., are now sold in the convent, which attracts many people thither, because these articles can be purchased here at lower prices than elsewhere. At Whitsuntide, many thousands of people assemble on Monte Casino, both men and women of the peasantry, to make confession and receive absolution from the learned fathers, who cannot then have a great deal of time for their noonday slumber.

The Convent, with all its splendor, produces now no unusual impression. It is known that its higher life and significance is past. Yet it stands like a beautiful monument from the times when convents were the only asylums for innocence, piety, science, for all the memories of the human race, all its higher, spiritual efforts, whilst nation rose against nation, tyrants against tyrants, and fire and the sword devastated the earth. In the protection of the convent pious men and women transcribed the precious old manuscripts by hundreds, whilst learned laymen there prepared the works which afterwards—when the deluge of desolation had passed over—should enlighten and benefit the world. Amidst general confusion and warfare, they stood like God's bulwarks on the earth, and preached of the Divine peace. They have done their work. Monte Casino is the oldest convent in Italy, and was celebrated already in the time of Charlemagne.

But again to our journey.

The learned Rabbi gave me during this time an unexpected pleasure. He read to us each day one or two of the Psalms of David, from a collection of the Psalms in Hebrew, which he always carried in his pocket. In the first place he read them in their original tongue, and then in German, with such a pathos and energy that not even King David himself could have done it better, than did this his descendant. And never have I felt, as from his reading, the incomparable beauty and lofty poetry of these songs, never been so affected by them, and so attuned to joyful devotions. Enthusiastically attached to his religion, as the pre-eminently pure and purifying, for Dr. Steinheim is a Jew, who accepts Christianity as a development of Judaism, and Christ as a great prophet and teacher. Would that there were many Jews like him! There was also another little book which he always carried about with him, in Greek, containing the songs of Anacreon, Pindar, and Sappho; and this too he read and translated exquisitely. There is a fire and a grace in these lyrics which is inimitable of its kind, but not to be compared for loftiness and rich natural poetry, with that of the Hebrew poet-king. The acquaintance of the learned Rabbi is also interesting to me in another respect, because the goal of my journey is no longer Italy, nor yet Greece, but silently in the depths of my soul is sung, “Jerusalem! Jerusalem!”

We descended from the wild Abruzzi mountains down into the beautiful province called Terra di Cavona, on Campagna Felice, and there we found ourselves in the lovely summer-warm south. Every thing here is cultivated and beautiful as in a grand natural park. The vine clambers into the highest trees, and throws itself from tree to tree; poetically beautiful! The flax was in bud in the meadows, and the corn seemed white for the harvest. All around us was a scene as fertile and flourishing as paradise, but beyond this rose Vesuvius, lofty and threatening. The broad high-road became ever more and more alive with carriages and pedestrians, but principally with the former. How unlike the neighborhood of Rome. The horses are decorated with tall brass ornaments and red tassels, sometimes with flowers; men and women with roses in their hats or their hair. Most of the vehicles are a kind of large carts with tall wheels, and drawn by all kinds of beasts,—horses, mules, oxen, asses, cows, and not unfrequently by all four different creatures at once. It looks awkward and disorderly, but it seems to answer pretty well. Human beings here seem to be of a lighter calibre than elsewhere, for you will see ten, twelve, or fourteen persons, men and women, and above that number, piled upon or hanging to a cart, drawn by a single horse or mule, which trots away with them as if they were only so much straw. The people look full of life, gay, independent, even lawless.

Thus we reached Naples and its charming bay, over which Vesuvius seems to rule like a gloomy despot with judgment and death upon his lips. The city however looks gay, far more so than Rome. The houses shine out white, amongst the verdant gardens, beside the bright blue sea, towards which the coast of Naples extends itself like an opened embrace, the rocky arms of which are richly adorned with towns, country-houses, and pleasure grounds!—splendid bracelets! Facchini, in the city, swarm like flies after the carriage, and are still more difficult to get rid of. The people in the streets shout, and vagabondize dreadfully. The sun shines, and every thing breathes of southern life, both in good and evil.

We stopped in the Chiaja Santa Lucia, because some of our traveling companions were to remain in the hotel there. The Facchini had finally all dropped off from us in consequence of our determined commands and protests, all except one, who had sprung after the carriage all the way from the douane, and now stood pouting at the carriage door. Mrs. Steinheim reproached him for his pertinacity, and added, e un gran manco d'educazione! Ma come, Signora? Vi bacio le mane! (But how, Signora? I kiss your hand!) exclaimed the sunburnt Neapolitan, with a grand air—“I am at your service! You cannot do without me! Let us make un accordo” &c. And assiduity gained also the victory this time.

After this, I drove to my abode, which has the most beautiful situation, and presents one of the most splendid pictures which the mind can conceive, or the eye behold.

May 31st.—Yesterday the eruption increased considerably, and the torrents of lava have advanced. Towards evening, I wandered along the shore in the direction of Pausilippo, just opposite Vesuvius. One could see the streams of fire, like fiery-hot serpents; crawling down its sides, and the flames ascended out of the hollow between the two mountains. It looked like a burning city in the bosom of the mountain. It was magnificent, but terrible. A number of people were standing on the quay, gazing on the scene. I entered into conversation with some of them, and found all particularly willing to communicate all they knew. The Hermitage was said to be surrounded by the torrents of lava; the Hermit had fled; many vineyards and olive-groves were already destroyed. It was feared that during the night, the fire would advance to Barra—a village above Portici—and the inhabitants of the surrounding farms had fled. Fears were entertained also for Portici. Fire was seen, now and then, to issue from the crater on the summit of the cone, and great devastation was apprehended.

In the midst of this spectacle and its dangers, carriages were circling round on the broad Chiaja, in unimpeded career and gayety. There is every afternoon a regular stream of carriages, greater and less, from the Viennese carriage to the corricolo, with from twenty to five-and-twenty persons, after one horse, and people of all classes, from princes and princesses, to girls, boys, and sailors. It is especially the equipages of the latter, their horses adorned with feathers and finery, which you now and then see driving madly in the endeavor the one to pass the other. The drivers shriek and shout; the vehicles drive along three or four abreast. Pedestrians were fewer in number, and behaved quietly, all except the boys, who seem to me here to be a kind of quadruped, continually lying on the streets amidst the tumult, the wild career, and the affrays.

Another lively scene also presented itself here within view of the flames of Vesuvius.

A young girl entered an open space on the Chiaja, beating the basque on an old tambourine, to a lively and marked tune; she took her stand under a tree, and began to sing as she beat her tambourine. Immediately a circle of girls was formed round her, together with children, better and worse clad. Two ragged girls began to dance with castanets. Two others followed their example, well-dressed, and handsome, who struck the castanets extremely well, and danced well also. Many came in the same way, the castanets passing from one pair to another. Nurse-maids came up., placed their little ones in other women's arms, and went in for a dance for a moment; then resumed their infants, kissed them, and looked on; whilst the others danced. The tambourine, like the castanets, went from hand to hand. They who beat the former, also, sometimes sang a monotonous, unmelodious, but rhythmical song. At length the dancers amounted to above a dozen young women, who evidently were all dancing for their own heart's joy and pleasure, whilst elder and younger sailors stood smoking at some distance, without in the slightest degree disturbing the girls, whose dance—a kind of tarantella—they seemed to watch with pleasure, but as an everyday affair.

Very few persons, comparatively speaking, seemed to pay Vesuvius a certain fearful attention. Whilst the twilight increased and the lava-streams glowed more brightly and the flames tinged the clouds of smoke crimson, the carriages rolled on uninterruptedly and the girls danced. From the lofty fortress of St. Elmo, cannons thundered in honor of the name-day of the King and his patron-saint, San Ferdinando; they were answered from the fortress L'Uovo (the egg), on the shore, people began to light lamps for the illumination, and I went home to my tea.

After tea I went with young Mrs. M., and my countryman Mr. S., to the Chiaja Santa Lucia, in order thence to see Vesuvius and the royal illumination. We saw, now and then, flames ascend from the highest crater and red hot stones hurled up. We could distinguish quite plainly small, blue, moving lights in the neighborhood of the Hermitage. These were the torches which lighted such persons as visited the mountain, and these seemed this night to be numerous.

We proceeded along the Chiaja, which takes its name from the patron-saint saint of Naples, (Santa Lucia, a young martyr), and saw its peculiar market.

A number of small wooden stands are placed in rows along the shore, each one of them with its lantern, by the light of which one sees quantities of a peculiar production of the sea, called Frutti di Mare, strung up in an ornamental manner. These are consumed by amateurs, standing or sitting at tables near the shore. This market, with its buyers and sellers, made a very picturesque foreground to the dark background of heaven and sea and the threatening mountain which colored both with its crimson flames.

There were some very splendid bits in the illumination, especially the church of St. Francisco (a kind of imitation of St. Peter's at Rome) and the buildings of the caserne, where the movable columns of light produced a good effect. The royal castle stood desolate and gloomy. In the front of the façade is a whole park of artillery with a double row of cannon. The same are also seen on many of the roofs of the houses with their muzzles turned towards the castle as if to attack it. The king himself, and his family, kept themselves out of the way at Gaeta. The people are very quiet, and were not numerous in the streets; the night was pleasant with a fresh sea wind, Vesuvius being the hero of the nocturnal show.

June 1st.—Thou who hast accompanied me to the home of eternal snow, accompany me now to that of eternal fire, to the burning realm of Pluto and Loke! But I will lead thee thither as the bird flies, and thus thou shalt escape what I had to endure, nearly three hours of shaking under the burning heat of the sun, on the paved road from Naples to Portici, and from thence to Vesuvius, for thither is our journey. But I should be very glad to show thee the picture which is presented as we ascend the mountain, the grand, glorious picture of the sea, with its vessels and islands; of Naples and its surrounding district, far away towards the blue mountains on the horizon. It is glorious, especially when, as now, it is lit up by the sun, which in its descent bursts forth, from between a dark cloud and the earth, with a brightness and power like a beaming glance of love on parting from the beloved.

We soon reached the stream of lava which rolled forth threateningly through the vineyards above Portici. The inhabitants had already fled from several small houses, from others they were ready to fly. Upon the roof of one well-built dwelling stood an elderly man immovable with a child in his arms, watching the glowing stream which was slowly approaching. The horse stood before the gate saddled and loaded in readiness. In one hollow, towards which the stream was rolling onwards, was gathered a large concourse of people amidst which a procession advanced with singing, and a number of burning lights, carrying two gilt figures; the one with a bishop's mitre on his head, and his hands uplifted, like those of the Pope, in the act of blessing; the other of the Madonna, a little image with an immense crown on its head, above which a canopy was borne by priests. San Gennaro, the guardian saint of Naples and the Madonna, they told us, had been brought hither, and here they were invoked to intercede that the further advance of the lava might be stayed, but—so far it seemed with but little result, for it was still moving onwards. We stopped; alighted from our carriage, and walked on to the edge of the fiery current where we could see extremely well the mode of its advance. I cannot compare it to any thing else but thick, fiery porridge in which the groats are red-hot stones and cinders, and which pours along in heavy waves one over another, and on reaching any inequality or hollow in the ground, forms regular avalanches in which flames burst forth. Here and there the fiery porridge meets with some impediment, when it piles itself into lumps, which quickly accumulate into large heaps which grow black externally, till some fresh impulse from the crater causes them to burst, occasioning explosions from their fiery interior. We could see the crater perfectly well, because it lay on this side the mountain, and the stream of fire which flowed from it formed an almost straight line of—it was said—three English miles wide. This flowed on amidst an incessant crashing and crackling noise as from a mass of burning coal, and the heat was great. We had this stream continually on our right, as we, together with a vast number of people, in carriages, on horseback, and on foot, proceeded onward towards the Hermitage, the road to which is still unimpeded by the lava, as we were told. The road, which on the lower parts of the mountain had some very narrow, and in the throng, difficult passes, became afterwards broad and excellent. On every side, where the surface of the mountain had not been encroached upon by the lava either now or on former occasions, it was verdant, covered with grass, bushes, or small trees. Vineyards were planted over a considerable part of the hollows of the mountain where the streams of lava had advanced.

At the Hermitage we alighted from our carriage and continued the journey on foot along the lofty grass-grown ridge which hence extended to the inner side of the mountain and which is bordered by lava-streams from its midst. They flowed both on the right and left hand, and this latter stream was of a force and power of which it is difficult to give an idea. The crater, whence proceeded this flood, was concealed by a lofty ridge of rock behind which a fiery red brilliancy was flung to the clouds, but over a depression in this ridge a broad flood of lava was poured down with the speed of a water-fall. From these jaws of the lion (bocca di Leone) out of which large red-hot pieces of rock were hurled, one saw the stream pour down the mountain, forming hills and dales of partly gleaming and partly blackening lava. The darkness concealed its limits;—but thus might the region of hell appear. The cone of Vesuvius towered dark, vailed in smoke. I saw merely once or twice a few red hot stones thrown up out of it; and there could only be danger on the ridge where we stood in case of an eruption from its summit, although we were surrounded on three sides by lava. The heat thence was great and even intolerable if one approached the lava streams, but on the top of the ridge it was pleasant enough, because the night wind grew colder and stronger. Sometimes we were visited by a violent whirlwind. There was then a loud noise and explosion in the great fiery furnace, above which the smoke eddied; whole rows of newly piled up lava walls were tumbled in, or the blackening heaps were broken up, blue flames flashed out of them, red-hot stones were hurled down, kindling trees and bushes along the boundaries of the lava-streams. The more the darkness increased, the more animated became the eruption. It was a terrible sight, and yet at the same time it attracted to itself the eye and the mind with a power of fascination. One could not give up the sight of these continually-changing, and yet ever kindred phenomena; one could not but gaze at these fiery abysses, at these blackening heaps which must explode, at these glowing masses, which rolled forward, could not but gaze at them with a secret joy, although they carried along with them desolation and death. All around and above this scene nothing was visible save darkness and smoke.

Along the ridge, on the contrary, human life was in motion, full of thoughtless merriment and curiosity; people shouted, laughed, ran about, offered cigars, fresh water, champagne, marsala, torches; and torch-bearers offered themselves to conduct one to the very furthest point of the ridge, where the lava was still glowing hot beneath the blackening crust, and could be felt hot beneath the feet of whoever might go so far, defying the reality of danger; because, below this cooling crust, flows the fiery flood of a boiling red heat. My lively young friends, Mrs. M——, and Mr. S——, were amongst the courageous ones; but, whilst they went on this adventure, I seated myself upon a little knoll at the foot of a large black cross, at the highest point of the ridge where stood two pale ladies dressed in mourning, their mild, serious countenances lit up by the light of the fiery streams. Here it was quiet and solitary, and one could contemplate in peace that grand, gloomy spectacle, in which the blind power of nature is the hero, and mankind only impotent accessories. Ah! this scene was not new to me. Ever since my earliest childhood, I have been disturbed, or terrified by it, when I have contemplated life, either in great or small. Often, often, has it hidden God from my sight. And again, I beheld here this enigmatical power, which, like a blind necessity, goes forth over human life, overturns small human dwellings, converts their harvests and their hopes into ashes, and the career of which no prayers and no tears can avail to stop! And again, the old, dark question arose out of the old wound,—is there a Father above the earth? Does He trouble himself about the children of men? I never had very strong faith, and I never shall have it. I am a seeking spirit who beholds, in hope, one who embraces the cross and trusts in Him who there, amidst life's deepest sufferings, revealed to us the Father; I rest in Him, waiting for the perfecting of my sight. Though life's dark phenomena operate overpoweringly for a time, yet, no sooner is the conflict over, than my true sight, my hope, and my faith return. So was it even now; above the dark crater on the summit of Vesuvius, I saw a little star gleam softly through the smoke, which hitherto had totally obscured the heavens; I then became really better both in body and mind; I breathed more freely.

Towards midnight we left the realms of Loke, but still visitors were arriving, driving, riding, walking, all on their way thither, and torches, the flames of which glimmered like blue points along the red-yellow lava-streams, became still more numerous. Most assuredly there were several thousands of people this night upon Vesuvius.

I am glad that I can spare you the horrible shouting and bawling of the drivers, and the boys at the Hermitage, beyond which the carriages could not proceed, as well as the throng, and the difficulty with the carriages in the narrow parts of the road, where the vehicles entangled themselves in a Gordian knot, and where we sat waiting a full three-quarters of an hour. There seemed to be neither watchmen nor police, and the Neapolitans are incomparable for their negligence, their noise, and their shouting. Every thing, however, went right in the end; splendid figures, and genre-pictures, were lit up by the light of the torches, the Gordian knot was untied; we began to proceed; the moon rose, to the right, far away from Vesuvius, and gently lit us on our way. Very beautiful, as beheld from the mountain, was the view of the shore of Naples, stretched out as in a silvery half-circle of lighted lamps. The night was clear, but very cold. I scarcely know whenever I experienced a more delightful sensation, than when, at half-past two in the morning, I again found myself in my quiet room, in company with cup of cold tea and a piece of bread, and within sight of my white bed; the light which burned so calmly, the peace, the solitude, the profound silence;—I seemed to myself to have come out of hell into paradise!

June 4th.—San Gennaro in compagnia con la Madonna, hamio fatto fermare la lava! I heard announced with much emphasis, yesterday afternoon, in a German bookseller's shop, by some Italian gentlemen, who smiled with a disbelieving air. In the mean time, the danger of the eruption is actually over for the present, and the streams of lava have ceased to flow. It is asserted that at least forty thousand Lazaroni and Facchini have, in consequence, been disappointed in their hopes, and, that they have watched with avaricious, longing glances, the increasing eruption which promised them the opportunity of plunder, and of enriching themselves during some great and general devastation. From the appearance of these people, I could very well believe it.

The population of Naples produces really a sorrowful and repulsive impression. In Rome, the people stand about idle, or sit in the streets; here they lie on the streets like dogs, when they are not bawling or fighting—especially the half or wholly naked boys. They are like savages. The countenances are in general extremely unpleasant, the lower part of the face projecting; the mouth large, with bad teeth, and gaps between them. The beautiful human type which you see in the higher class of Italians and in Rome, is not found here; and still less the Roman bearing and dignity. One seems to behold a lower race of humanity, which acknowledges no worth, but that of carlini and grani. The eyes, however, are often beautiful, remarkably bright, but they readily acquire a savage expression. There is something of Vesuvius and Masaniello in every one of these Neapolitan street-figures, and they are only kept in check by the fear of the bayonet. But whose fault is it? Out of a population of four hundred thousand, Naples is said to have forty thousand lazaroni, or men who live from day to day like the sparrows, or flies, without any decided work, or object in life. And whilst the king lives in delicacy at his pleasure-palace at Gaeta, and the priests in Naples drive about in their carriages, or sit at the cafés, drinking and smoking, the children lie naked about the streets, even at night. The priests here have a much worse and more worldly physiognomy than in Rome, and they seem never to think about exhibiting themselves in their spiritual character. One cannot avoid the disagreeable impression that the people here actually lack all spiritual food, all means of elevation both of soul and body; and, that they are purposely kept in this brutish condition that they may the better be governed by—sheer force.

And such is the state in the much-sung-of Naples, the old Parthenope, and the capital of Magna Grecia! The city has a peculiar interest for foreigners from the scenes which its popular life affords, and the beauty of its promenades and squares surrounding its bay. Villa Reale, with its marble churches and statues, its beautiful trees, shady alleys, and fountains; its air and the view over the sea, is the crown of all public grounds and promenades of the city. To-morrow, in company with some old and new acquaintance, I shall visit the remarkable places on the shore of Pozzuoli.

Ischia, June 14th.—During one's life abroad, the unexpected excursions and relationships are not its least refreshing parts. Thus, at the present time, I have, quite unpremeditated by myself, settled down in this island with some friends—of whom more has yet to be said.

I set out on my journey to Pozzuoli and Baja, in company with the young widow, Mrs. M., the Englishman Mr. N., and my countryman Mr. S. How glorious we found the ruins of the temple of Jupiter Serapis; how the frogs swarmed round Lago d'Agnano; how we saw a dog condemned and die in the Grotta del Cane, and afterward come to life again; how at Cuma we visited the cave where the Sibyl is said to have dwelt; how we stood on the ruins of the school of Virgil and the Villa of Lucullus, amongst the walls of which grew large plants of anise, like ghosts of the ancient kitchen-garden; how Solfatara boiled and poured out its sulphur-fumes, which seemed to make it a very worthy representation of the descent into hell, as the poets had stated; how much we saw which was remarkable in the ruins, and how much that was beautiful in nature and in the views; how we were incessantly tormented, partly by beggars, partly by the offer for sale of antique articles, small lamps, sibyls, &c.; how we were tempted and how we bought, with our piastres, manufactured articles which were not worth so many carlini; how we fought and grumbled the whole way against the modern population of Pozzuoli's shameless extortions; how by this means were destroyed the quietness and a great deal of the enjoyment of our journey I will merely mention here in the most summary manner.

Our cicerone believed on the poets, on Virgil, and Horace, and swore to the truth of what they have said, and when I expressed a doubt about one or other of their statements, he grew violently angry and exclaimed:

“You do not believe on Virgil and Horace? Do you believe in the devil?” Later in the day he got drunk.

At Baja we glanced at the Piscina ad Miralilis at Mare Morto and the Elysian Fields—more remarkable from the celebrity which the poets have conferred upon them than from their own scenery; were delighted with the beautiful ruins of the Temple of Neptune on the shore, and towards evening crossed over to Ischia.

The thought of going across to Ischia occurred to the lively young Mrs. M., who has a peculiarly gentle, and at the same time, decided mode of carrying her point, and who, therefore, very naturally and agreeably becomes the leader. One very willingly does that which she wishes, because she is amiable, clever, and full of suggestions. She made an agreement with the boatmen, quietly dismissed the unreasonably rapacious, and selected two brothers, two very nice young fellows, who had their own boat and were ready to take us in it at a reasonable rate across the almost perfectly smooth sea, between Baja and Ischia, a sail, it was said, of at most two hours.

We took our places therefore, in the little red-painted boat, rowed round Cape Miseno, below the immense, perpendicular, rocky breast of which, the sea lay as calm as a mirror and as bright. On those heights, it is said, formerly stood the summer residence of Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi; there also, Madame De Staël placed her fascinating improvisatrice, Corinne, and fascinated many, myself amongst the rest, when at seventeen, I became half-crazy with the longing for the life and land of Corinne. There is now nothing more to see there, excepting the grassy turf, which covers the earth, and the eternally lovely view on all sides.

We rowed by Procida. The lofty peak of Ischia raised itself, though still distant, as if to meet us; but wind and waves, although not strong were against us, and the little voyage extended to upwards of four hours; night came on, and during the greater part of the sail, we saw nothing except the starry sky above, which lighted us on our way, and the glow of Vesuvius, which gleamed in the distance through the darkness of the night. The air was moist, but not cold, and the sail not without its peculiar, wild charm. The elder of the two rowers enlivened himself and his brother with exclamations like the following:

“Andiamo mangiare i maccaroni! Andiamo a Tochia per ballare la tarantella! Viva il Re di Napoli! E gli maccaroni si! Ma,—amo pui gli maccaroni che il Re di Napoli!”

They sang also two barcaroles, with strong, but not very melodious voices.

A small light on the shore of Ischia, announced to us that we were approaching it. Towards midnight we were there, and groped our way in the darkness to the good and celebrated hotel, La Piccola Sentinella, in the district of Casa Micciala. By daylight we were greatly pleased with the island, especially with its lofty, formerly volcanic summit, its green, dales, its extensive views over the sea; and when we discovered, close to our excellent hotel, a little villa and garden, on a rock looking out upon the sea, with a spacious piazza, overshadowed with a leafy vine, and a handsome and eloquent young host, then we at once decided upon staying there some days, that is to say, myself, Mrs. M. and Mr. N.; Mr. S. wishing to return to Naples, but promising afterwards to join us there.

The day after our arrival, was the festival of Corpus Domini, on the island. The people decorated with flowers and finery the altars which were erected at intervals in the open air, and prepared lamps and crackers for the evening's procession. At the hour of Ave Maria, the procession made its appearance with a full military band, which played a thundering march, and the crackers went off, and the lamps were lighted the whole length of the way through the valley and up to Casa Micciala church. The scene was beautiful, very noisy, and without any sentiment of devotion.

The island is green as the color of hope, even the hills are green almost to the very peak, Epomeo, which raises its boldly, pyramidal form, fifteen hundred feet above the sea. Around its base, shine out little knolls, golden with yellow broom. The volcano has been extinct for six centuries, ever since the year 1245, when, in a terrible eruption, its lava overflowed half the island. Small towns, and a great number of country-houses, now shine out white on the terraces and shore of the island, amongst cacti, fig-trees and blocks of lava. Many of the inhabitants of Naples, as well as foreigners, come hither during the summer months, to enjoy the air and the bathing, partly of the warm baths, which the volcanic soil still produces, and partly in the sea. The king of Naples is also expected here this summer.

Our little traveling trio has been located a week at Casa Pisani, where each one of us has their own apartment, opening upon the piazza with a general dining and drawing room. I have besides a separate little piazza looking to the sea, shaded by clematis, and where green lizards are my silent companions; and this solitude is indispensable to me, as I wish now to copy out and put the last touches to my last work.

As regards my young traveling companions, it so happens that in their ramblings on the volcanic island, amongst blocks of lava, groves of orange and fig-trees, cacti, &c., that they have fallen most earnestly in love with each other, and I am now the confidante of their feelings and plans for the future, which naturally tend to matrimony. I give the wisest advice I am able, and especially recommend that they should take time to be better acquainted with each other. The young lady has won both my esteem and love, and her peace and happiness lie very near my heart. In the mean time, it is a pleasure to me to witness this beautiful affection which is not based merely on fascination, but on pure earnest regard.

The weather is glorious, but begins to be very warm. The evenings and nights are the most beautiful portions of the twenty-four hours. We spend them on the piazza in conversation, and also a little reading, and seldom go to rest before midnight. The new moon is now in the sky, and we often listen from our piazzo to the singing of the country-people, always melancholy tunes, with long, drawn-out, dying cadences. The people of the island are of a handsome Italian type, and are in part good-tempered and pleasant; in part brutish, especially the younger generation, who not unfrequently salute us on our rambles by volleys of stones, if their insatiable desire after bajocci and grani is not satisfied, which is impossible.

The music in the little church, which is near, is abominable, a mosaic of marches and dance-music, besides being very badly played. The church abounds with representations of the Virgin in oil-painting, carved in wood, or moulded in wax; some old and ugly, others dressed out like dolls, and a couple in long perukes. Both the church and the service, which is performed within it, show the decay of religion.

There is one scene however of actual religious life which one frequently sees, at the so-called Calvario, a semi-circular open chapel between two roads, in which one sees five black crosses, and a figure of the Virgin on her knees at the foot of the largest cross, without any image of Christ, but adorned with implements of martyrdom. Lamps burn in the evening at the foot of the cross, and bouquets of roses bloom ever fresh beside the knees of the Madonna. Upon the steps of this chapel, one sees sometimes, during the day, and always in the evenings, men and women on their knees with the expression of the deepest devotion.

June 16th.—San Antonio is the patron saint of the capital of Ischia, and as his festival is to be celebrated tomorrow with great solemnity, we have resolved to avail ourselves of the occasion to become acquainted with the chief town of our island. A pair of good rowers will take us thither in less than an hour. The little town, with its white houses and wooded gardens, lies prettily on the shore, and the tall fortified rock, Negrone, united to the town by a long bridge, gives it an imposing character. It is said to be a home for political prisoners. The people thronged in gayly to the market, bought and sold, and made ready for the fireworks. At five o'clock, amidst the jubilant ringing of bells, the procession came with the figure of a young Carmelite monk the size of life. He held in his richly ring-adorned hand a gayly dressed doll, which was to represent the child Jesus. A shower of yellow broom flowers was rained down by old women and girls over the saint as he was carried along; thundering military music attended him, and loud salvos of artillery rolled and rattled at each station where the image paused. The priests, who walked in the procession, appeared the least devotional of all the throng. One worthy father walked along calmly reading the while a newspaper.

During our visit to the gardens of the town, Mrs. M.'s little favorite dog was lost. As we began our search after it we were followed by a whole train of half-grown boys and girls, nearly all of whom begged impudently and almost demanded bajocci. Finding myself surrounded by such a throng, I retired to the shore and into the boat, where the boatmen endeavored to keep off the pursuing crowd. Presently Mrs. M. also made her appearance, together with Mr. N., who had succeeded in finding the little dog and now carried it in his arms. At the same moment the shore was thronged with hundreds of the hopeful youth of the town, of both sexes, who, all of them, without any exception, wildly hooted, laughed, and yelled, and demanded money. Some wanted it because they had sought for the dog, others because they had seen him, others again for having seen Mr. N. who carried him, and all of them because we were foreigners in the town; and when, after having given them some bajocci, we put off from the shore, young men and girls sprang after us into the water, endeavoring to retain the boat, which not succeeding, they assailed us with yells, threatening cries, and with a shower of stones, some of them sufficiently large to have seriously injured any one whom they might have struck. Nothing but the speed with which our rowers removed us from the shore, placed us out of danger from these young savages, the subjects of His Majesty the King of Naples and the children of the Papal church. Mrs. M. was after all struck by a stone as large as a cannon ball.

The willful negligence evinced by the Romish church with regard to the education of the children produces its own fruit, and will one day produce it in another direction than they imagine. We, however, in our little villa Pisani enjoy profound peace. Our host and hostess, Crescens and his wife Irene, are particularly well disposed and agreeable. Crescens is a tolerable cook, and prepares us excellent soups, and the figs, which are beginning to be ripe, are incomparable food.

We have, however, but little shade, nor is there much upon the island, but these verdant heights, valleys and pretty villas, and the vast surrounding sea, make it picturesque, un vero paradiso, as our host assures me. Mrs. M. is cheerful, kind, and full of animation and enterprise. She is the life of our trio; by land or by water and in the house, she has always some good little device or other, and endless are her resources; for which reason we call her La dame aux bonnes idées, for French is the language which unites us three travelers from different lands.

Our last glance every evening is to Vesuvius, the red lava streams of which we see gleam forth on the horizon. The eruption seems about at an end, but the great cone still adorns itself every day with a magnificent plume of heavy smoke-clouds.

June 20th.—The heat is so great and—I wonder whether flies and certain little hopping creatures were to be met with in the Paradise of Eden as in our paradise of Ischia. Most assuredly not, because in that case Adam and Eve would not have desired to go there, and there would have been no need of cherubim with a flaming sword to drive them out, a swarm alone of persevering flies such as we now have here would have been sufficient. Certain it is that they remove all possibility of the quiet enjoyment of life, for an incessant battle with flies is the most unavailing and the most intolerable of all warfare. Besides which, either owing to the still volcanic atmosphere of the island or of the Sirocco, daughter of the Simoom—the heat is now so oppressive, the light of the sun so burning, that they overcome me, poor child of the North, and compel me to lie down on my bed many times in the course of the day.

My enamored couple, on the contrary, seem to be little conscious of the outer heat, if all be but well with the inner!—and, as they are continually walking or sitting out in the air, they are less annoyed by the flies, &c., than I am, who spend the forenoon quietly in my own room. I am resolved to seek for a more shaded home, where the air is fresher, and shall therefore return in the morning with the enamored pair to Naples, in order to go thence to Sorrento. Our host makes the most beautiful speeches against my determination, saying:

“Signora, I am very much concerned at your intention of leaving this place. I and my wife have really become attached to your Excellency. I love you as my mother, nay almost more than my mother, and I will do all I can to serve you. And I tell you what, and you'll remember my word—there is no place so fresh and so healthful as this island, where the sea goes round, around, around, around (entorno, entorno, entorno). You may go to Sorrento, to Castel-a-Mare, to whatever place you like, and you will find reason to say, ‘Crescens was right, after all; the air is nowhere so fresh as at Ischia,’ and it cannot be otherwise, because there the sea goes around, around, around, around!”

But not all the eloquence of Crescens can persuade me. I shall set off in the morning.

Ischia, July 7th.—I am still detained here, in the first place, by my countryman, Mr. S., who, the very morning we were intending to leave, made his appearance from Naples, looking pale and out of order. The state of things in Naples, according to his expression, was intolerable, terrible, and the air as if infected. And in the second place, by some secret magic power, which I begin to suspect belongs to this island.

The state of my poor countryman's health seemed to me dangerous. I therefore had my luggage taken up again from the boat, and the lovers set off alone. My best wishes go with them, especially with the unusually amiable young lady, who goes to meet her relatives in Rome, and to consider with them of her new engagement.

Mr. S. relates to me the state of things in Naples; that the heat is stifling; that dysentery has broken out, and that people keep themselves alive by drinking Pozzuoli water, the sulphurous ingredients of which are not distasteful to the Neapolitans, though abominable to foreigners. In the evening, the Chiaja Santa Lucia is crowded with people, who sit drinking glass after glass of this water, which is brought to Naples in large casks.

The day after the lovers departed, the air was refreshed here by a magnificent storm; such lightning and thunder, such tempests of wind and torrents of rain, such clouds and water-spouts, such darkness in the air—it was an incomparably grand spectacle. Vessels were driven on shore and wrecked; others got out to sea, even amidst the storm, and were thus probably saved from the same fate. After raging for some hours, the storm dispersed; the mountains again stood forth from sea and cloud; the sun made his way through masses of vapor; the atmosphere and I were both considerably refreshed, and his Majesty, the King of Naples, proceeded in a magnificent steamer, which seemed to fly over the sea, past this place, on his way to the town of Ischia, where he has a summer residence. White flags waved from various houses, and in the evening, lamps were lighted. The King is tolerably popular here, and people are pleased at his arrival.

The midsummer week has brought storms, dark clouds, and cool weather, such as I have never witnessed at this season in my high northern latitudes. But the storms and the abundant showers of rain have refreshed the air; flies, and other creatures are gone, and the state of things is improved, both for soul and body. The island rises gloriously green out of the dark blue waves, which break in foam upon its shore.

During one of these stormy days the young fatherless and motherless girl from Rocca Tarpeia came, light and gay as a bird; came alone across the agitated sea, the pretty child with her delicate figure, her abundant hair, her thoughtful eyes, her thoughtful rich soul, her beautiful voice and her gift of singing, my summer-daughter; the girl with the many names, Puck, Puss, Psyché, and to whom I gave two new names after I had become better acquainted with her. She is now called by me the Princess Elsa. Hast thou read the pretty saga about her? but in my heart I designate her “my summer-daughter.” How she could manage to arrive alone amidst the rapacious facchini who watch for strangers on the shore of Ischia, and fight for them and their luggage, sometimes furiously, bloodily, I cannot comprehend. But Heaven watches over the fatherless and now sent her a protector in a gentleman of Herculean figure, who almost at the same time with herself arrived at the island in another boat, and when he happened to see the solitary young lady surrounded by the rude and savage fellows, he constituted himself her champion, delivered her by means of his cane and his strong hands from the ruffianly crowd, and conducted the trembling, but at the same time, calm and cheerful young girl safe and sound to Villa Pisani, a mile and half distance from the shore, and to me, who was not in the least expecting to see her here.

Thus we are now four inmates of Villa Pisani, and a very harmonious quartette we are, with the same drawing-room—the common piazza with its leafy arch—and the same table. The strange gentleman, who from his athletic proportions we call Hercules, is one of the Waldenses, a merchant from Turin, with the demeanor and conversation of a gentleman and man of intellect, a fine observant glance, and an expression of kindness and candor in his countenance which inspires confidence.

Mr. Waldo, as we now call him, not as yet knowing his proper name, is traveling for his own pleasure in Italy, and intends visiting the East. He appears to be about forty, and seems to have arranged his outward affairs to be at liberty to pursue his own pleasure. Although he is in his intercourse somewhat reserved, yet he is a pleasant companion, and our evenings spent together, are especially agreeable. We pass them, now that the weather is again beautiful, in an arbor in the garden open to the sea. There we also take our supper. Sometimes little Elsa sings, now German, now Neapolitan songs, which are delightful to hear, because she is really musical and her voice goes to the heart. She executes the most difficult music as easily as a bird sings.

The presence of the King of Naples at Ischia, makes itself felt by a watchfulness and an espionage which appear very extraordinary to us. You see armed guards on every road, and the agents of police have come three times to our unpretending Villa, to examine our passports and to have a look at us. We were called out therefore, each one of us separately, except the youngest, who said that she was quite offended at being treated with so little respect. The next evening they came accompanied by a guard with handcuffs. They were in search of a certain M. Adolphe, who was charged with having sent the king an uncivil and threatening letter, “and who was said to be probably at the present time at Ischia in company with another gentleman and a lady.” My countryman, Mr. S., and myself, seemed now to be suspected of being the dangerous persons in question, and the king had offered a reward of fifty scudi for the apprehension of Monsieur Adolphe. So many impediments in Naples are thrown in the way of such as desire to come to Ischia, now that the king is there, that people are leaving the island and going to other bathing places.

We have occasionally in our rambles met the king, sometimes with the queen, sometimes with the royal children. The king himself drives the little carriage, with its pair of handsome horses. He looks like a well-conditioned butcher; the countenance not ugly, rather the contrary, but quite too fat. He looks around him with a restless, hasty glance. The queen's countenance is still youthful and agreeable, but with a something so sad in her expression, that one can see plainly that the cheerful sun of Italy does not shine for her. She is said not to have a happy disposition. She dresses in the most simple style, and her mode of salutation is graceful. The carriage is always attended by armed guards mounted and on foot. The princes and princesses are handsome children, and there are a great number of them. If the king be expected at any point, the guards are there stationed and clear the road of strangers, who may seem to be waiting for him, together with all such as are suspected of a desire to present petitions. The timidity of the king seems to be unusually great, and must be a terrible appendix to his crown. It is true that the murderous attacks on his life have been numerous. It is said that his first wife, who lived and died as a saint, was able more than once, by her dreams, to give him warning of such attempts.

We, innocently-suspected inmates of the Villa Pisani, had, in the mean time, increasing enjoyment of our lives, which became, with each succeeding day, more animated and agreeable. Not only did Mr. Waldo—who had now, however by his visiting-card, made us acquainted with his name, but whom I shall, nevertheless, continue to call so, when I do not designate him Hercules—not only did he become every day more agreeable by his superior tone of conversation and his gentlemanly manners, and little Psyché still gayer, Mr. S. better in health and state of mind, but our villa acquired, also, new life from the wandering troubadours, who came in the evening with their guitar or mandolin, and sung Neapolitan songs, or played to the boys who danced the tarantella. These natural singers have neither pure nor beautiful voices; but they are often strong, and always full of expression; and they sang the fascinating Neapolitan folk-song, Santa Lucia, with a passion which made the heart beat, spite of the false notes of the song. It was sung with greater beauty and purity by Psyché. The bright side of the natural and popular life of Naples is expressed in the words and the music of this song.

We have a superabundance of cherries and figs, and they could scarcely be more beautiful, even in Paradise. I begin to think that Crescens was not wrong when he called the island un vero paradiso. To its enjoyments must now be added that of bathing. We take our pleasure of this kind in a sort of arbor, or grotto, opening to the sea. The Princess Elsa dances there like a most lovely naiad. Her head, bound with a white handkerchief, had, then, a striking resemblance to that of Beatrice Cenci, in the portrait by Leonardi da Vinci.

Amongst our excursions, at this time, must be mentioned that to the island Procida, the chief town of which, Maria Catholica, is one of the filthiest little towns we have yet seen in Italy, and where we were pursued by youth as by a swarm of flies, occasionally chased away by the police, but always to return anew. Amongst the population, which is said to be wholly of Greek origin, we saw many remarkably handsome, very regularly beautiful countenances. We induced, by means of good words and money, a couple of women to dress themselves in their holiday attire, which we had heard praised for its splendor. The rich gold embroidery, and the beautiful silk stuff, were the most remarkable parts of it. It was Sunday, and nearly all the women we saw had white cloths round the head, put on in a peculiar but very becoming manner. The upper part of the town lies very high, and the view thence is glorious.

There is here also a prison for political offenders, amongst whom are now a number of priests, because many of the lower order of priesthood in Naples, and even in Rome, took part in the revolution of 1848. As regards the treatment of these prisoners, a circumstance has here been related to me, which I will not repeat in writing, because I am not sure of its truth; but if it be true, it is sufficient to explain the King of Naples' fear of ghosts.

Amongst our pedestrian excursions, I will merely mention that to the town of Forli, during which we saw a good deal of the island. It is well cultivated and populous. The people are themselves the possessors of their small farms, and are all very well off, when the vintage is good. After the failure of several years, owing to the disease of the grape, the present promises to be a good season, and the clusters increase daily in size and beauty under the hot sun. One sees, not unfrequently, handsome young men and women, at the little picturesque homesteads, under the shade of the vine and the fig-tree, but still more frequently old women, who look angry and evil, like old witches. The dialect of the people is difficult to understand, and it sounds unmelodious to the ear of a stranger. The words are abbreviated in a manner which makes them unintelligible. For instance, instead of saying Signor, they say merely jor; instead of Napoli, merely Napo; instead of momento, momo; instead of lume, lu; instead of fragole (strawberry) fra, and so on, out of pure laziness and carelessness, these good people seem to be approaching nearer and nearer to an animal language of the simplest sounds.

The names of persons are much more poetical than they themselves. Thus our little maid at the Villa Pisani, is called Maria Grazia, but is as little akin to the Graces as possible; and a young girl in the next garden, called Philomene, sings, it is true, but with a voice as hard as copper. Even the donkeys on the island have poetical names; one is called mezza notte, another grotta Sabina, and so on. These animals are good and safe for riding, the best of their kind with which I have yet become acquainted. We have received a good impression only of the people in our neighborhood. As a boatman on our little sea excursions, we have taken an elderly sailor, Francesco, who is pious and well-mannered, and always satisfied with what we give him, for which reason he gets more than others less good-humored and contented would do. The moment we make our appearance in the evening, on the shore, a loud cry is heard from the people there, “Francesco! Francesco!” and no one would think it right to offer his services before he came. Francesco and our laundress, Theresina, belong to that class of people, who are agreeable to deal with in all countries, from the stamp which they bear of goodness and sound sense. Our host, Crescens, is assuredly the chief of benevolent and eloquent innkeepers. We never lock the doors of our rooms—nor indeed could they be locked—when we are out for half a day, or whole days together, and we leave all our small properties about with perfect security.

Is it the influence of the volcanic nature of our island, as I begin to suspect, or of a higher providence, as I secretly believe?—but be it what it may, I foresee a new flame, and perhaps a new union. Mr. Waldo, our Hercules, begins to bind up bouquets of flowers, and to place them before Psyché's door, in the morning, and in the mean time to pay her other sufficiently significant attentions. She, as yet, however, foresees nothing, neither chooses to do so, because she never intends to be married, and least of all, to Hercules. A certain Prince of Villa Ambrosa, has cast every other man into the shade in my summer-daughter's soul, and she will not listen to their suggestion. When I, to-day, asked her what she would think of Mr. Waldo as a husband? the Princess Elsa stared at me, looked half-offended, and assured me that she could never think of him in that character. She felt esteem for him, confidence in him, but—no, never, impossible! I am sorry that she feels it so “impossible,” because it seems to me that they two would suit each other exactly. He is twenty years older than she, it is true, but a fatherly friend is precisely that which my summer-daughter requires in her husband. That poetical, artistic nature, which is regardless of the earthly, which can hardly take care of her own life and her own peace; that gifted but facile child, is so unusually lonely in the world! Waldo, on the other hand, is of a combative nature; he has fought his way up through life, and now stands there, both spiritually and temporally, on a firm basis. But this same firm nature, has in it something singularly tender and care-taking. When he was a child, early motherless, and very solitary in his father's house, he endeavored to catch little birds, merely for the pleasure of looking after them, and making them tame and happy. And I suspect that it is also something of the same kind, which leads him to try with kind words and flowers, to catch the little Princess Elsa. Yet he evidently loves also in her, the earnest and nobly-thinking young woman, with her decided sympathies for the rights and well-being of humanity, and her fervent hatred of all violence and injustice. There is in this slight girl a great moral courage, and that he saw at the moment when he became her protector. She has an especially warm feeling for the Italian people; considers them to be misunderstood and ill-treated, and in this she and I entirely sympathize.

“If any one,” said she to me one day, “speaks ill of the Italians, I feel as if they trampled upon my heart!”

I have besought of her not hastily to reject tbe offer of Waldo's hand, if, as I have a presentiment, it be made. Amongst the many such offers that she has had, it seems to me that, all things taken into consideration, not one of them was to be compared with this; and that the Prince of Villa Ambrosa is not to be depended upon.

Our stay at Ischia is now just at an end, because a Signora Napolitana, who has long been expected, is now coming, and will occupy my room,—the only one in which I could here write in peace,—and this allows me to accomplish my long-cherished plan of going in an open sailing-boat to Sorrento, no steamer going between the islands, in order to spend there the remainder of the summer. My summer-daughter will accompany me.

A gigantic boatman, and a great fighter amongst the fishermen on the shore, has undertaken to convey us thither in his boat, safe and sound, in four or five hours. He says that “he loves me like his mother,” and desires me “to cut off his head, or to give him a bastinado,” if he do not perform what he promises. I intend to set off the morning after to-morrow. I have mentioned this, my intention, to our Hercules to-day, whereupon he looked somewhat thoughtful, but said nothing.

And now farewell, Ischia and the Ischiotes!

Ischia, July 19th. Most certainly Ischia has something in common with one of the enchanted islands of the Odyssey! Most certain is it that one cannot leave it when one will. Contrary winds and a rough sea, La Signora Napolitana, who has not yet made her appearance, and certain other considerations, have caused me yet to linger here some days—not unwillingly, because Ischia has become very agreeable and dear to me. In the mean time, the following circumstance has occurred here:

The day before yesterday, Mr. S. was so much excited by the improved state of his health, and a guitar which he brought with him from Naples, that he proposed to us that we should the next morning breakfast in costume. We consented, and the following morning we all entered our common room from the piazza in a state of transformation, and with loud exclamations as we beheld each other. The grave Waldensean had taken the most pains with his costume, and was, with admirable ingenuity, accoutred as an anti-brigand, as he called it, which gave him a most terrific appearance. My blonde countryman, with blackened legs and arms, was no bad representation of the Neapolitan fisherman, in his summer attire, with a red cap and guitar. Psyché entered with a garland of dark red roses round her brown hair, dressed like a flower-girl—most charming! I wore a red head-gear, such as the country-women use, and had my black polka bordered with passion-flowers. They said that I resembled a Sibyl. We breakfasted, in our costumes, in the shade of the vine-leaves, at a flower-adorned table, very merry, and to the great amusement of the people of our villa, who came to see us, and who were especially delighted with our “Signor Brigante,” as they persisted in calling him, however much he endeavored to prove to them, by the details of his costume, that he was an anti-brigand, armed merely with the weapons of peace. In the evening, Mr. S. still enacted the Italian troubadour, and Psyché still wore her wreath of dark red roses. When she took it off, Hercules wished to appropriate it to himself, but the Princess Elsa answered so decidedly, saying, with strong emphasis, “Non, vous n'aurez pas mes roses! non!” that he gave up the attempt. Next morning, however, he possessed himself of the withered wreath, which he found an opportunity of taking when it had been left for Irene to throw away. This little scene—that of the costumes—which is quite in Swedish character, amused us all.

We found our bath to-day more than usually refreshing and agreeable; and whilst we were afterwards enjoying the coolness in the shade of our leafy grotto, and Psyché was more than unusually interesting in her biographical annotations on life and mankind—her views of life are not very cheerful—I began to speak with her somewhat more decidedly on her own future, and of what might be expected on the part of Hercules. She herself was now not without suspicions and some uneasiness in consequence. She was seriously concerned on the subject, because, “it would have been much better if earnestness had not interfered with the sport of the present time. She did not wish to grieve him; she felt esteem for him, and could confide in him—nay, she was also grateful to him for his chivalric help in her time of need; but never—no, never, could she feel any thing more for him!”

I listened to the young girl's narratives of life's experience, which always evinced an unusually deep insight, keen observation, and a high-minded character, though at the same time, any thing but a cheerful view of life. Her own experience had been to her a severe educator; her life had been driven like a little boat in the tempest, and so it was at the present time, although the boat at this moment rested in the shadow of an island. Deep religious faith, and deep feeling for the beautiful in nature and in art, as well as the natural elasticity of the youthful mind, had preserved her from despondency, if not from a tendency to melancholy mistrust of earthly life, and of that progress towards happiness about which people now generally talk so much. I see this more clearly every day, in the depths of her soul, but I love, every day more and more, to look down into these depths; for there are wonderful things there, beaming stars, corals, genuine pearls, flowers, and fantastic forests of mystic algæ and mosses, amongst which it is not easy to make one's way; but all this lies open to the day, as in the pious and candid soul of a child. I see also all the more clearly, that the little boat needs a good helmsman; that my little Princess, in her imaginative life and career, needs a tender, fatherly friend, who, like the good pine-tree in the saga of Elsa, shades, loves, comforts, and instructs her, whilst he points out to her the right way.

This was again impressed upon my mind at our conversation after the bath, and called forth those remarks of mine which awoke her uneasiness. But we perhaps disturbed ourselves unnecessarily. Probably nothing serious may occur. Our Hercules is as polite as a Frenchman or an Italian, and those beautiful complimentary speeches were, it is possible, nothing more. I besought the young girl, however, not to make herself too secure, and spoke about the volcanic influences of the island. The conversation finally turned into joke, and such being the case we left our leafy grotto, and went down to the shore, where he was now standing under a large umbrella in the heat of the sun, waiting for—her. They two walked on first, and I followed afterwards, at some distance with Mr. S., who came from his bath. We walked leisurely, because the path was ascending, and the heat was great, although the large trees cast thick shadow.

Again in my room, I saw little Elsa, creeping like a lizard along the wall, and in through the curtain with a look in which archness arid uneasiness were about equally mingled, which immediately told me what had occurred.

It was so. It had come! Hercules had during the walk, made his declaration and asked—whether he might be permitted to hope? He does not require now—after so short an acquaintance—a decided yes, only that she will allow him to accompany her to Sorrento, to dedicate to her his attention, his devotion, and in this manner, enable him also to become better acquainted with her. If she will allow this, he will give up his intended journey to Greece and the East, and remain here. He had spoken in a manly and cordial manner, and besought of her not to forbid his wish of accompanying us to Sorrento.

“Very good, Elsa! and what has been your answer?”

“What has been my answer?—If I only knew it myself!—half words and thoughts; I was so astonished—so taken by surprise! It was, however, my intention to say no—and that he perfectly understood. He thanked me for my candor with a certain cold dignity—but, I think, nevertheless, that he did not consider that as my final answer.”

I prayed her earnestly not to be too hasty, but to take time. I had the firm belief that she might and would be happy with Hercules, that he was a man who would give a dignity, a calmness, and a charm to life, that he was exactly the fatherly friend and protector that she required. She acknowledged to entertaining feelings for him of esteem and confidence, more than she had felt for any other man; but love, marriage—no, never, never!

I advised her never to say never; to be honest with him, but to leave a decisive answer to the future, and to further acquaintance. And with this the subject was dropped for the present.

In the mean time, it is evident that Hercules does not consider himself to be rejected by her no; and that he does not think of going to the East before he has yet once more propounded his question. His calmness and good humor prevent any want of harmony in our quartette, in consequence of that which has occurred; and this reassures her and places her at her ease. He has, in the mean time, explained himself to me in a manner which has won my esteem and sympathy.

“I love her,” he said, “and I am in that fortunate position, that I can devote to her all that care and attention which she requires. I see that she suffers and that her health requires the air of the south. I can take her to any country she wishes; I have no other desire than to make her happy; and, if the best will on my part, the most faithful attention to her well-being can make her so, then—I too shall be happy.”

“But you know so little of her as yet. She is a fascinating girl, with a rich soul, but she will never make a practical house-wife.”

He laughed. “That does not trouble me much. It is not that for which I am seeking in a wife. I seek for a friend, and a companion in life; some one whom I can love and can make happy. She is good, noble-minded, naïve, original. Only to be near her; to hear her warbling every day, would be to me an inexhaustible source of happiness. If she be not practical, as you say, in a house, or if she take no pleasure in domestic management, I can so arrange it that she need not trouble herself about such things further than she herself have inclination. Whether she have any property or not, I do not inquire, neither do I trouble myself about it. I have sufficient for us both. That which I fear is—that her heart is already preoccupied. One can see that she suffers; but even that makes her dearer, more amiable to me, more estimable. I beg of you to tell her so; and, that I now desire, not love, but time, confidence, and the opportunity of showing her how sincerely I am, and will be, her friend.”

These words pleased me very much, for I saw that they proceeded from a kind and honest heart. Afterwards, Waldo gave me more ample details of his family, of his outward position, property, and general circumstances; all of which were of the happiest description. He is a banker in Turin, has his own house and home, and a beautiful villa in one of the Waldenses valleys, on the banks of one of their clear mountain-streams, in the midst of chestnut woods. This villa he especially reckons upon as a befitting home for his little Princess during the heat of the Italian summer. All this seemed to me delightful and excellent for the orphan girl. But will the Princess Elsa wish to spin silk in the inartificial valleys of the Waldenses? I have assured him of my advocacy and my sympathy, but my summer-daughter must be left free to choose.

We made, this evening, a boat excursion to the little town of Sacco, and the handsome Villa Arbusti, which is situated high above it, to which we were invited by the amiable English family of Mr. Stuart, and where we spent the evening. Mrs. Stuart is an interesting and very intellectual lady. From Mrs. S. we heard much that was interesting regarding India, whence she had lately come, and where she had been a sufferer in the dangers and horrors of the frightful war then going forward; but to which country she longed to return, to purchase land to lay out a farm, in the mountainous district, where she wishes to live with her children. The character of the scenery, in this district, seems to have the paradisiacal proportions of the strong and the lovely, whilst the climate is exquisitely beautiful.

We returned to our villa beneath a brilliant starry sky, and upon a delightfully rocking sea. Every stroke of the oars produced a whole swarm of shining medusas,—twinkling points and drops of fire. Psyché sang Santa Lucia, and finally all of us joined her. I will here give you this lovely barcarole,—vera barcarola populare, in the hope that it may soon have a worthy translation:—

"Vera Barcarola Populare." Il Barcajuola di Santa Lucia.^[1]

 
⁠1.
Sul mare luccica
L'astro d'argento,
Placido el'onda
Prospero e il vento
Venite all agile
Barchetta mia
Santa Lucia!
Santa Lucia!

 
⁠2.
Con questo zeffiro
Cosi soave
Oh! com'e bello
Star su la nave!
Su passaggiere
Venite via
Santa Lucia!
Santa Lucia!

 
⁠3.
In fra le tende
Bandir la cena
In una sera
Cosi serana
Chi non domanda
Chi non desia?
Santa Lucia!
Santa Lucia!

 
⁠4.
Mare si placido
Vento si caro
Scondar far i triboli
Al mari-naro,
Eva gridando
Con allegria,
Santa Lucia!
Santa Lucia!

 
⁠5.
O! dolche Napoli,
O! suol beato
Ove sorridere
Voile il creato,
Tu sei l'impero
Dell' armorica!^[2]
Santa Lucia!
Santa Lucia!

 
⁠6.
On che tardate
Bella e la sera
Spira un auretta
Fresca e laggiera,
Venite all' agile
Barchetta mia!
Santa Lucia!
Santa Lucia!

Ischia, July 13th.—Ischia is decidedly an enchanted island. I begin to find our stay here is still more remarkable. “Quite a little Odyssey,” says my summer-daughter. Our sail round the island on the preceding Friday deserves its own especial chapter.

We had an excellent sailing-boat, and five stout seamen, for our little voyage. The weather, at the commencement, promised well, but when we rounded Point Vico, we had contrary wind and a rough sea. The rocks on the south side of the island—we live on the north—are lofty, wild, and perpendicular, and the open sea hurls its billows against them, without their force being broken either by the islands or any protecting capes. We had experience of this in a manner which was not agreeable, and we longed much for the bay of San Angelo, where the sailors said we should come into smoother water, and where, also, we were to dine. Arrived here, we found only rocks and a sandy coast, upon which the waves rolled foamingly. Upon these, and the backs of the sailors, we were obliged, each one in their turn, to be carried to land, whilst our boat lay at anchor, tossed about mercilessly by the rolling naiads.

We spread our dinner upon the sand, with a sail for a tablecloth, in the shadow of a rock, and were objects of interesting observation to some fishermen's families, who came from the rocks for that purpose, and whom Hercules afterwards amused himself by treating to rum, for the fun of seeing their terror, and at the same time enjoyment of the burning liquor. We then continued the voyage, sailing with but little wind, to the capital of the island. The color of the sea was, during the whole time, of that wonderfully beautiful, metallic blue, which almost induced one to take it up into one's hand to convince one's self that it was really nothing else but common sea-water. The waves gleamed in the sunlight like the polished facets of that immeasurable sapphire. The most interesting feature of the excursion was the distinct view which it afforded us of the island, which is, perhaps more than almost any other, benefited by human enterprise and industry. Sea-birds build in caves of the wildest and most naked rocks, and these are taken by watchful fowlers. You see also, in the face of almost perpendicular rocks, flights of steps hewn out, which lead to otherwise inaccessible places between the shore and the heights. Everywhere, wherever a little soil has collected itself in the clefts of the rocks, one sees tiny fields or vineyards. The whole island may be compared to a large, vine-covered hill.

The hot springs, which are found here in great numbers, seem to heighten the temperature of the soil and to maintain it in a state of constant fertility. The little hills, with which the island abounds, especially in the north and east, are gloriously verdant, even during the heat of summer, and have a luxuriant growth of laurels, myrtles, arbor vitæ, and broom. You see vineyards carried up almost to the very summit of Monte Epomeo. Up in this mountain, in caves, partly natural and partly the work of man, lives a hermit, of whose history romantic circumstances are related, but who, himself, has no longer a romantic appearance.

Several boats were lying on the sea, along the southern coast, belonging to the coral-fishers, who rake up from the deep, with iron hands, these precious growths of the ocean. The shores of the island are rich in these as well as in every kind of frutti di mare. We saw, at the city of Ischia, the magnificent Marine Reale, beautiful plantations of trees, and the King of Naples with his court. He is a large man and was talking with animation.

We returned to our Villa, after our voyage round the island had occupied about nine hours.

The day before yesterday we had a violent storm, and it was as cold as autumn, the same also yesterday, so that we are obliged to wait for better weather before leaving our enchanted island, if, in truth, the enchantress be present there. She endeavors, indeed, to console and enchant us with glorious sunlights in the evenings, sights of such splendor and magnificence that one feels a solemnity in them, as if they revealed a divinity. Nevertheless, I have not entire faith in her; and certain it is, that Hercules becomes every day fonder of “that child,” as he calls little Elsa, who rules him without herself being aware of it; nay, even against her will, for she does not love him, and tells him so, but—nevertheless he is not intending to go to the East. On the contrary he will, à toute force, accompany us across to Sorrento in order to take charge of us on the way, and after that return hither till——what further happens. And one cannot refuse such a protector.

I must add to the romantic incidents of my month's residence at Ischia, a letter from my winter-daughter, my young Swedish friend, who announces to me her betrothal with young Baron S——; another letter from my little Swiss sister, Louise C., who is preparing for her marriage and bridal tour, and for her new home on the enchanting Lake of Geneva; in the same category stands also that final completion of my latest written novel, which, the meantime, closes in a manner quite opposite to the last-mentioned romances. But the romance of youth is over with me, and appears to me now merely as one chapter in the great romance of human life, in which God is the hero, and the heroine the human soul. Everything else is prelude or episode.

I cannot leave our volcanic island without speaking of one of its most beautiful memories. Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, spent here several years of her life, and found, under great sorrow, consolation in the beautiful art which made her the most celebrated poetess of Italy. Her first poems are dedicated to the husband whose loss dimmed the sun of her existence. A change then occurred in her life; she beheld a new sun, and like a phenix, purified in the flames of suffering, she raised her wings towards it; and still more beautiful and clearer became her song, permeated by the glow of the purest love, of the highest yearning. Her life resembled her song. In an age of conflict and disruption, and amidst a race, the members of which combated one against another in the frantic strife of party, she came forth as a reconciling angel, and when she could not avert the conflict, she still lived to heal its wounds. To this purpose she applied her large property, her personal influence as a beautiful, noble, and highly-gifted woman, even her personal activity also as a sister of mercy in the Clarissa Convent of Borne, where she loved to withdraw herself from the world. It was in Rome, in the year 1563, that she became acquainted with Michael Angelo Buonarotti, and was beloved, and sung of by him as a higher being. That powerful nature which hitherto had loved exclusively the strong, the extraordinary, the Titanic, was moved by her to the love of a higher beauty. His Madonna in his picture of the last Judgment, his three Fates, remind the spectator of the perfectly beautiful and gentle features of Vittoria Colonna. When she died, Michael Angelo stood by her bed, and kissed her hand. “Several days afterwards,” relates his pupil Condivi, “he was quite beside himself, and, as it were frenzied by sorrow, and I remember to have heard him say that nothing grieved him more, than that when he saw her departed from this life he had not kissed her face as he kissed her hand.”

Vittoria Colonna was suspected by many of sympathizing with the Reformer's movement, although there is no positive proof of the fact. But could it, indeed, be otherwise? The noble, ever upward-glancing, ever upward-ascending woman, must herself accept every movement, the object of which was to raise the human spirit nearer to the source of truth. Her life was a romance on a grand scale.

Sorrento, July 19th.—The Syrens sing no longer, it is said, on the ancient coast and islands of Syrentum, but here it is still thought may be seen traces of their abode. Here I behold at last the soil of Italy, as we, in the north, imagine it to be, full of orange and lemon groves, pomegranates and laurels, and vines, which fling their branches, heavy with clusters of grapes, from one tree-top to another—all the natural produce of the sun-warmed, fertile earth. The grave olive-trees with their contorted stems, the dark pines, the lofty fig-trees and acacias, stand by the way-sides. The sea shines in the splendor of its azure before the rocky terraces, based on “the caves of Ulysses,” along the shore, while the Bay of Naples, and the soft valley, from which its dwellings ascend, are seen from this point in the highest beauty.

We have found excellent quarters in the Hotel de la Campagne. We intended, in the first instance, only to avail ourselves of it provisionally, but the spacious and excellent rooms, with views on the one hand into an orange-grove, the fruit-laden branches of which almost enter our windows, and on the other into a large square; the quietness of the house, where we are the only guests; the order, the ready attention of the waiters, the clever and agreeable host and hostess, have decided us to remain here, because we could scarcely desire to be better off. The hotel has its own baths, where we bathe every day in the clearest water upon a floor of the finest sand, and this bath is the greatest pleasure of the day. The Princess Elsa, hitherto a little depressed by the late occurrence, has here become herself again, and leaps and dances on the soft sand floor, as lightly and as gayly as ever did her namesake of Elsa-dale.

“And Hercules?”—I will wager any thing, my R——, that it is you who full of curiosity ask this question. He accompanied us hither from Ischia. “The wind was excellent for Sorrento,” said my tall “son,” the sailor and fighter, who promised, at the risk of his head, or of a bastinadoing, to convey us safely thither. The wind however became quite violent as we approached the Bay of Procida, and the waves were high. We made a bed for little Psyché at the bottom of the boat, where she lay, pale, with closed eyes, during the whole voyage, watched over by Waldo with fatherly or motherly tenderness. I, who was responsible for her, was not without anxiety; but the wind fell, and in order to make way through the high sea, it was necessary also for the helmsman to assist in rowing, I therefore took the helm, and again was quite calm and at my ease, as soon as from a passive spectator it was necessary for me to take an active part. I kept the boat in a direct course to “La Piccola Marina;” reached there happily after five hours' sailing, and was glad to avail myself of Hercules' arm to support the poor, little, half-fainting girl. She recovered herself however by degrees, in the Hotel de la Campagne, resting on a sofa whilst I prepared for our little dinner a refreshing salad of pomi-d'oro, oil, and vinegar.

Hercules took his leave the same evening, as a man and gentleman, in order during the night to return to Ischia, and there await—some word, which should allow him to return to Sorrento. But the Princess Elsa, out of sorts from her indisposition on the voyage, and by—I know not what—was unmanageable and determined never to say yes. She should never marry; she had a number of female friends, twelve, I believe, several of whom had need of her, and for these she would live; she would go and teach singing in the beautiful little Kindergartens of Germany, as soon as she could leave Italy, which she loved so much for its beauty and its art; she would live for friendship, for beauty, for these little children, and I—said nothing against it! Perhaps such a life as this might be better suited to so delicate and ethereal a being, than married life with its sorrows and anxieties, which were unavoidable even with a Hercules. I confessed my deep sympathy with him and his love; but he was altogether too much a man not soon to recover himself in a trial, which, however painful to his heart, would still neither derange nor interrupt his career in life, which was rich with its plans for the future. I am, in the mean time, not certain whether little Elsa will adhere steadfastly to her resolution of devoting her life to the happiness of her twelve female friends. Twelve female friends might be much more troublesome than a husband.

This is what I have said; and for the rest, my summer-daughter must be left free, and must decide according to her own heart's light! Her little paternal inheritance, and her extraordinary musical talent, will shield her from real want. But her delicate health, and her inability to take care of herself—Oh Hercules, Hercules, I return after all to the wish that she may be able to love thee, and that thou mayst surround her with thy strong, protecting arms! In the mean time I have carefully avoided mentioning his name during the quiet week that we have been together here, and which my summer-daughter has made affluent to me by her captivating manners, her music, and by an affluence of biographical and romantic incident of which her mind is full, and which pours out, during our quiet evenings, as from a fresh, ever-flowing fountain. Then, half reclining on the floor of the balcony, she relates scenes from her childhood, or from the life of others, and all the romantic legends of the magic-ring; and figures of all kinds, from the witchcraft of the Blocksberg to the lovely moonlight form of Lady Minnetrost, stand forth afresh before my gaze, but now on the scene of reality. No figure however amongst them all seems so beautiful as that of her father, who, whilst yet under the shadow of approaching death, prepared and arranged every thing for his “little daughter.” Since his decease she has never enjoyed either health or happiness. The beauty and the art of Italy have restored to her a waft of the joy of life, and—the Prince Villa Ambrosa. But this carnival flame had not its place in the heart, but plays in her imagination like a lovely meteor. He is a beautiful Prince of Faerie, whom an earnest wind will easily blow away.

We have seen some glorious sunsets, on La Piccola Serina, where a bench invites the passer-by to rest in the shadow of some mulberry-trees. At no great distance from this spot, is a little chapel, where, in the evenings, a nun, una monaca di Casa, reads aloud the mass and the prayers to the assembled congregation. The people of Sorrento seem to us good-humored, nice, cheerful people. Frequently, as we walk along the streets of the town, we are saluted by the exclamation:

“Ah, come questa Signora e bella!” or “Ah Signorina come sieta bella!” And more than one good old woman has stroked caressingly the child-like, delicate face of my young friend, has chucked her under the chin, or has touched the soft, brown locks, with a half sigh. Although the people seem poor, rather than otherwise, yet there are but few beggars. Ten or twelve old men and women are continually in their places on the square, like sparrows which are fed upon the fallen grain. Their entreaties for qualche cosa, are never pertinacious, and, if you give them any thing, you are saluted by the exclamation, “Dieci mila anni,” or “Cento mila anni!” which perhaps implies a wish of liberation for so many years from the fire of purgatory; or else we are saluted with a melodious, “La Madonna v'accompagna!”

The Madonna is the divinity of Sorrento. Yesterday, the great festival of La Madonna de Carmine was held here. A fair, mountebanks, marionettes, illuminations, air-balloons, fireworks, music, nothing was wanting. The air-balloon ascended from the square; raised by the fire which was lighted within, it rose like a colossal pear of fire, above the city, and vanished in space. We were most amused by some sellers of ices and sherbet, who, shouting and singing, offered their wares in small glasses, one “gran” each. A great many people were assembled in the square, but amongst them all there were merely two or three fellows who were a little unsteady on their legs, and stole silently aside, as if ashamed of their own condition. Fathers and mothers carried their little children on their shoulders, by holding fast one arm of the child, over their heads, which had an extremely pretty and picturesque effect. This mode of carrying the children seems to be common here.

We are delighted with being at Sorrento. I wonder whether the Princess Elsa thinks about her friend in Ischia?

July 25th.—“If he should—if he will consent to come here for a little while, merely as a friend; as a brotherly friend, and not touch upon that other subject, and not say any thing to me about his feelings,—and if we in this way could become better acquainted with each other, and I could see whether—I could love him—and if he would promise to leave me perfectly free, and not consider me bound to him in any way by his coming here, then”——

It was something in this half dubious manner that the Princess Elsa spoke, a few days since. I afterwards was commissioned to convey these words to Ischia; which shortly brought a kind of noble-minded reply from Hercules. He accepted the test. She should be free, let the result be what it might for himself, and he fixed a day for his arrival. Little Elsa appeared on that day more grave than usual, but in the evening, she was again gay and talkative, and, as it grew late, and the expected visitor did not make his appearance, she grew somewhat saucy, and at eleven o'clock exclaimed:

“Now I promise you, that I will accept him, if he come to-day!”

With these words we went to bed, and at half-past eleven he arrived.

“Well, now Elsa?” said I, somewhat significantly the next morning.

She smiled, but not cheerfully, and looked a little perplexed.

His firm and manly bearing, however, soon gave a clearness and serenity to their mutual relationship. He has engaged a room in the same hotel as ourselves, we take our meals and our walks together. In the evening she reads aloud something from Channing—the great and good American Channing, to whose writings he is very partial—or from some other excellent author—sometimes also an article from a newspaper. With Elsa he has more the manner of a père noble, than of a lover; and it suits him as an older man, whilst it is in keeping with his very youthful disposition, and gives a security and freedom to their intercourse which is a great pleasure to me. We all three have points of union in our views of life, as well life in general, as that of the individual, in that which constitutes the weal or woe of the nation and the individual. The conversation between him and myself sometimes embraces subjects of very grave character, and then little Elsa is silent; but when we break off for her sake, she says:

“Nay, go on, go on. I like to listen to you, though I do not understand much about these things; but they interest me.”

And such avowals give him great pleasure.

We sympathize also in our taste for a quiet mode of life; and in this way, we three foreigners, from various lands, who some weeks ago were altogether unacquainted with each other, now live together like brother and sisters, and think that it would be very nice if it could always remain thus, without Waldo wishing to change his relationship to one of us, into a relationship still more intimate. But, on that subject she will not now say a word. She was pleased to see him here, and near to her; she likes him as a friend; but she continues cold to him as the lover, and believes that she can never become otherwise, and this state of affairs, and its consequences, begin to trouble me. His kindness, and his noble-minded affection, have won all my sympathy, and I am again too much interested in a romantic espisode of human life.

August 5th.—The syrens still sing on the coast of the syrens, and it is difficult not to be captivated by the song, more particularly as it does not involve dangers such as those in the days of the Odyssey, when it dragged the listeners into the abyss of death. Life here has seemed to us so beautiful, so good, and so innocent in its beauty, that one cannot avoid wishing that it might always remain thus. Our enjoyment is now also increased by a lovely garden quite close to our hotel, where we often spend the evenings. Its proprietor, the Prince of Tri Casi, is traveling, and his beautiful Villa stands unoccupied. From its marble steps, we watch the sun set over the sea, or magnificent lightning-flashes illumine the horizon. The garden has various walks, shaded by lovely trees, and bordered with blossoming oleanders, and other flowering shrubs. Vines, with their rich clusters, hang in garlands here and there over the paths. Orange and lemon groves are, as everywhere around, beautiful to the eye, but not to walk in. The earth is dug up between the trees, in order to preclude the rain-water from draining off, and this necessarily renders it unfit for walking upon. These groves are a kind of noble or cultivated wilderness.

The morning and forenoon, we devote to reading and writing, each one in their own room, but little Elsa has besides, a lesson in Italian from her great friend. Towards noon, bathing takes place, the enchanting, refreshing sport with the waves on the soft sandy floor, in the shelter of the bath-pavilion; after that, rest and far niente till dinner. In the afternoon, we take a drive, or a sail, or a walk, as the case may be. The shores are affluent in beauty, and incomparably lovely is the drive to the heights of Castel-a-Mare. Our rambles on foot, are not unfrequently seasoned with good, open-hearted, and cheerful conversation amongst us three. Then comes the evening with its tea, reading, and conversation, or, it may be, a folks-festival. We seldom retire before midnight.

Of folks-festivals, with processions, illuminations, and fireworks, always the same, now in honor of one saint, now of another, and frequently of the Madonna, we have generally two every week. The brilliant parts of the festival, are often very brilliant and tasteful; but the horrible explosions of powder-men, which are set up, like a kind of mustard-pot, in rings and rows on the square, which tumble about everywhere, after they have exploded; the smoke which they occasion, and the incessant jingling of bells, disturb our hearing, our eye-sight and all our other senses. How far they may gratify the saint seems to me doubtful. The people of Sorrento look on for a moment and then go home. One can see that they are used to and tired of such spectacles.

August 10th.—Have you read the charming romantic story, “Midsummer Eve,” a fairy tale, in which Mrs. S. C. Hall, has worked up in her ingenious manner, the rich natural mythology of her native island? If so, you have thus seen a young girl, surrounded by good and evil fairies, which appertain to her by right of birth, and which have influence over her life. My summer-daughter is such a fairy-child as this, and in a still more perfect degree than the English heroine of Dove Cote, because she is really subject to the mystical spirits of nature and their inexplicable influences, and does not always overcome them as is the case with Mrs. Hall's beautiful, ideal Eva. Tn the morning she is the property of the black elves, pretty and sweet as she looks all the time; gloomy thoughts and presentiments then reign in her soul and rest upon her brow, and gaze from her serious dark eyes. She is then silent and occupied by her own thoughts, and willingly seeks the solitude of her own room. In the bath she again becomes the Princess Elsa, or the cheerfully thoughtful young woman, in whose soul dwells a wisdom which awakes admiration in one so young, and which sounds extraordinary from those child-like lips. These moods of mind alternate through the day. In the twilight she reclines for a while upon her sofa, in order, as she says, to give audience to her thoughts. But I suspect that the little imps then, protected by the twilight shadows, play their tricks with her, because when she gets up at 7 o'clock for our tea she is quite changed. Then and during the whole evening she is the Princess Elsa in all respects; in her captivating vivacity, in her playful whims and sallies of humor, which sometimes amount to impertinence. Then is her musical vein awakened to new life, and she will play, now lively, now plaintive pieces, always full of significance, sometimes also her own compositions, all of which have a stamp of melancholy. She will modulate, or vary, any one melody or theme, which takes her fancy for the moment, in the sweetest manner for a long time. I have never heard music on the piano, which has so much melody as hers. During these evening hours too, she will sometimes amuse herself by startling Hercules with all kinds of airs, which she gives herself, as well as by enumerating all the silk dresses, splendid shawls, carpets, services, cream-jugs, and sugar-basins, which she will have, if she ever marries; all of which is secretly intended I fear to make him afraid of a wife, who will be so exacting and extravagant in her tastes. Hercules, it is true, looks puzzled sometimes on these occasions, and shakes his great head at the little witch, but—it does not matter; he is not afraid of her, perhaps because he silently suspects, what I know to be the case, that all these silk-dresses, and all these other expensive articles, are not at all a necessity to the soul of their fairy-child, that her taste is simple and noble, and that there is no danger from these faults which she is so fond of exaggerating, since she can see them so plainly herself.

Sometimes all the talking falls to his share, and then he tells us of his friends and his home in the beautiful valleys, of his books and pictures there and of the good and earnest people; of a silk factory which he has established amongst them, and of that which he is intending to do for his work-people, for the schools, and by the establishment of a newspaper for the youthful population of the valleys. I can see that he is wishful to excite an interest in her mind towards these subjects. She listens to him silently, but will not allow herself to be interested by them. If she makes any observation in reply to his glowing descriptions, it is usually a remark that it must be “very cold,” or “melancholy,” up in those mountains, or something of that kind, intended to convince him that she could never be happy there. He smiles at her remarks, but it is evident that they are painful to him. Wonderful power of love! Here is a man, endowed with all which can make life cheerful, free, beautiful, worth living for, with health, strength, fortune, independence. He has become enamored of a young girl, delicate, weak, hardly able to take care of herself, indifferent to a great deal on which he sets a high value, and especially indifferent as to pleasing him, and he lays himself, his wealth, at her feet, and would be supremely happy if she would merely give him a friendly glance and permit him to devote his life to her. In this relationship it is the weak which is the strong, the one who desires nothing who rules, the free which brings into bondage. The old saga is renewed in all ages, and Hercules again spins at the feet of Omphale. True it is that our Hercules knows how to resume his strength and his dignity, and that, together with his goodness and his earnest love, gives him a certain power over her. But whenever I attempt to speak with her about her future, he is altogether excluded, and Kindergartens and the twelve friends again come forth, but above all, the free, unanxious life in “this beautiful Italy.” Sometimes the black elves will after such conversations, again get possession of her soul. She becomes silent and sad. To-day, in the bath, when I was speaking in favor of marriage, and she against it, she stood silent, glancing thoughtfully down into the water, and in a few moments began to sing softly, to a clear but solemn tune. I listened. It was the dead march of Beethoven. This touched me deeply and made me seriously reflect. Is this delicate young creature indeed, fitted for marriage? Cannot people be happy without marriage? Am not I myself so? And she with her enjoyment of nature and art, her unassuming enjoyment of the innocent and the lovely in life? If there were only not those twelve female friends! And if Hercules were only not so good a man, so exactly the protecting friend which she needs! She has, however, in the mean time promised me to think seriously about him, and if she should ever be conscious of a decided liking for him, to announce the fact to me by dressing herself in white. Since then, I have said no more about him. She must make her resolve in perfect freedom!

It is pleasant to me nevertheless to observe how little of selfishness there is on either side in this relationship—of that egotism which so often disfigures these relationships between man and woman, and causes them merely to take into consideration their own individual happiness or satisfaction. Not so in this case.

“I would I could make her happy,” he says, and for that reason he wishes to make her his own. “I could not make him happy, because I do not love him sufficiently,” she says, and therefore she will not accept his love. In both cases, the grounds are noble.

August 13th.—An enchanting excursion to Capri, the first calm sail I have yet had on the Bay of Naples! The most glorious morning air, glittering waves, bright as diamonds, trembling, water-spouting dolphins, and the gay rowers altogether, rendered the sail quite festal. We went direct to the Grotto Azura. Little fishing boats came immediately from the shore of Capri, to meet us there. The sea was now so tranquil, that we could, without any difficulty, enter the grotto in one of these boats; but the water, however, was so high, and the arch so low, that we were obliged to lie down in the bottom of the boat. The incomparable spectacle of the grotto filled with blue air and brightness—a reflection of the sea and of the sky, shining in through the opening—together with its extraordinary property of giving color to the human body, which was proved to us by an old swimmer who for a small payment, threw himself into the water and swam about; we had a good opportunity of observing during the hour which we spent, sitting on one of the rock-seats in the Grotto.

After being thus pleasantly amused, and a little provoked by the rapacity of the fisher-folk, we rowed to the landing-place, where we had a fight with some asses and their drivers, who placed themselves in our road in order to compel us to accept their service. We obtained rooms in the Hotel Pugani, and refreshed ourselves to our hearts' content. Genuine Capri wine, and a real omelette soufflée, were the crown of our excellent little dinner. A palm-tree growing by our little hotel, and the number of cactus plants on the island, give it a tropical character. We went in the afternoon to the ruins of the Villa of Tiberius, which lie on the southern side of the small island. A few walls, fallen marble columns, and a beautiful Mosaic floor, are all which now remain of its fallen splendor. The view from the heights, is of unrivaled beauty, embracing the entire island; heaven, sea, and coast, all round; and, unrivaled too, was this evening the spectacle of the flaming clouds in all their variations of purple, gold, and crimson, as well as the after-glow in the sea following upon the sunset. I have never beheld a more magnificent play of brilliancy and color. On our return, we met a young girl carrying a large vessel of water on her head; but the girl's beauty and queen-like bearing, were so unusual, that we voluntarily stopped to speak with her. She replied with simplicity and kindness. Her parents were poor people on the island; her name was Carmela, and she was seventeen.

In the evening, the Tarantella was danced by all the people belonging to the Hotel Pugani. The joy of the dance was expressed in every countenance, but especially in the countenances of two young girls whose beautiful eyes beamed with delight. We were so charmed with our visit to Capri, that we resolved to return hither for a longer visit, when we have bidden farewell to Sorrento.

August 15th.—The Ascension-Day of the Virgin, is a great festival in the Catholic Church. For the last week, they have been talking about it in Sorrento, and of the great fire-works which are to take place on that day, and for which the Prince of Syracuse, who has a beautiful villa here is said to have given a hundred scudi.

There was to be preaching in the principal church of the city, and thither I went. The church was transformed into a regular boudoir, with silk draperies, bouquets of flowers and candles; whilst an image of the Virgin, the size of life, decked out like a young lady dressed for a ball, stood foremost in the choir. The sermon on the subject of the Virgin's ascension, was in a flowery oriental style. Her beauty was especially exalted. Her eyes, cheeks, lips, forehead, were each and all described, and praised con amore; also her jeweled crown and snow-white mantle, beaming with diamonds. Thus attired, she ascended to Heaven. “The sun left his seat to come and gaze at her, and to make her a mantle of his rays. The stars rushed forth dancing around her, to fashion a gloria round her head ; the clouds hastened to her feet to serve her as steps. Mary has overcome death; death himself has fallen before her upon his knees, adoringly. Mary has seated herself on God's right hand, and become our intercessor with Him. This constitutes our advantage in her ascension. We could not force our way to Him, the righteous judge; we are sinners. But Mary bears for us the compassionate heart of a mother. God cannot deny her any thing. She allays the storms of the sea, and the sufferings of disease. All good comes alone to us through Mary. Therefore let us all with one common voice cry to her to pray for us!”

Such is the Maria poem in which the poet has contrived to confound together the earthly mother and the Divine Son.

We had, in the evening, the grandest and the most brilliant of our Sorrento fireworks, with burning suns, temples, cascades, &c., and with crackers and gunpowder old men, without number. The people were as quiet as usual, even during a few disturbances caused by His Royal Highness, the Prince of Syracuse. He was seated, with the gentlemen of his court, before a café, on the principal street, and flung thence dozens of cigars amongst the people. One box after another was emptied in this manner. This soon assembled a crowd of young and old men, who fought for the cigars, and pressed ever nearer and nearer upon the Prince, who himself snatched the caps of several from their heads, and threw them away amongst the crowd, in order to free himself from them, till at length the gentlemen of his court were obliged to use their canes actively, for the same purpose. This scene was renewed several times. A stand, with all kinds of confectionary and cakes, stood at no great distance, on the opposite side of the street, and this the crowd obtained leave to plunder, by a sign from the Prince; but so madly did they rush upon their prey, that again the canes of the gentlemen were put in motion before order could be re-established. But it seemed to amuse the Prince. This Prince, a large, powerful man, with a very handsome countenance, is particularly popular in Sorrento, for bis kindness and liberality. Both he and his brothers, the Dukes of Aguila and Trapani—they are all brothers of the King of Naples—are said to be real Turks with regard to women, and the sympathies of the popular Prince for the people have in them nothing either elevating or ennobling to the same.

The folks-festivals are said to have lost here, as in all parts of Italy, much of their former life and splendor. But this seems to me rather a good than a bad sign, because what indeed are their festivals other than noise—explosions of light and ashes! Nevertheless, they are expensive, and what do they leave behind them? Vacuity! The people begin, perhaps, to feel that they neither can nor ought to be satisfied with fireworks alone. How unlike these are to the Swiss national festivals! The people themselves take part in them, both soul and body. Strength, health, industry, art, understanding, and brotherhood, alike require it. There is no other species of festival which will operate to the national advantage. Poor Italy! How unprofitable, in result, on the contrary, are thy festivals!

The people here appear to me to be industrious, but, in general, to be poor. The women spin on their distaffs, before their houses, whilst the men, with bowed necks and backs, carry heavy burdens of food and other things from the shore up to the town—Sorrento lying high. They very seldom eat flesh-meat, “not once a month,” as I have been assured by them. Their principal food consists of a species of beans, together with bread and fruit. Of this last, there is now great abundance here, and people can get melons, figs, oranges, &c., at a very small cost. Later in the year, come also grapes, and fici d'India,—the fruit of the cactus-plant. Even macaroni is here an article of luxury to the people, as is also wine; and yet this is a vine-growing country, and whilst the people are subjected to deprivation as regards the means of life, hundreds of scudi are expended in smoke for their pleasure.

They are here cheats in trifles, and quite too greedy of carlini and grani. But I ask myself whether this is not natural in a state of things where people are continually struggling for daily bread for themselves and their children, and where they know no other object in life. We have always found them kind and good-natured, and faithful in keeping any engagement which is orally made with them. The fishermen on these shores, are in this respect, as trustworthy as the drivers in Rome, and when one employs any amongst them constantly, and treats them kindly, they become actually one's friends.

We celebrated in the house, two days ago, the betrothal of our host Luigi with a handsome young girl, of particularly good and respectable appearance. It took place in the presence of il curato, a nice, humorous clergymen, who asked the young people if they would have one another, after which the written contract was drawn up between them. Ices, wine, confectionary, and other things, were then handed round by Rafael, the young brother of the host, a handsome youth and our daily attendant.

I cannot sufficiently express how satisfied we are with the way of life and the arrangements of this house, or how well-pleased we are, in every respect, with our host and hostess. We feel ourselves here to be, as it were, amongst friends and connections. We never lock our room-doors, even when we are absent for a day and night; we leave our small properties lying about, and have never had reason to suppose that they have even been touched. We can believe every thing which has been said, of the reliance which may be placed on the Italian, when he is treated with confidence; it is impossible to live any where cheaper or better, than at the Hotel de la Campagne.

I must add to the pleasure also, which I have here experienced, the acquaintance of Count C. Wacktmeister, Swedish minister in Naples, a man of rare knowledge, liberal political views, and very interesting in society; as well as two evenings spent with Philemon and Bancis, who inhabit a lovely little villa near the shore. Bancis entertained us like a queen, and the learned Rabbi, presented us, as dessert, with a superb, spiritual feast, in his incomparable reading of the Psalms of David, together with some of the songs of Anacreon or of Sappho. Little Psyché seems to enjoy her own ambrosial food in them, so bright are her eyes the while.

August 27th.—Time flies, and our life in Sorrento must soon come to an end. An end must also be put to a state of affairs, which only more and more puts in jeopardy the peace of a noble man, without leading to any good result. For whilst Waldo's feelings for “that child,” increase in depth every day, and often make him very unhappy—though he conceals it from her, that his suffering may not influence her mind, through her compassion for him—she still remains indifferent towards him, and is frequently not considerate in her behavior. A person who knew her less thoroughly than I do, might accuse her of coquetry. But since I have known her, I have more than ever taken the part of young girls who are suspected of this evil habit. The fickleness of her manner towards him, arises from the fickleness, or ever-changing character of her mind or disposition; arises from physical or nervous weakness; arises from the influence of the good and evil fairies in her soul. Her good heart has also some share in the irregularity of her conduct, because, when she sees that she has grieved him, or been the occasion of his suffering, she endeavors to atone for it, and it is just as certain that this better state of mind will not long continue; because the magic power which governs her so wills it; that let her be in what sort of temper she may—dark or light—she is agreeable and fascinating to him, and he is by that means attracted to her. She cannot be otherwise, even if she would. I have several times warned and lectured her in a motherly way, and have been quite overcome by her amiability, candor, and humility. She is as amiable, as she is unusually gifted, and I have ended by thinking that she may be more in the right than I am, when she asserts that she is not suitable for Hercules, nor is Hercules suitable for her. He is prose, pure and noble prose, but prose nevertheless; she is poetry, noble also and pure, but with ever-varying transition to wild fancy, which renders her unjust towards the peculiar beauty of the prose. Love alone, and a new birth through love, could lead her, like the Princess Elsa, in Elsa-dale, to become the servant of the practical aims, which the well-being of mankind requires. In order to be interested in the silk-spinning in the Waldenses valleys, to take part in popular schools, &c., she must love the Waldensian, and that she cannot do, I see plainly, and with that he must be content. She has honestly endeavored to do so, but it did not succeed, and it is no fault of hers. She esteems him cordially, likes him as a brotherly friend, and would select him as a husband, for either three or four of her twelve female friends, who would suit him excellently, as he them.

These are always the last words when we talk together on the subject, and it must now be plainly spoken out. In the beginning of September, I shall leave Sorrento to continue my journey to various places around Naples, and afterwards go to Sicily, where I intend to spend the winter, in case I do not make a still longer journey. My summer-daughter will accompany me to Sicily, if she wishes to do so, but Hercules must not remain any longer with us. It would be unpardonable to risk further the peace of a noble mind. Psyché herself takes the same view, and is resolved very shortly to give him her definite answer, yet in such a manner as not to wound him.

“He will soon console himself,” she declares, “he is a Hercules, and a rich life lies before him. He will make his journey to the East, and soon forget me.”

I doubt as to the ease with which he will forget her; I have become acquainted with a deep sensibility in his heart, a necessity of loving which has not yet been satisfied, and which embraces “that child,” with the whole strength of his being. I know, and feel it; he will not easily console himself; he will never forget, but he is a man, he will do his part, and—travel to the East. It cannot be otherwise, and—perhaps it is best that it should be so;—oh, oh! How often is the egotist beloved when the noble-hearted is rejected!

August 30th.—But not this time! Every thing is changed, and she is his betrothed! When they entered my room hand in hand, to announce to me that they were engaged to each other, his countenance beamed with happiness, like a demi-god; she was pale, but her eyes were bright as two clear stars. They were a lovely couple; he strength, she grace. I received with amazement, and not without uneasiness, the wholly unexpected communication; and though I clasped them both in my arms with heart-felt congratulations, I still felt a secret fear that a surprise of the yielding womanly heart had occasioned this sudden change in the resolve which she had lately taken, though long matured. I wished to be alone with her, and after he had assured us both, that she was still free, that she never should be bound without her own “full, free consent,” he left us alone.

I gazed with uneasy inquiry into those deep eyes where I saw clouds and tears casting a shadow over the lately beaming glance. But she tranquilized my fears of her own accord. She had seen him, she said, so good, so noble, so beautiful in his love, that she felt herself conquered, and had given herself to him with clear consciousness and full reflection. She felt that she had acted rightly, “she was resolved to make him happy, and she hoped and believed that she would henceforth be happy with him!”

May she be so, the pure-hearted, lovely young girl! Hitherto I have felt more interest in him than in her; because his honest and unselfish love has won my whole sympathy. But from this moment I feel that my heart will be principally drawn towards her.

September 5th.—Our bathing has come to a terrible end, by a Sirocco-storm; which during one night carried away all the bathing houses on the shore, and ours amongst the rest. Yesterday the sea rose high along the strand, and it was magnificent to see the waves with white foamy manes, like some kind of seahorses, rear up against the cliffs. The weather during the last eight days has been so autumnal and chilly that I do not know when I have felt it so unpleasant in Sweden at this time of the year. And in the main I find that the summer in Sweden as much exceeds that of Italy in beauty and pleasantness, as the winter and spring of Italy exceed those seasons in Sweden. In a few days I leave Sorrento and proceed to Capri, Amalfi, and Solerno, and then again to Naples. The betrothed will accompany me.

We have also within doors experienced some storms, arising from Psyché's not yet fully subdued heart. But Hercules has on every occasion overcome them by the power both of earthly and heavenly love, and after every fresh obscuration by the black elves, I see anew the bright star-glance beam forth from the receding clouds. Great is her power over him, but I observe with pleasure that his power over her is on the increase. After each little storm the heaven becomes all the brighter.

Our evenings are always harmonious. Psyché's music gives a great enjoyment to them, because it is like a living, gushing fountain from the depths of her soul. Sometimes also, Hercules joins her in singing Santa Lucia, which he sings well. He has a strong, pure, and melodious voice, although not musically trained. Afterwards we take our stand on one of the balconies of the drawing-room and inhale the cool evening air whilst the stars shine above us. The wind is always still in the evenings, the sky is clear and we watch the moon rise behind the hill of San Angelo, or splendid lightning, flashing from fantastic clouds, illumine space. We listen to the singing of the people on the square, whilst they rest in careless enjoyment of the repose of evening and the fruits of the earth. By degrees they sink into silence, and all becomes still, except the splash of the little fountain near the old city-gate in the square and upon the ruins of which stands St. Antonio, as the patron saint of Sorrento. Thus fly the minutes and the hours, and Hercules surrounds his Psyché with his embrace and his heart-felt love, whilst she, leaning against the balustrade, gives herself up to the lovely inspirations of her evening-mood and earnest talk and joke pass between the two. Thus it should be. Sometimes also we read something, in the last instance some of the songs of the Odyssey which ought to be read in these scenes; so full of the achievements or adventures of Ulysses. We delight ourselves with the many fresh expressions and delineations of nature, but we also rejoice to live long after the time, when the “godlike Ulysses,” and his friends, found the supreme enjoyment of life to consist in sitting from the rising of the sun to the setting of the same, at a well-spread board, eating flesh and drinking wine, and listening to love-stories, “which made the goddesses turn away their eyes and the gods to hold their sides for laughter.” We were rejoiced to be living long after the time, when “the good Telemachus” sent his mother to her room to attend to her womanly occupations; and when the lot of the dead seemed to be so gloomy that Achilles in Hades confessed that he would rather live as the poorest day-laborer on earth, than as the ruler of the dead in the realm of shades.

We have contemplated from the heights of Conti, on the other side of the ridge or point of Sorrento, the celebrated islands of the Syrens. They do not now appear to be dangerous from their seductive influence; they are small, naked, rocky islands in the Bay of Salerno, on which one perceives some ruins of former buildings, but no trees, scarcely any bushes. An Amazonian Queen is said to have lived upon the largest of these islands, and may have given occasion to the legends of their dangerous characters. The views over the coast of Salerno and the bay are glorious from this height. After we have seen, on the coast of Salerno, the caves of Ulysses and the romantic bath of Queen Johanna, as well as Tasso's house—but which perhaps is not Tasso's house at all, as that is said to have been washed away by the sea many years ago—we shall be ready to leave Sorrento to proceed to Capri or elsewhere. Our summer Odyssey is not yet ended.

REVIEW OF OUR LAST TRAVELING ADVENTURES.

Naples, September 20th.—A stormy passage from Sorrento to Capri. Can Hercules have offended Neptune? Certain it is, that after the sea-god had decoyed us out in the morning by his apparent calmness and good humor, he blew up against us such an angry, contrary wind, that it seemed as if we should never arrive. Five strong rowers propelled us through the boiling waves, and our little boat was carried aloft on mountain waves and down into deep troughs of the sea; before us the heaven was clouded and the sailors began to exchange their merry cries about “macaroni,” into half-broken prayers to the Virgin. Little Elsa lay very pale and suffering in the boat, I suffered also from a kind of moral sea-sickness caused by anxiety for her; Hercules alone was calm and alert. The bad weather became a decided tempest with lightning and rain, just when we were sufficiently near Capri to lie to under the rocks, in a little cave, until the storm somewhat abated. High above our heads might be seen in the wall of rock an artificial gateway for the admission of carriages and goods, dating from the time of Tiberius, Timberius, as our sailors said. In half an hour we were able to continue our course, and an hour afterwards we were once more in our good hotel Pugani, where it was again a pleasure to inhale the fresh, cool air of the island, genuine Capri air, which seemed to us better than the air either of Ischia or Sorrento. The island was unusually lively on this day, from the celebration there of the Virgin Mary's birth-day, and cheerful voices were heard, and groups of festally-attired people might be seen wandering along on all hands.

Five days' stay in Capri gave us two glorious evenings with the grand spectacle of the sunset, flaming clouds and horizon, around the richly-colored sea, besides me morning of indescribable beauty, with a splendor of sunshine over heaven and earth, whilst we ascended five hundred and thirty-five steps up the cliffs to the lofty plateau of Ana-Capri, where, to our surprise, we found an upland, with olive groves, vineyards, maize fields, and many neat, well-built dwellings, with every appearance of prosperity around them. Capri is assuredly the pearl of the neighborhood of Naples, on account of its air and its peculiarity. After having anciently been covered by palaces and villas, the island is now abandoned by the great and the affluent, who only come thither to visit the Grotto Azura.

Mr. S. astonished us one evening by coming in, dressed as a woman, carrying the boiling kettle for our tea, and thereby half-frightening to death some of the ladies in the house, which did not, however, prevent the tarantella from being danced with especial animation in the evening.

On the 13th we all four set off in an open boat to Amalfi. Again the wind was contrary, although not violent. Eight hours rowing on the sea, with rough waves, and under a burning sun, did not render the voyage very agreeable. Psyché lay sick in the boat, and even Hercules suffered from headache. We rowed along the shores, which through the whole extent were composed of lofty rocks, dangerous, naked, and rugged. It made one thirsty only to look at them, and at the villages and towns, which shone out white here and there in the hollows or upon the bare rock, with a few meagre olive-trees for shadow. As we approached Amalfi the green cultivated plots increased in importance, orange groves were intermingled with olive-woods; the character of the rocks changed, they assumed more beautiful proportions and architectural forms, especially so at Amalfi. Here we were obliged to be carried on shore by our sailors. We found good quarters at the Hotel Luna, formerly a Convent, on the outside of the town, near the shore. The people in the house struck us as being so peculiar that we suspected them of being a kind of men of the moon. In the evening they entertained us with Neapolitan songs, excellently sung, and a tarantella excellently danced, the whole being given in the beautiful ancient court of the Convent, surrounded by a marble balustrade, finely sculptured. The people are musical, gay, childlike, but altogether too keen after carlini and grani. We are here evidently not in the moon.

Amalfi, with its white churches and houses, lies upon lofty rock-terraces, on the shore of the Bay of Salerno. One clambers up amidst valleys of luxuriant vegetation. The former powerful city, with its population of fifty thousand souls, and which alone ruled the trade with the East, is now an unimportant town of three thousand inhabitants, a few manufactories of macaroni and paper, together with a great number of beggars. These swarmed like flies, both outside and inside the Cathedral, the sole but splendid remains of the ancient grandeur of Amalfi. There is in the beautiful crypt-chapel a statue of St. Andrew the Apostle, who is said to be buried here, which one can never forget. He is represented as standing, or rather walking, proclaiming the gospel, his hand pointing to the Holy Scriptures. He is represented as aged, and his, countenance bears the traces of weariness and suffering, but at the same time of an unimpaired will, unabated courage, and love. He is advancing onward through the dark crypt of the world and of life, preaching the gospel of freedom and of peace, because this it is for which he is sent. He sees but little light, yet that does not trouble him; he will fulfill his Master's commands, and then go to Him. This he desires to do; this he knows, and it is sufficient for him. He does not see the small lamp which burns beneath his feet, the little light which shines in darkness, and which will overcome it. His glance is steadfastly fixed alone upon the goal. It may be light, or it may be dark around him on earth, he looks and he aims merely at that! “Go thou and do likewise!” the glorious figure seems to say to the beholder. In the crypt of life, in the darkness of the world, under all those experiences which gloom the soul and the mind, never become weary of following the footsteps of the saint, never forsake the testifying of doctrine and of his life! The light which has illumined thy wandering will shine still clearer over thy grave!

The environs of Amalfi abound in picturesque walks amongst the rocks, whilst the mountains of Calabria, extending like dark violet billows, attract the glance into the distance with the promise of scenes of a new character and grandeur. After two days devoted to Amalfi, we proceeded in an open boat to Salerno. Showers of rain unexpectedly overtook us on our way; but we had also beautiful sunshine on the sea and the mountains, especially on the Calabrian side. Two lads in the boat sang the whole way, both very well, and with animation, several Neapolitan songs, as—La Carlina, Ti voglio ben assai ma non ti uno pui, Santa Lucia, and others. The people of Amalfi are celebrated for their songs and musical taste.

Leaving Amalfi the rocks become lower, and at Salerno they have retired to the back-ground, as if to allow the ancient, celebrated city, the seat of the sciences, of schools of learning, and still the home of minds athirst for freedom, to spread itself out by the sea-shore, amongst green hills and meadows. On the rocks in the back-ground stands the strong fortress, with a dark and threatening aspect. A number of political prisoners are confined there—for how long?——

We were well entertained at the Victoria Hotel on the Marina of Salerno, and enjoyed a fine view of its splendid bay and shores. The moon rose over the sea; whilst magnificent lightnings flashed from a sinking cloud. It was a wondrously beautiful evening.

Never before had the betrothed seemed so harmoniously happy as during this evening, whilst Waldo allowed himself to be more than usually carried away by his favorite thoughts and plans for the future, especially for the well-being of that handful of people who had so faithfully preserved from the most ancient times, “the light which shines in darkness,” and which must have so much influence on the future of Italy; never before had she thus listened to him, with those bright, star-clear glances, that cheerful consent, that admiring devotion. Never before had she seemed so completely his own.

“I am happy; I feel proud that I shall be the wife of such a man!” she said to me in the evening. The earth is yet the home of pure beauty and happiness.

On the 16th we took a carriage and drove down to Pestum, where we wished to see the rediscovered ancient temples; the oldest and noblest architectural work of art in Italy. The day was glorious and the road good, leading through flowery meadows here and there traversed by foot-paths, so like the landscape with us in Sweden, with little brooks, bushes, groups of trees, even the little villages resembled ours; but the ground did not appear to be well cultivated. We met great numbers of cattle which were being driven to the city, where they were making ready for the festival of some saint with its accompanying great fair.

After a charming drive of four hours we reached Pestum. Here stood formerly, it is said, the city of roses, the city of the Sybarite; the home of the most refined life-enjoyment. Here now, its sole remains are the three great temples standing in a desolate field which produces only thistles, nettles and entangling weeds. These temples were beautiful, and the impression they produced grand and solemn, especially those of Neptune and Ceres, with their magnificent colonnades, beneath the open, beaming heavens, and looking out upon the vast sun-bright sea. They bore witness in their beauty of a time and a life, when mankind, still more than now, did every thing with reference to the present moment or temporal life, and endeavored and were able, under this heaven, to forget that they were mortal. Therefore also, these temples are standing as solemn memento mori. A death-like silence reigned around them. The only living being whom we saw was a little, pale, sickly herd-boy, with a starving dog, watching a few goats. The whole district is very unhealthy, but the soil is said to be rich, and they have just begun to cultivate it. The laborers remove during the summer to a village which we saw shining white up amongst the hills. We took our dinner in the shade of the columns and friezes of the temple of Neptune, and by evening we were again in Salerno. Five or six carriages were driving backwards and forwards on its Corso along the shore, with the beau monde of the city.

They are now planting and beautifying this promenade. There is an increasing vitality in Salerno, and during the latter years, it has distinguished itself by such movements in the cause of liberty, as have drawn down upon the city the paternal regards of the government and peopled its prisons. Many priests are said to be confined in them.

The betrothed promenade and enjoy the moonlight and themselves, whilst they talk about marriage, which is not to be in their case a two-fold egotism, un egoisme à deux, but something quite different. Very good! Hercules, thou art the good pine-tree in the legend of the Princess Elsa!

The 17 th. Visit to Pompeii. That which appeared more striking to me in this monument—alone of its kind; this city lay buried for centuries under the ashes of Vesuvius, and which but lately, as it were, was produced thence to bear witness of the everyday life of former times—was the smallness of all its proportions. Every thing—from the forum of the city, temples and private dwellings—is ornamental, decorative, but small. One seems to be looking at the prettiest miniature city, of a sort of miniature humanity. The public buildings have an affluence of columns. The private houses have all the same construction. The dwelling-rooms, larger or smaller, are all arranged like cells, around a court, with a little flower-garden, in the centre of which is a marble fountain. Between the rose-court and the inner cells, Gynnecœum, or ladies'-room, is the conversation-room, a kind of general saloon, or square open to the court. All these rooms (belonging to the ladies) received light only from the side next the court. I could not have breathed nor have been at all comfortable in them, although decorative paintings and arabesques might cover the walls, and however much the court might have been adorned with lovely little fountains, with shells, Cupids and other little statues, and however beautiful their roses might have been which bloomed there; this world it seems to me would have been too much circumscribed. I was agreeably surprised by the beauty of the fresco-paintings which still are preserved in many of the rooms. Those eyes, they still have life as if they still lived, and in these countenances what expression! Any thing deeper, or more true to life is seldom met with even in the paintings of the present day. So in this picture of Ulysses and Cleopatra, and in this other of Eneas and his mother! And in the animals, and in these mythological figures, Satyrs and Fauns, what life what humor! What affluence in these saloons, and dining rooms, of the sweetest forms, from the world of flowers, birds, and fantasy! Everywhere the endeavor to adorn and beautify daily life is exhibited. Many inscriptions, however, prove that life here was not of the moral character and many ruins of the temples prove also the deceptions practiced there by the priests in the name of the gods, as, for instance, in the temple of Isis. We were shown the places where skeletons had been found; a priest at his repast; the wife of Diomedes with her female servants, himself in his garden with a purse in his hand. There were not many; the deluge of ashes which fell slowly over the city gave its inhabitants the opportunity for flight. Some, however, appear to have been suffocated by the hot vapors of the eruption, as was the case with Pliny the elder.^[3] Many human bodies may still be found in the considerable portion of the city which has not yet been excavated. This visit to Pompeii interested me so much that I resolved to pay a second visit some day, when I was less weary and had more time than at present. We were now hurried in our return to Naples and the cause of our being so I will relate in the next station.

1. The poetical name for Naples and its population.—Author's Note.
2. They also sing:
   Tu sei l'impero
   Dell'alma mia.
3. The narrative of this occurrence is well known, but so interesting that I shall append it in a note at the close of this work. Author's Note.