Life in the Old World/Station 15

by Fredrika Bremer

 

FIFTEENTH STATION.

The Miracle of San Gennaro—The Royal Family of Naples—Museo Borbonico—The Minister of the Interior, Bianchini—The Inner Life of Naples—The Innermost—Benevolent Institutions—The Handsome Nuns—System of Government in Naples—Excursion to Caserta and Portici—Villa Reale and the comet—The Folk's Theatre of Naples—New Acquaintance—New Troubles—The Prince of Villa Ambrosa—The Princess Elsa—A Day in Pompeii—Magnanimity and Despair—Rapid Journey to Sicily and—The End.

Naples, September 23d.—On the nineteenth of September, I know not how many centuries ago, a certain Bishop Gennaro, or Januarius, was beheaded in Naples for his Christian faith. His Christian friends or relatives collected his blood in a bottle, and this bottle was kept and remains to the present day—so at least it is said—in the church of San Gennaro, which was built at the close of the thirteenth century, in memory of the martyr. This blood is turned from a rigid mass into a fluid state, in answer to the prayers of the populace and the priests, twice or thrice in the course of a year, if—the saint be favorably disposed to Naples and its people. If the change be tardy in its operation, then the Saint is not in good humor; but should the mass continue unchanged altogether, even cruel misfortune would be expected. On the 19th of September and during the whole folowing week, the change may be expected, and it was to be witnesses of this, so-called miracle that we hastened to Naples on the 18th of September.

After having observed the working of the miracle three times, I will give an account of the occasion when we saw it most favorable. Already at 8 o'clock we went to the church. The miracle, never takes place before 9 o'clock, but how soon, or how long after the stroke of that hour, depends upon the favor or disfavor of San Gennaro towards his Neapolitan countrymen and countrywomen, because his cousins or descendants, in the female line, to the hundredth or thousandth degree, have no inconsiderable part to play therein. The chapel in the cathedral was already, on our arrival, full of people, but a kind priest who recognized us as foreigners, conducted us within the balustrades round the altar, to which we were able to place ourselves as near as we wished. Several foreigners in the mean time had similar places assigned to them. Many Neapolitan ladies and some gentlemen were kneeling on the flight of steps which led to the choir. The crowd of the populace stood outside, in the spacious, rotunda-like chapel, whilst an especial place by the altar was assigned to a throng of old, simply-attired women, considerably more like witches than madonnas. These called themselves the relations of San Gennaro, and were not allowed to eat any thing in the morning before the miracle was in operation, from which cause their prayers became all the more energetic and effectual.

A number of silver statues filled the chapel which is said to be immensely rich. The heat was very great as we waited there in silence the arrival of San Gennaro. More and more candles were lighted on the altar, and at length a number of priests made their appearance, bearing his bust of silver-gilt which was placed upon the altar, and his blood preserved in an oval greenish glass bottle, inclosed by a massive silver ring, fastened to a shaft which a priest held in his hand, and by which he swung, in the view of all, the bottle backwards and forwards in order to let them see that the black-red mass which more than half filled it, was hard set and immovable. A small, mysterious tube passes through the bottle and is held above and below by the thick silver rim, at least, one cannot see any thing, and one involuntarily asks oneself, why not? But one must not be too inquisitive.

The prayers now begin. The priests mutter softly; those who kneel round the altar do the same; the whole chapel rushes into a low chorus of prayer, but the old women, the relations of San Gennaro, lift up shrill, shrieking voices, as they repeat, one after another, Pater Noster and Credo, as well as improvised prayers to their holy great-uncle, or cousin, that he would show them his favor and not let them wait too long. This screaming and noise rises and sinks, and rises again like a storm, but still through it all the priest continues to swing the bottle up and down and from one side to the other, showing it between whiles to the spectators, who see that the dark mass remains still immovable. He shows it also to the gentleman of noble appearance, dressed in black, who stands on his right, in front of the altar, as the representative of the king; he shows it also to a similar gentleman on the left. Both assume a very grave, and as it were a significant demeanor. Again prayers are renewed with increased vigor, and the relations of San Gennaro lift up still shriller voices and still wilder cries; their glances flash fire, and some of them seem quite desperate that their holy uncle allows them to remain hungry so long. By degrees the prayers become so violent that they resemble abuse and opprobrium. It is said that the old women are not sparing in this respect, if the miracle be too long delayed. I was not able to distinguish such expressions this morning. The Neapolitan popular dialect, as spoken by the screaming voices of the Neapolitan women always sounds like abuse. These vehement outbursts become more and more volcanic, and actually threatening, when all at once every countenance brightens and a prayer ensues. A movement is observable in the mass of blood. It begins to slide first to the one side then to the other, it seems to become loosened from the glass. The priest continues still to swing the bottle, the rim of which it seems to one that he clasps with a secret manipulation. The old women scream and the priests mutter. Yet another five minutes and the miracle is complete, the blood is wholly liquefied and flows on all sides. The old women exult, many of the ladies weep, and all the pious press forward to kiss the glass bottle which contains the blood of the martyr, and which is now extended to their lips and their foreheads by the priest.

We hasten out of the throng at the altar lower down into the chapel, where we see the relations of San Gennaro place themselves in two rows, between the choir and the door. Here they pour forth a shrill song of praise in honor of Jesus, and the Virgin, of San Gennaro and all the saints, who receive a vivat! The singing is beautiful, fresh, and with a kind of wild energy, like the figures from which it proceeds, and who might serve as types of the Neapolitan popular character in the lower regions. If a thoughtless boy or girl approaches too near any one of these relations of San Gennaro, amidst their holy zeal, they receive a hearty slap or blow from the old woman.

When this concluding song is over, they make a movement with hand and head to the bust of San Gennaro, a short salutation, which seems to say, “Thanks and farewell, cousin, till next time!” and then, without further ado, go off to their breakfasts.

Amongst the spectators, one sees some who weep, some who smile, and although they who press forward to kiss the bottle are not numerous in comparison with the throng, yet they form themselves into a close row on each side of the procession which advances from the chapel of San Gennaro with his bust and blood, to the high altar in the choir of the church, where again the bottle is exhibited to the observation of the kissing and kneeling multitudes. And this is continued the whole day, the officiating priests relieving each other every hour.

We placed ourselves on one occasion among the kneeling people because we wished to have as near a view of the bottle as was possible. The holy father, who was then carrying it, supposing us to be of the true church, offered it to my young friend for her to kiss, when she, astonished, drew herself hastily back. He looked at her with a glance that expressed surprise and reproach, but with so much gentleness that she blushed and looked like a criminal. The holy father's whole appearance was so good and so pious that it was evident he believed in the miracle, he was not the one in whose hand it took place, and it grieved him that a young girl who looked so innocently pious was yet nevertheless a heretic.

People said the miracle had this year occurred with unusual ease. They have seldom to wait now longer than twenty minutes, or at most half an hour, after the praying begins, and the people rejoice in this as a sign of the favor of San Gennaro; and we are convinced that we have witnessed a piece of legerdemain much less remarkable than that which causes wine of various kinds to flow out of one bottle. One tolerably speaking fact is, that a chemist is usually sent from the court eight days before that on which the miracle is to take place, in order, as it is said, “to ascertain the correctness of the blood.” Another striking fact is, that when the French soldiers, some years ago, were stationed at that time in Naples, and the miracle was so tardy in its operations that the populace was thrown into a state of fermentation against the French, believing them to be the cause of the delay, whereupon the French commander sent word to the priests of San Gennaro, that if the miracle did not take place in five minutes after his message was delivered he would bombard the church. The relations of San Gennaro, who on this were almost out of their minds found, however, that not more than three minutes were now required before they could raise their cry of exultation.

During the three mornings that we spent in the church, it was interesting to me, though not edifying, to watch the ecclesiastical life which went on there; the crowd going and coming, talking, and staring as at a show, whilst, in the long side-aisles, priests were sitting in the confessionals and listening to confession, whilst their eyes wandered curiously amongst the passers-by. The life of the church resembled that of the square, and there appeared no sign of minds earnestly employed in devotion.

The day after the first miracle-day, that is to say, the 20th of September, the king and queen drove, with the whole royal family, in great state, to the Cathedral, to thank San Gennaro, in due form, for his favor. The carriages were magnificent, mounted with silver, and really very beautiful. The members of the royal family are unusually plain in person—all with large, pale countenances, without any marked feature. The king, notwithstanding his stoutness, is the best-looking of his race—except the Prince of Syracuse, who is now not here. The Crown-Prince has a long, gloomy countenance, particularly unpleasing. It is said, that he has been hitherto a great bigot; but it is hoped that a favorable change may be produced by his marriage, next winter, with a young Austrian princess, who is both handsome and gay. Poor child! Handsome, gay, and good was, also, the former Queen of Naples, who lived so short a time, and died—as it is asserted—in consequence of severe treatment. The queen who now sits by the side of King Ferdinand, seems also good and agreeable, but—the sun of Santa Lucia shines not for her! The two little princes are handsome children, with a resemblance of their august papa.

Splendid fireworks have been given three evenings in succession, in honor of San Gennaro. The Neapolitans are masters of this art. Pity only it is, that so much art and so much money are spent so often upon these empty pleasures, which are no longer pleasures to the population of Naples. It has evidently had enough of them.

September 24th.—Two days spent in the Museo Borbonico, have left with me this residuum: that which is peculiar in this interesting museum consists in treasures preserved from the cities buried in the ashes of Vesuvius—Pompeii, Herculaneum, Staba, St. Agatha, and others, partly from the habitations of the living there, partly from the graves of the dead. One room is especially devoted to a number of small curiosities found in Pompeii. Amongst these, one sees bread, eggs, plums, figs, meal, spices, and many other things found in our shops. All these articles are still recognizable, although they have become hard and black; there is also the purse of Diomedes, coin, and various female ornaments. In other rooms are preserved cooking utensils, lamps, and many articles of furniture from private dwellings, nearly all of them ornamental and of good workmanship.

The fresco-paintings, from the buried and excavated cities, the principal of which were collected here, all bear witness to the strong concentration of mind upon the life of the day and the hour. The enjoyment and the beautifying of this is shown to be the chief thing, and very naturally so, when the life beyond the grave furnished a dark question, even to such minds as that of Cicero.

One mosaic picture from the splendid dwelling of Diomedes—the only two-storied house in Pompeii—seems to me to express the moral of the Pompeian life. It represents death under the form of a skeleton, with a wine-flask in each hand. The moral is evidently this: “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.”

The most remarkable collection of vases found here and in the graves of the cities, amounting to nearly thirty-six thousand, do not appear to me to prove a higher view of life. The pictures upon them, often of great art and beauty, represent forms and scenes from the ancient mythology, or half-historical antiquity, scenes which the poets sung; sometimes also sacrifices and other ceremonies of the temple. These vases, I have been told, were usually presents which the dead received during their lifetime, as tokens of esteem, honorary presents, and so on, which were then placed in the grave, as memories which appertained to the dead. The dead took with them into the grave, pictures of the whole of their earthly life. Whether with this were united a longing or a hope which extended beyond the grave is not, however, clearly exhibited in the pictured language of the funereal urns. But I speak of this from my own impression and without any certain knowledge.

The statues of the Consul Balbo, and the members of his family, found in Herculaneum, prove their great skill in plastic portraiture, and the esteem in which the merits of the citizen were held. For these merits are related in the inscriptions on the pedestal of the statue of Balbo. His head is of the genuine Roman character, and that of a noble kind. There is in the Egyptian Museum a remarkable mummy of a young girl, which is called Pharaoh's daughter. The hair still remains upon the well-formed head, and the hands, especially the fingers, are remarkable for their great delicacy and beauty of form, but their color is black, as is that of the rest of the body, and its beauty of three thousand years is frightful to behold.

I have, from the statues, retained these for the museum of my own mind:

1st. A noble Esculapius, who holds in his hand the capsule of the poppy, a beautiful emblem of the healing virtues of rest and sleep, and of the power of mild means of cure. This Esculapius is decidedly a Homœopath.

2d. A lovely little statue of Jupiter Serapis, found in his temple on the coast of Pozzuoli. The supreme god is here represented as the judge of the underworld, as Pluto, and has a severe but noble, respect-inspiring character, far superior to that of the common Jupiter-head with the low forehead, and the upturned hair, which does not allow it to seem higher.

3d. A Hercules Farnese, with the Hesperidean apples in his hand. The mighty conflict has been gained, the last of his victories, the wonderful fruit which gives immortality on earth is in his power, but his expression is nevertheless one of weariness and dissatisfaction. He holds the famous apples carelessly in his hand, behind his back, and seems to say: “Were they indeed worth so much labor?”

Yes, indeed! What is the use of combating for merely earthly immortality?

I have heard from the learned Rabbi an old legend, taken, I believe, from the Jewish Talmud. “Anciently,” it says, “there was a city in which the air was so healthy and so full of the vigor of life that they who dwelt there never died. This was soon known, both far and wide, and people of birth and fortune hastened thither; and they lived there a long time. In a while, however, people saw them, one after another, stealing away, silently, that they might—be able to die.”

September 26th.—Wishing to visit some of the public institutions of Naples, I was informed that I must apply to the Minister of the Interior and of the Police, Bianchini, in order to do so. The Swiss banker, Mr. M., to whom I had a letter from Mr. Delarue of Genoa, and who had shown me much kindness, undertook, in the most polite manner, to convey my wishes to the Minister. The Minister replied that he wished to become personally acquainted with me. As I had heard Bianchini spoken of in Naples, as the only liberal and progressive man in the present ministry, it was very agreeable to me to make his acquaintance, and that also of his great work on political economy, Il Ben Vivere Sociale, which was celebrated for containing much excellent matter. Mr. M. drove me to his house in his carriage. It was still early in the day.

Entering a large room we found a great number of persons assembled, gens-d'armes, women, and men, some ill and others better dressed, and amidst this throng now stood, and now moved about, a tall, thin gentleman in plain clothes, with gray hair, pale countenance, and handsome features, the expression of which was insignificant, while his demeanor was animated. He seemed to speak with every person, receiving the while, or returning, great numbers of papers. His quick gray eye soon perceived me and my friend, on which he called to a servant, who conducted us through the crowd into a vestibule, and thence to the minister's private room. After a few minutes he came.

“Have I the honor of seeing His Excellency Bianchini?” I asked, rising at the same time. “Yes, madame,” he replied. “I am that Bianchini of whom so much notice has been taken in Europe! My work has been translated into many different languages, and in Belgium they have established a professor's chair for the sole purpose of enunciating my doctrines. I have received for that work decorations from fourteen crowned heads. All my predecessors have deceived themselves, all have treated science as the highest popular good;—one-sided this, and imperfect. I alone have treated it in its completeness, and have given it a sure basis; I am the first who has comprehended the question in its whole breadth, the first,” &c., &c.

Thus continued the speaker, while I sat amazed in silent wonder at his naïve self-glorification. When at length he gave me the opportunity of saying any thing, I inquired about his system.

“No system,” he replied with vivacity: “but I have made it evident, that neither happiness nor wealth can be enduring to a nation, if it do not rest upon order and a moral basis; if the intelligence, the will and morals of a people are not of an elevated character, so as to give a safe guidance to the material development, as well as the chief direction to life. My doctrine is therefore for all people, and for all forms of government, even for the republican,—only not for the red republican, because that, indeed, has no moral law.”

I expressed my satisfaction in his views, and asked by what means he conceived that so high a moral stand-point might be attained to with the people.

He energetically avowed himself to be an advocate of modern progression, of free trade, free communication, railways, &c.

“And freedom of the press?” I inquired.

“To a certain degree,” he replied. “There must be censorship, but this ought to be rational, mild, paternal.”

“And a free constitution?” I asked.

But to this question he either would not listen or not reply, and instead, he returned to his great work and its great new idea, of the moral foundation being the chief means of a nation's temporal well-being.

I know not when I have seen a man so naïvely captivated by himself. But under a form of government so despotic as that of Naples, it is, nevertheless, an excellent thing when a minister writes two such important portfolios, has good desires, and, to a certain degree, liberal tendencies. At the same time, these cannot effect much, under the present king. He alone is the ruling power in a more than common degree, and will continue so; he will not therefore allow his ministers to be called ministers, but simply directors. They have only to obey him, he is the chief director, decides alone on all business which is brought before him, and appears to have a more than usual ability and facility in its dispatch. But these he employs solely to keep things in statu quo, so that nothing can advance; he has merely an object in view, that of preserving his throne and his life. Therefore he shuts his eyes to the most unheard of peculation in the public management, and makes thousands unhappy rather than displace a few by severe justice. What I here relate, I have heard from Neapolitans, from men who are perfectly acquainted with the state of things. Generally speaking, the educated Neapolitans really feel a necessity to give expression to their bitter dissatisfaction with their government; they say that they are surrounded with spies, and yet they speak with astonishing boldness and candor. It is only a few evenings since when I heard a high civil officer express himself thus:—

“Every thing, every thing, in the government is managed by his malversation. The system of government is corrupt, and designed to enslave the people, and the priesthood extend a helping hand to the rulers in this respect. The priests, who in the year 1848, labored to introduce a better state of things, now occupy the prisons on the islands Nisida, Procida, and Ischia, as well as at Salerno. Freedom of the press does not exist in Naples, nor can be permitted in the present state of things; it would bring about immediate revolution. The patriots, who, at the close of the last century, as well as those who in the years 1821 and 1848, risked and lost their lives and property in the attempt to prepare a happier future for their native land, have still descendants, spiritual disciples, ready to follow their example—when the hour arrives. The existing state of affairs is intolerable to every right-minded man. People endeavor to represent things in Naples as better than they are, and to suppress all expression, and all revelations of the truth. While the well-intentioned Minister of Police, dreams about il ben vivere sociale, the Police of Naples are precisely its very worst bandits. “For my part,” so concluded the speaker, “as I cannot say any thing good about the government of my country, neither can do any thing to help its unfortunate condition, I consider it my duty to say as much bad about it as possible! That may possibly lead to good results.”

A great deal is said about the Italian bravado in words, especially the Neapolitans, but it is a fact, that none of the Italian states furnished so many political victims for the common fatherland as the kingdom of Naples. It was in the valleys of Calabria, that the society of the Carbonari, who attempted the revolution of 1821, had its rise. The noblest of the Neapolitan families took part in the struggle of 1848. A great number of nobles, learned men and priests have occupied its prisons ever since. Naples, more than any other Italian state, consists of two classes, an aristocracy which is wealthy, possessed of much culture and patriotism with a strong feeling for liberty, and a people, ignorant, bound to the earth, without any higher interest; but, in a general way, laborious, and, which must not, by any means, be judged of by the popular dregs which are seen in the capital. A middle class cannot, as yet, be said to exist in Naples, though it is beginning to be formed by civil officials, learned men, advocates, and physicians. The immense and rich soil of the Neapolitan provinces, has other treasures than those which are continually anew produced, spite of the earthquakes which overturn their towns and desolate their harvests. Magna Grecia has still sons worthy of the old fatherland, from their love of culture, science, and freedom.

A French Protestant clergyman, Mr. R——, who preaches here, under the protection of the Prussian Eagle, and expresses himself severely enough against the egotism and worldliness of the Neapolitan priesthood, yet speaks of the present archbishop as a most estimable man, in every respect, a genuine Christian, ready to sacrifice his life for the people, as was found during the late terrible visitation of cholera, when, like the former Carlo Borromeo, he visited the most miserable dwellings, and labored day and night to assist and to console those who, both in body and soul, stood in need of consolation. That which he and many other well-meaning persons here, also the friends of reform, do not appear to understand, is what Abbe Lambruschini expresses in these words; “We require a religious reform, great, honest, perfect, such as has not been wished for, or thought of.” And Lambruschini, therefore began, and began well—by educating the children. He desired with the little ones, to give the conscience its right, to raise the sense of duty, and to direct their, love to every thing which is pure and noble.

As regards Bianchini's great works Il Ben Vivere Sociale, I must say that I have read some chapters with the sincerest pleasure, especially that on luxury, a subject which I have nowhere seen better or more perfectly treated. But as to the question of the means by which a fallen people are to be again raised, and luxury again become a source of the people's prosperity instead of its corruption, as to the question of what can produce the “higher tact which assigns the true proportion and the proper guidance in the use of the gifts of life,” Bianchini is, in his book, as little capable of giving any answer, as he was during my conversation with him. He recommends “a good will towards, and a mind awakened to, the best interests of the public, in the ruling powers.” Of the only fully effectual and great means by which a free people can advance, and a fallen people again raise themselves—nobler freedom in every branch of political and civil life—of this, the Neapolitan Minister of the Interior and of Police has not any conception. If he had, he would not, probably, long have remained in his post.

October 1st.—I have been spending some days in seeing that which is best and worst in Naples. I have so often heard spoken of “the frightfully miserable condition of the Neapolitan population,” that I took a little carriage, and expressly commanding the driver to take me to the very worst quarters, both of the city and the suburbs, found, to my surprise, considerably less misery than I expected. I saw, everywhere, the people at work, and in the very poorest dwellings—the doors of which generally stood open—comfortable beds and clean linen; sometimes the families were at their meals, when everything looked nice and orderly. The city overflows with articles of food, especially vegetables and fruit. Immense pumpkins with golden insides, masses of pomi-d'oro, bright figs in ornamental pyramids with yellow and red flowers between the rows, oranges, pears, plums, apples, walnuts, and many more, fill the fruit-stands, tables or benches, or are carried about in large baskets on asses. One sees most people occupied in eating. Of noise and crowding there is always enough, especially in the narrower streets; but quarrels I have neither heard nor seen. The greater number of the more indigent population seem to me well-dressed and industrious. It is true that one now and then sees, even in the Toledo street—the principal trading street in Naples—women and children lying near some house or before some gate, with countenances that indicate wretchedness, and savage eyes. In other places, men or women who exhibit diseased or imperfect limbs and call upon the passers-by—who generally pay no attention at all—and, indeed, it is asserted, that these lying or sitting figures get up at night, and become dangerous to the wealthy foot-passengers,—but, upon the whole, I have not seen in Naples more misery than in London, Paris, or New York. The beggars are more unabashed, that is all; and one sees them most numerously in the great squares and wealthy parts of the city. They are so pertinacious, and they generally look so evil, as to awaken more disgust than compassion. One comes to the conclusion that it is not so much food for the body which is wanted in this population, but rather food for the soul and moral culture. The most dangerous part of the Neapolitan population is its lazaroni, or facchini, men who live by occasional service, particularly in the carrying of travelers' luggage, for which reason they become the travelers' torment.

Amongst the most dangerous population of Naples, I must not, however, forget one portion—I blush to mention it—but without which my description of Naples would not be complete. There is in this city a quarter, consisting of many streets and rows of houses, to which there is merely one single gate, and except through this, neither ingress nor egress. Its fixed inhabitants are only women,—three or four hundred I have been told. These women receive visits, but do not themselves go outside the gate without permission from the police. After a certain hour of the day, none are allowed to go out. In the evening, a double watch is placed at this gate, and within may be heard wild noises and shouts, sometimes also cries and shrieks of “Help!” and “Murder!” Then the guard hasten within.

I visited this quarter one day, accompanied by two officers of police. It was noon; the inhabitants seemed to be only just up; some of them were platting their hair, others sat idly in the streets. The greater number were neither handsome nor yet young. From the open rooms shone out pictures of the Virgin Mary, surrounded with artificial flowers and other finery. Some young men were to be seen, who were treating the women with liquor. As far as cleanliness and the state of the air went, there was nothing to complain of. The police watch over these things.

But the outward order is disorder. Their Madonna-pictures in their homes of vice—I know nothing which seemed to me to exhibit so clearly the depraved state of society—I know very well that a great deal of immorality may exist in those cities which have no public quarter devoted thereto, and that in many great cities, also, they are compelled to publicity, in order, in some measure, to be able to control disorder. Great cities have all, in a certain degree, the same horrible mysteries. The difference between Naples and those I have mentioned above, lies principally in this, that in these last, the church and the better portion of the community do much and still more to overcome the evil by good, but in Naples, what is indeed done to prevent the same from flourishing? They place pictures of the Madonna to conceal the acts of crime. But—they also do something more.

Let me now say a few words about the benevolent institutions in Naples which I visited with a card of introduction from the Minister of the Interior. I will commence with two, the most celebrated, and to which immense funds have been given: Casa Santa dell' Annunziata and Albergo Reali dei Povere.

The first-mentioned institution receives all the young children, which are laid in an ever-accessible “tour,” or kind of turning machine, at the open window of a room in the institution. In this are laid daily from seven to seventeen poor little creatures. These children, called “The children of the Madonna,” or “The children of Annunziata,” are reared in various divisions of the building, until they are old enough to be married or to go into service. From two to three thousand children are thus left annually in the wardship of the Madonna. In the year 1838, two thousand and twenty-two were received into the house, of whom considerably more than half died. I did not greatly wonder at this, when I saw the state of the children in the institution. Most of them appear miserably weak and ill-conditioned. The three little creatures that were laid in the turning machine this morning, seemed to me in a much better state than any of those within the halls of the institution. Many of these looked so emaciated, that we felt ready to weep over them. There are, for three hundred infants, only one hundred nurses. Many were lying crying, and sucking their little hands. Much worse still was the condition in the department where the elder girls were brought up. Cleanliness prevailed in the rooms and the beds appropriated to the infants, but in those of the elder girls, uncleanliness, bad air, and a state of disorder which was astonishing. The girls of various ages, who were employed about the place, looked so self-willed, and so impudent, as to excite disgust and sorrow. The otherwise good and noble countenance of the nun who attended us through the institution, wore an expression of hopelessness and dejection, so that we could very well see that she had undertaken a Sisyphus-labor. Seven nuns had to educate three hundred girls.

Once a year, those who are marriageable, amongst these daughters of the Madonna, are exhibited in a court of the institution, and the men come to select wives from amongst them. Every girl who is married from the institution receives a dowry of twenty-five ducats; and these ducats may lead many men to take the unattractive girl, merely for the money's sake.

Albergo Reale dei Povere, which has a vast, magnificent, and yet insignificant façade, is said to provide food and a dwelling-place for seven hundred old men, as well as education for eleven hundred boys, who are there taught various trades. But where were all these children? Not in the institution. The workshops were empty; the boys were said to be out on Free-Thursday—but we could not in the dormitories discover more than about two hundred beds. The old men again were “in the country or out on visits.” We did not see above half a dozen of them. The institution is said to have an immense income, which is consumed by the directors and servants. Misapplication and embezzlement are never punished.

I saw in the House of Correction about a hundred women, most of whom looked cheerful and careless. They had just partaken of an excellent soup, which the king allows, and all that they can earn during their imprisonment belongs to themselves. One gran alone from every carlin, or ten grans, being deducted for the expenses of their detention. The dormitories and beds were better than in the Albergo dei Povere. People commend the mercy and charity of the king. I could not see any thing commendable in this excessive kindness to the criminal.

The Reformatory for Boys, founded by the Jesuit Father Cutanelli, on the contrary, seemed to me really excellent and every way suitable to its purpose. “Thou shalt eat thy bread in the sweat of thy brow,” is the inscription which he had placed over the gate, and it was a pleasure to see how cleverly and how well the boys worked. Two-thirds of the profits of their labor belongs to them. Music is one of their rewards, and prepares them for still further profits. I heard some pieces of music excellently performed by about fifty boys on wind-instruments. Padre Cutanelli, who is mild, clear, and somewhat humorous-looking, was himself present and seemed to be the soul of the institution. Two handsome and remarkably good-looking boys, about fourteen or fifteen years of age, accompanied him as his adjutants, which was a kind of post of honor.

Another institution, which seems to me to be sustained by the management and care of a distinguished man, is the Ospedale degli Incurabili, founded four hundred years since by Maria Longi, a rich and pious lady. It contains twelve hundred beds, but these are quite insufficient for the number of sick who desire to be received there; and the day when I visited the establishment, a religious ceremony had that morning taken place for the consecration of a number of new beds, the gift of a signora. It was a pleasure to go with the Director through the spacious apartments in which the poor lay, because he was greeted as a friend by many amongst them. He seemed to me an earnest man, full of human kindness, who had the honor and well-being of the establishment at heart; a man gifted with a more than usually open, kind, and winning manner.

The Lunatic Asylum, at an hour's distance from Naples, is celebrated from the great merits of the gentleman who is at its head. In the benevolent institutions of Naples every thing seems to depend upon the fitness or unfitness of him who is at their head. Above him there is merely the king; the king resides at Gaeta and never thinks of any alterations. Well is it for these institutions when no alterations are needed.

But what shall I say of thee, thou “most precious home for”—something, I do not know what to call it, but which is called “the education of noble young ladies;”—but in what? and to what purpose?—I could not properly understand—the beautiful convent, which greatly resembles a palace, where lovely women, in golden yellow vails, enjoy life, somewhat in the manner of the gold-fish, which sun themselves in the marble basin of the court!? The convent stands in the Largo del Mercato, and the good nuns made us more than once observant that from the grated windows and the piazza of the roof, they could see every thing which went forward there. They were highly delighted with and not a little proud of a great number of pictures of Christ and the Virgin, which were worthy the admiration of the gold-fish. In the mean time both old and young, were so friendly, so cheerful in their appearance and manners—gold-colored vails thrown back, produced such a sunny effect—so agreeable in their mode of behavior, that it was impossible not to like them and not to feel one's self happy amongst them.

“I feel as if I had known you a thousand years!” said the handsome abbess to me, as she looked at me with an expression beaming with kindness. Her demeanor was that of a princess, in its dignity and grace. Little Elsa had the greatest inclination to bid farewell to the world and to the Waldensian, and to take up her abode here. But one must have a little of the gold-fish nature to be comfortable for any length of time in this kind of still life. When we left, the nuns assembled in the beautiful court, shaded with its large trees, and at the great arched-gateway to bid us goodby. They kissed their hands to us, nodded and made parting signs and looked so handsome and so happy, standing there in their brilliant head-dresses, that I felt myself, as it were, a little dazzled by it. Nor was it till afterwards that the question suggested itself,—what is the object of these great means? For the convent is immensely rich. It is true that a hospital for sick women, who are to be attended to by the nuns, is connected with this convent. Perhaps I was wrong in supposing, that the good sisters thought far less of this than the Largo del Mercato, the gold-fish and the gilded pictures.^[1]

During these and other rambles in Naples I have become tolerably well-acquainted with the city. It is for the most part a network of streets, narrow lanes and squares, without any beauty. It is most peculiar in those portions of the city where are the shops of the workers in gold and silver and all kinds of trinkets, the delight of the Neapolitan people. There are great numbers of these shops. The only part of the city which is beautiful, is that which lies nearest to the harbor, with the Square of Santa Lucia, Largo del Castello, with its beautiful Fortuna Medina, Largo del Palazzo, and various others, as well as the lovely city quay, and its incomparable pleasure grounds, Villa Reale. Beautiful also are, or rather will be, the promenade over Il Vomero, which is laid out round the city, and from which the most perfect view will be afforded of the city itself, its harbor, the bay, and the whole neighborhood.

People go to the Fortress of St. Elmo, and to the Camalduli Monastery, on the heights above Naples for the enjoyment of the view. Ladies are not, however, allowed to enter the court of the convent. My young friend and I were therefore obliged to remain outside, but with a grand view and lovely enough to console us, whilst the gentlemen were admitted. They returned quite amazed by the splendor which they found in the church—which is said to be inordinately rich—and the elegance which prevailed in the cells of the hermits. For every brother of the order has his own little house, that he may all the more completely devote himself to his pious contemplations. These little dwellings appeared to our friends remarkably comfortable and ornamental, some of them actual boudoirs. We sometimes meet with the good Cenobites, on our rambles in the neighborhood of Naples; their white woolen dresses make them as distinguishable as their good complexions, which are sometimes quite too florid, and make a striking contrast to the sunburnt leanness of the Neapolitan people. Pious Father, pious Camalduli! Do you get such bright complexions from prayers, contemplations, and self-mortification?

Amongst the popular amusements of Naples must be mentioned the theatre, San Carlino, where comic pieces and farces are given, and where an excellent Punchinello represents, in a splendid manner, the Neapolitan popular character in its boldness, cunning, ignorance, shamelessness, frivolity, and good temper, all in one. Men and women act there with so much nature and such a comic abandon, that one is ready to take the whole thing seriously. I have never, since I was young, laughed so heartily at any theatre as at this. Sometimes the piece is improvised for the occasion. The Punchinello of the theatre is a genius in his way.

October 12th. We have also visited the castle, the churches, and the royal parks. I have merely retained in remembrance, from the royal castle, the beautiful portraits of Rembrandt, as well as of other artists of the Netherlands, of which there is here a great number. What mastership is painting, what genius in the conception of human individuality! Never have I comprehended the greatness of Rembrandt, as I have been able to do here. His subjects are seldom beautiful, but what light there is in these eyes, what perfect peculiarity, and what perception of the most delicate shades in these physiognomies. One is not shown a human being in general, but every portrait gives you a distinct human being, a fully stamped, free, thinking, knowing individuality. And the painting! I do not know whether the Italian school has ever produced any thing so delicate, clearly defined, and harmoniously perfected as this.

We had not very much enjoyment of our journey to Caserta. The Castle seemed to us devoid of every thing but gilding, water-works, and many other devices in the stiff old French style, without, however, being comparable to those of Versailles or Cassel. Besides, we were presented with showers of rain. The morning, on the contrary, was glorious, which we spent at Portici in the large, open, beautiful grounds there—a real wood of lovely trees, after which, we went to Herculaneum. The theatre there, still lies quite under ground; we heard the dull thunder of carriages which rolled above our heads. Some private houses and streets have been excavated, and lie open to the day. They are of the same character as those of Pompeii, and appeared to me like miniature palaces and miniature dwellings. There was in one of them, a little room where stood a little altar on which was offered sacrifices of doves, or fieldfares, so small was it. In one deep prison for slaves, skeletons have been found secured with iron.

I pass over other excursions, in order to say still a few words about Villa Reale, where I usually begin and end my day; for there it is unspeakably beautiful in the early morning, whilst the dew still shines on the grass, and the little white clover-flowers with which it is gemmed, and the shadows lie dark and sharp at the feet of the white marble statues; and, on the velvet-smooth turf under the large trees. All is then tranquil and silent, with no sound but the playful splash of the fountains over their basins, in which the gold-fish swim about, whilst the sun sends down his beams amongst the leafy groves, the white marble temples and beautiful statues, and seems to shine into actual paradise.

In the evening, I again go there in company with the betrothed, who there seem happier than usual. It is then delicious to inhale the cool evening air; to listen to the dash of the waves against the shore, and to see their phosphoric light, whilst further out, on the Bay of Naples, red fires shine from the fishing boats, which, by that means attract their prey. Thus we wander, whilst the shadows thicken around us, and the starry heavens brighten above, and we see the beautiful comet, with its brilliant tail, like a bird of paradise, career through space. We generally conclude the evening there, with a mezza granita, a kind of lemonade ice, at a little confectioners in the walks. Sometimes, also, we take a boat, and are rowed out to the shore of Pozzuoli, past the ruins of the palace of Queen Johanna, enjoy the beauty of the sea and the sight of the blue phosphoric fire, which here and there shines as the little boat furrows the water; sometimes again, I return home alone, whilst the lovers go to see the splendid fireworks, which are being continually exhibited, just lately, two evenings in succession, in honor of Saint Brigitta. In this way we have promenaded and enjoyed ourselves, until the last three days, when we have been kept prisoners with bad weather and rain. I have availed myself of this time in writing letters which have long been weighing on my conscience with a sense of unfulfilled duty. The weather, generally clears for an hour in the afternoon, and immediately is the broad Chiaja crowded by a number of equipages of all kinds, amongst which the great equipages of the populace, the coricolo, loaded with from twenty to thirty people, men, women, and children, sitting, hanging on, and hanging to, one does not rightly see how, drawn by one horse, which gallops at full speed, always astonishes and amuses me. I have, however, already mentioned it. But amongst the great occupiers of the promenades, I have omitted to speak of those most constant, ever since the times of Virgil, namely, the goats, which during the whole afternoon come up in little flocks, with their herds from the side of Pozzuoli, where they have been grazing, to the city, to be milked, and spend the night. As soon as it is four o'clock in the afternoon, I hear their little bells ringing along the Chiaja, where, undisturbed by the driving and noisy great world, they move past the grave of the poet who has so sung of them in his pastorals.

Whilst I write, and watch animals and men, my summer-daughter is generally singing. Elsa is just now in a sort of musical intoxication. We live in the same good boarding-house as at my first arrival at Naples. I have again my old room, looking on the Chiaja, and my summer-daughter has one towards the garden with oleanders peeping in at the window. There was not room for Waldo in the house, which was annoying. Of the former guests, I find here merely the diplomat. He is one of those Catholics whose faith in the infallibility and honesty of the Catholic church has been entirely shaken by the unexpected dogma of L'Immaculata, and he now knows not what to believe. He has become a skeptic. Amongst the new guests here, are the aunt of my summer-daughter, an Austrian Baroness, ———, with her husband and daughter, with whom she, little Elsa, is to spend the winter in Florence. They do not appear greatly pleased by her engagement to a Protestant, and had other plans for her. This, and their music, for the whole family is musical, have attracted little Elsa somewhat away from me, and even from the good Waldo, who, when he comes, longing for a few moments peace with the beloved of his soul, finds her surrounded by strangers, meets with a half-intelligible glance, and is received with a Princess-Elsa-demeanor; for her mind is now occupied by very different thoughts, and is engrossed by Shubert, or Chopin, and I know not by what other composers, and compositions of genius, which she plays, or sings with her musical relations. He waits in silence for awhile, but when the music continues too long, he goes away with an expression, which it grieves me to see. The following evening, however, she will be amiable, and perfectly her own sweet self again; and he, happy and delighted, wishes to introduce the subject of rings, and the time for their marriage, and so on; but she then becomes silent, grave, and—will not answer. I begin again to be uneasy, and to ask silently, “What will be the end of it?”

October 18th.—For some days, things have gone on very painfully. I do not know what ill wind has brought hither the Prince of Villa Ambrosa, the elegant Prince, who was Elsa's first fancy, her Carnival flame, who wrote to her those beautiful verses, gave those delicious bouquets, and swore to love her eternally. He is a handsome young man, agreeable and musical, a great dancing-master, I believe, but a vast favorite of the Baroness ———, who became acquainted with him last winter in Rome. He now comes here almost every evening, and, though I do not believe in any earnest liking for him in little Elsa's heart, yet she is evidently carried away by the enjoyment of playing her splendid pieces of music, and talking with him. In this state of affairs, the Waldensian grows more and more serious and silent; and when the elegant and lovely girl, after having bestowed upon him, from the piano, a kind, little glance, seems to think no more about his presence, but to go on with her music, he very soon disappears without saying a word. Yesterday he came early. She and I were alone in the drawing-room. She had been suffering from headache, and was playing on a guitar belonging to the Prince, to amuse herself, singing the while a plaintive little canzone. She was going to a party that evening with her aunt, and was already dressed in white muslin, with a spray of light-blue flowers arranged amongst the brown plaits of hair, and falling carelessly on the neck and the shoulders, and with pearl bracelets on her delicate wrists—she looked most charming! He entered, bent down to her and would have kissed her, but she hastily drew herself aside, with an air that seemed to say, “Do not disturb me!”

He turned pale and seated himself at some distance opposite to her, looking at her with a grave and inquiring expression. When she had finished her canzonetta, she raised her eyes and looking directly at the grave countenance of her lover, exclaimed playfully,

“Look at that great Hercules! How he has fixed his eyes on me! I believe he wants to frighten me! How droll he is!”

She rested her sweet face on her hands and looked at him with an expression of comic defiance. He rose and approached her. How was it that the Baroness ——— entered just at that moment with her daughter, and desired that they should once more sing over together the piece with which they were to produce a brilliant effect that evening?

The Princess Elsa was again devoted to the music, and Hercules again went his way.

To-day he came in the forenoon and wished to see Elsa, but she had a severe headache and could not receive his visit. Neither could I see him alone, having some foreign visitors with me, and since then he has not returned. It is now evening and late. All is silent in Elsa's chamber; she is asleep, and in her sleep looks like a good and innocent child; and so she is, only too much carried away by the impulse of the moment. I long to talk with her unreservedly, and to warn her seriously not to risk the peace of her own life and that of another, by continuing her present mode of conduct, yet still at the same time I am a little shy of this conversation. Have I not already busied myself too much with the fate of this child? Have I any right to guide it into the course in which I believe that her happiness lies? Am I clairvoyant with regard to the inner relationship of these two? One thing however I am certain of, and that is, that this state of unclearness and indecision must come to an end, that she must be candid with herself and with him, and this I ought to, and will, tell her when she is better. I know how well she receives every word of affectionate admonition.

October 21st.—Little Elsa still continued unwell on the morning after the day on which I wrote last. The Baroness ——— established herself in her room, with L'Histoire de ma Vie, by George Sand, and I, in order to dissipate my anxiety and impatience as regarded the position of affairs, took the train to Pompeii. I wished once more in perfect quietness to visit this grand memento mori, and to converse there with the dead and with my own thoughts. In an hour's time I was there.

I engaged at the entrance a cicerone, who seemed to me a rational, good sort of person, telling him that I wished to walk about the city according to my own fancy and required him therefore only to attend me at a distance. The day was glorious, and I was the sole visitor to Pompeii, and I went freely whithersoever I chose in the desolated city. Excited as my feelings were by the present disquiet of the actual life, my rambles through the ancient dwellings of the dead became doubly significant. I saw again the decorative private habitations, with those small rooms, those beautiful fresco paintings, often representing scenes of sensual pleasure, the flower-court with its empuvium, or reservoir in the centre, its inclosure of ornamental columns, those small, shell-decorated fountains and figures of the gods, all that little world inclosed within the gate of the home. Yes, she might be happy there, the wife, the mother, who possessed the object of her love, who loved and was beloved; and even the young girl, who beheld in flowers of the rose-court, and in the pictures within her own room, half-clear prophecies of a future life of love and life-enjoyment. But a daughter or sister who is not loved? A deserted wife? Or a woman for whom, the life of the sitting-room was too narrow, but who would not purchase her freedom by becoming a Lais or an Aspasia? Oh, if women would but rightly reflect for how much they have to thank Christianity! The time of silent sighs has ceased, and the forum of humanity is accessible to every feeling, thinking soul. A spirit of justice, of reason, of brotherhood, breathes over the fields and dwellings of the earth. Homes are no longer locked up like prisons, free paths for labor, for talent, and human love are everywhere connected with them. Life has become freer, nobler, happier to the greater mass, and it becomes more and more so every day; thanks be to Him who proclaimed, and perfected by his life, God's law of love.

I again walked through the street of tombs, the Via Appia of Pompeii, and rested for awhile on the large, semi-circular marble seat, on the back of which stands inscribed in large letters Mamia sacirdotessa. Behind this bench, in a hollow valley, stands her beautiful and still well-preserved monument. At that time some few women were honored, who were elevated by beauty or the virtues of civil life. This was a great thought, and its inheritance has, perhaps, not been sufficiently attended to by the people of the present time.

I looked over the whole city from a portion of the walls, which are still in good preservation. Tranquil as a dead body on a flower-covered bier, it lay on the Campagna Felice, at the outlet of the Sarno to the sea, surrounded by the fertile and vine-covered hills of Torre del Greco, at the foot of Vesuvius. The summit of the mountain still smoked, and in the brightness of the mid-day sun it seemed as if enveloped in a variegated velvet cloak. The hardened lava streams shone out upon it like glowing embroidery. The volcano stood there like a pitiless despot, calmly smoking his noon-day pipe in luxurious far niente, whilst his victim lay at his feet, without a complaint and without a mourner, silent forever.

Yet not silent: still indeed speak those glances from the walls, those wonderful glances full of soul and intelligence. I saw, as I was leaving Pompeii, a pair of eyes which I shall never forget. It was near the street of tombs, on a gray wall, a female head, with an ornament of snakes in her hair. The snakes had become dimmed to insignificance, but the young, beautiful countenance stood forth distinctly, with eyes full of tears, full of a silent despair, directed towards heaven. That seeking glance, with its speechless, suffering, questioning from the unhappy, from the sinful soul, still lives in that gay Pompeii, in the midst of those beautiful dwellings, those life-rejoicing frescos! What a long, consuming agony must have been endured before it received an answer from the then unknown divinity?———

I felt, when in the evening I returned to Naples, as if I had been in a bath of earnest, purifying thought. Life had assumed an aspect of light which gave me the sense of being able to talk with my summer-daughter in such a manner as would make all right again. In what way I did not exactly know; but clear and straightforward things must be, and whether her engagement was by that means brought to a close or still more firmly bound, the relationship must still remain pure and good. Ah! I have often felt and believed so, and I have acted accordingly, but——

Elsa had left her bed. She was sitting at the piano and playing a fantasia to herself, apparently oblivious of any other person being near her. I went out upon the balcony from the drawing room, and felt a peculiar pleasure in listening to her variations on a few notes, the fervor and sweetness of which went to my heart, and which were ever repeated, always with a new expression. I felt that they proceeded from her own heart, and I anticipated every thing that was good from them. The dusk of evening increased, the lamps were lighted on Villa Reale, the fire-streams of Vesuvius gleamed still red, though almost immovable, through the increasing darkness. Still she continued playing on, modulating the same sweet, heartfelt, melancholy notes.

“When she has finished,” I said to myself, “I will call her here and we will have some talk!”

I was then surprised by the sound of hasty steps, and a tall figure stood beside me.

“Waldo!” I exclaimed, glad to see him, and extended to him my hand. He pressed it, and I felt that his was burning as with fever.

“I have been looking for you,” he said softly—“I wished to bid you—farewell!”

“Farewell? How? Why?”

“I am leaving this very night,” he resumed, speaking low and hastily, as if with suppressed emotion—“leaving for Sicily, and thence to Greece or Alexandria—I do not know which—with the first vessel! I cannot, I ought not to remain longer, either for her sake or for my own. I now know it, I have seen it, I understand it;—she does not love me; she cannot love me; she has wished, she has endeavored to do so, but she cannot; and I neither will nor can compel her to become my wife without love. No, I will not force this child to love me; I will not abuse either the goodness or the weakness of her heart. My love for her and my own self-respect forbid me to do so. I should despise myself, if—— Tell her that I shall always love her, but that she is free. But do not tell her so till I am gone, till there is no longer the fear of her own heart's tenderness deceiving herself and—me, and inducing her again to promise what she cannot perform. But you, her motherly friend, do you watch over her, prevent her from being deceived by that selfish woman, her aunt, or by that butterfly-prince who flutters from flower to flower! May she live for her innocent fancies, for her Kindergartens, and her twelve female friends, if she do not meet with a husband who will make her as happy—as I would have done. But she must, for this reason, be left to her own independent action. I have now become acquainted with her circumstances, and she herself has sufficient knowledge of business to know that her small paternal inheritance is insufficient for her wants. She must experience want and necessity, if she be not able to earn money by giving instruction in music, which, with her peculiar disposition and delicate health, must be another species of suffering. This thought is insupportable to me. When I leave her, I must know that she is safe from this bitter experience of life. I have myself obligations to fulfill, and have not, as yet, sufficient opulence to do all for her that I could have wished; but I have opened for her an account in the Bank of Genoa, and placed deposits in the funds at Marseilles, which, added to her own little property, will insure her a life free from anxiety. And this brings me to my request to you. She must never know that this provision has come from me. Her pride and her sense of honor would lead her to hesitate in accepting of it. Tell her, I beseech of you, that it is according to the will of a distant relative, or a deceased friend of her father. She is childish and careless enough in such matters to believe it without asking further questions. Promise me so to manage as that she shall believe this; and here are the necessary papers, which you must place in the hands of her uncle; he is a good man, and the knowledge of the whole business must go to her through him. I had intended these documents to have been a marriage-present for my wife. I had a pleasure in the thought of making her, in this way, independent of me, even as my wife; they shall now secure her independence in another way. It will be a comfort to me to think of this, when I can no longer see, no longer hear her,—when I am far away! Oh, that child! that child!”

He covered his face with his hands, and I perceived that he wept.

“Waldo!” I said, deeply affected, “you are magnanimous. And yourself?—”

“I—I shall die unmarried. I am accustomed to solitude—to the solitude of the heart! In my childhood I was lonely, and felt it bitterly. Then came the business and interests of active life, and engaged my attention, so that I forgot the emptiness in my heart and home. I once believed that I loved, and that I was loved in return; but I found myself deceived, and resolved never more to seek for happiness in a woman's love. I then met with this child, and, for the first time, I have loved with my whole soul, with my whole heart. Yes, I have worshiped her, that young woman, that wonderful child. I fancied myself quite certain of making her happy. I fancied that we were suited to each other; and this love, and this desire to live for her, made me young again. Perhaps it was a self-deception; perhaps I am too old for her! She is so young, so much a child still. How, indeed, can Autumn be united to Spring?—Well, well; this folly, this dream is over. The evening of my life will not be gay; but neither will it be gloomy. I can work,——But I must make an end. It is now late. Tell her that I love her, that I always shall love her, and that she will see me again as an old man, when she is a blooming, happy wife and mother;—because then, then I will come to see her yet once more.——And now, my thanks and my blessings for your friendship! Keep in remembrance what you have promised me, and—farewell!”

He embraced and kissed me, and I felt his tears upon my face. I too wept like a child, and could Scarcely speak. I still detained him, and said in my emotion, “Promise me, not to leave Sicily till you have had one letter from me!”

But he made no reply, hastily pressed my hand, and hurried away.

They had lighted the gas-lamps in the music salle, and I saw the Princess Elsa standing there, surrounded by a little group of courtiers, with whom she was gayly talking, with beaming glances. Amongst these was the Prince of Villa Ambrosa. It cut me to the heart. I felt excited against her, and, without speaking a word to her, I went into my own room; pretending to be asleep when, later in the evening, she came to bid me good-night, and had myself a sleepless night.

The next morning she met me with uneasy, questioning glances. I asked her to come to my room, and there I told her that Waldo was gone, and that she was free! She turned pale, trembled, seated herself, and grew ever paler and paler.

“Are you not glad,” I asked, “to be liberated from an engagement which seemed to have become irksome to you?”

“I had no idea of breaking it,” she returned, “I have merely been a little out of sorts, these few days—I have been in a strange state of mind—very disagreeable, but why has he not had a little patience, a little confidence in me? If he be unhappy, I can never, never, be happy!”——

“But the Prince of Villa Ambrosa?”

“I like to talk with him, and to dance with him; but I have no further regard for him;—he can never be to me what Waldo is!——Was he very angry with me? Is it possible that he would so far misunderstand me?” And tears trickled from under the long eye-lashes, down the pale cheeks, and she continued to tremble.

I now told her all that had occurred between Waldo and me, because I had not promised to be silent. When I had ended, and showed her the papers he had placed in my hands, and which secured to her an independent life, her tears ceased to flow, she rose up, pale but resolute, with eyes that beamed through tears.

“Cannot we reach him? Cannot we still see him?” she asked.

“I besought him not to leave Sicily before he had heard from me; but as he made me no answer, I cannot be sure,” I replied.

“Let us go, Frederica, this very day, if it be possible! You will, in any case, very shortly be going to Sicily. Go now, and let me accompany you! Oh, I feel as if my heart must break; that my life is for ever darkened if I cannot regain him, if I cannot devote my whole life to him!”

She stood with clasped hands; her whole soul lay upon her lips.

“Well, well, my child,” said I, “we will go by the first vessel which, leaves for Sicily; but I am afraid that we must wait a few days. In the mean time let us prepare every thing. But what will your aunt say?”

“Just what she likes. Waldo is my betrothed husband; the friend of my soul, of my heart! Without him I cannot be happy. Oh, how he loves! And how contemptible I should be, if, after this, I should think of my own happiness apart from his!”

Her mind had all at once become firm and clear, and it seemed to become still more and more so every hour during the three days which it was necessary for us to wait before another steamer left for Palermo. How she was sustained during these three days, I know not, for she neither ate, drank, nor slept. She also spoke very little; her life seemed to be consecrated in the innermost of the heart. We were to set off in the evening, and in sixteen hours we should be in Palermo. Every thing was now ready. Elsa lay on her bed sleepless—and I wrote, to dissipate my own uneasiness and anxiety.

“Perhaps I needed this trial,” she said just now, “in order to prove to me how much I was attached to him!”

If he could but see her as I now see her! Shall I ever again hear her singing gayly as in former days, O! dolche Napoli, O! mol beato? Amidst autumnal storm I now leave thy soil, rich beyond all others in the grand works of art and nature, in great memories, and pleasant, quiet life in their shade! I have seen beauty and love here as never before any where on earth, but at this moment all is covered with the vail of sorrow, even the usually bright heavens. May good angels protect our voyage, and a love which proceeds from the Author of all love!

Palermo, (Sicily,) October 25th.—I take gold-tinted paper on which to write the name Palermo, on which to write about Palermo and all the sunny joy which shone and shines upon us here! In the first place, however, I will speak of our love-story.

The night-passage was stormy; but one of the good Sardinian vessels which cross these waters conveyed us safely through the foaming waves in sixteen hours into the Bay of Palermo. Little Elsa, who during the whole night had lain with closed eyes, silent, and more like one dying than living, rose and gazed with anxious eyes towards the shore, as if seeking for something there. Every object shone in a golden sunlight, the hill of Santa Rosalia to the right as if it had been of gold, the magnificent Marina and the handsome houses on the terraces which extend its whole length. One of these is taller than all the rest; it is the Hotel Trinacria, the principal hotel of Palermo. We inquired there after the friend for whom we were seeking.

“A gentleman of that name,” replied the host, “came here with the last steamer but he is extremely ill, has been bled many times, and———”

The host here checked himself hastily, for he saw my poor young friend stagger and fall, at least she would have fallen, if we had not caught her and conducted her to a seat.

He then hastened to add to his information, “but he is much better—and no doubt will soon be quite restored and—but will you not, ladies, come in and see your rooms?”

“Give us good rooms and send up coffee! But in the first place let us have a glass of water!”

“He is really here, he is better; you shall see him, shall be his nurse; every thing will become right!” I repeated over and over to my poor Elsa, who was pale, rigid, and almost lifeless.

She merely replied, “I could not survive if he died!”

“But he is not going to die; he will live,” I said assuredly, “only do you so contrive as not to die of starvation and anxiety, because then I promise nothing, and I will not have the trouble of burying you both!”

She could not help smiling, and I induced her to swallow a few drops of coffee “for his sake.”

I then went to his door; she accompanied me, trembling but resolute.

“He is asleep,” said his servant to me, in an under voice, “he is better, thank God!” The good fellow had tears in his eyes which beamed with joy.

We entered. Waldo was sleeping calmly, but was very pale and much changed. “A severe attack of inflammation of the liver, the doctor says,” whispered Rafael, “but all danger is now over; he has been bled seven times!”

Little Elsa had sunk on her knees by his pillow, and tears silently flowed down the pale cheeks as she bent over him. He woke and saw her. Had he been dreaming about her and believed this to be the continuation of his dream? Certain, however, it is that he did not look astonished. He gazed long and deeply at her as if he would convince himself that it was really herself, after which he stretched out his arms, laid them round her as he said, “If it be a dream, then let me never wake again!”

I made a sign to Rafael and we two went into the ante room, leaving the door of the sick chamber open. All was silent within, silent as when united souls after long separation meet again, never to be parted more. There is then no need of words; words are almost disturbing, the language of the eye is sufficient.

When, after ten minutes, I re-entered the room, the two lay just as before, she upon her knees with her arms around his neck, he gazing blissfully at her and with his fingers lightly stroking away the tears, which again and again swelled from the fountains of the eyes. In the mean time they softly mentioned each other's name,—it was music! I bent softly over them and said:

“Enough now for the moment. You both require rest. The physician has, as I hear, ordered for Waldo a cup of weak bouillon at twelve o'clock in the day. Your little sweetheart shall herself bring it to you; but till that time she must come with me!”

But neither of them moved; it was as though they would not or could not understand me. Waldo alone said softly, “Part? part again?” and he clasped her still more fervently in his arms and drew her head to his breast.

“Waldo,” I said to him calmly, “spare her. She requires, perhaps, at this moment more care than you do. Since the day you left she has neither eaten anything nor slept.”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed he, at once coming to full consciousness, “I will no longer detain her, take care of her until I myself—which will be soon—can watch over her! Rise, my beloved! Go and rest, so that I may soon, very soon, see you again, my child, my soul's peace and health!” and he stroked her head caressingly; but it did not move; it lay heavily on the white coverlet:—little Elsa slept. It was now three days and nights since she had taken rest.

He gently raised her head; kissed her forehead, her eyes and her lips; she looked at him as in a magnetic sleep, smiled and, half unconscious, allowed me to lead her away. She now slept for four hours. Just at twelve o'clock she started up, still half asleep, and said “Bouillon!”

“Very good, my child!” I replied, “you shall have it to take it into him, but now sit down and collect yourself, whilst I ring and have it brought hither!”

October, 27th.—I was interrupted in my narrative. But all has gone on well, in the mean time, excellently. Waldo now sits up in his easy-chair and might—I fancy—walk about and be as formerly, if it were not very amusing to him to act the convalescent, in order to see little Elsa busied about him.

“He will have some trouble with me,” she said one day at Sorrento—during the time of uncertainty—“so long as there is any possibility for me to make my escape, but as his wife I should be tolerably good. I should not make him unhappy.”

She seemed now to have accepted her part, and to consider herself as his wife; for the capricious Princess Elsa has all at once become transformed into the good, affectionate, ministering little wife. It is very pretty and touching to see her in this new character, and I believe it to be the pleasure of this which keeps him in his easy-chair and dressing-coat a little longer than there is any absolute necessity.

“For you must not suppose that I am always going to be so very pious and good,” she ventured to say this very day, “it will only last whilst you are ill.”

“It is a very good thing to know that!” he said.

"In the mean time a drive has been ordered for him to-day, and we are all three going out in a carriage in the afternoon to take the air on the beautiful Marina of Palermo.

Whilst the lovers play at husband and wife, come to a thorough understanding of the past, and between sport and earnest, lay plans for the future—little Ella has just now formed one in case Napoleon III. conquer Piedmont and they should become poor, which is to set up a little shop and to sell, I know not what wonderful little packets—a scheme which makes him laugh immoderately. Whilst, therefore, they talk and laugh, I will relate to you, my R——, the various particulars that I have heard about this wonderful island, the gem of the Mediterranean, with Etna as its centre, the blue waves as its setting; with the legends of the giants, and those pleasant pastorals, with Hercules and Ceres as divinities; Dion, Timoleon, and Archimedes, as heroes, and Theocritus as poet; the island with the grand antiquity, and then the long middle ages, when she, like the whole of Italy, became they prey of the strong, who rent asunder the fallen lion, which anciently ruled over nations. But, as regards the ancient times, you already know all abonut them, or may do so, from the first Guide Book you meet with. I will therefore only relate to you that which I learned of the present state of Sicily. It resembles a pause between two volcanic eruptions, that which broke out in the year 1848, and that which it is feared, or hoped, may break, out shortly. In the former revolution, a great number of the highest nobility of Sicily took part; a great many of its priests, and the whole of its middle class. That which they wanted for Sicily, was the same which all the states of Italy desire; free constitutions; a new, better, nobler life; a better state of things in every respect.”

Torrents of blood flowed therefore, especially in Messina, where the combat was most earnest and most obstinate. But—the time, the people were not ready; the foreign friends not faithful; the patriots were obliged to fly, or to give themselves up as prisoners; the old state of things returned; a state of things more in accordance with the circumstances of the middle ages than with the character of the age which is now dawning upon the world. The overthrown statue of the King of Naples, was re-erected in Palermo and there it still stands, with a paternally protecting, threatening expression. The best and most earnest citizens of Sicily were compelled to leave their beloved island; the others, the frivolous, the selfish, still remained, and continue to look after their pleasures, their gambling, and their love intrigues.

Sicily had a good governor, by name, Filangieri. He began to build bridges, to improve the roads, to establish good means of communication, and to commence various useful reforms. He was soon suspected by the King of Naples to be too much of a Sicilian, and—was removed. Another governor was appointed who allowed the rivers to overflow the roads; the roads to become impassable, and who is an enemy to all reform. He is still there, and the Sicilians silently sigh over their inability against the superior force of Naples. The people are of a nobler type than the Neapolitans and regard themselves as of a nobler race, they are also more industrious and earnest, and still greater lovers of freedom. But the want of independence breeds in the cities frivolity and immorality, especially in Palermo, and that amongst all classes. Sicily is still rich and beautiful, as in ancient times, and is still worthy to be called the gem of the Mediterranean. In better, purer hands, it might perhaps deserve to be called the joy of humanity. Where is the spot of earth in which the grand and the pleasing are so united? At the feet of Etna, are the river Cyane, the fountain of Anapos, and the enchanting fields, where, according to the legend, Proserpine danced with her companions; and upon this soil, where the Titans strove to conquer Olympus, exist to this day, the legends and songs of the Idyls in primeval purity and innocence. Formerly it was Theocritus; in our days, it is the Sicilian poet Giovanni Melli, who sings the life of nature and man in their simplest, most inner relationship, with an inspiration as from the original source, and in language which is perfect music.

And what shall I say about Palermo, the city of Santa Rosalia, in its conco d'oro, or golden shell, as the fertile valley is called in which it stands, like an oriental princess, dazzling and wonderful? It is said that she is a great sinner; that there are few cities in which so many murders annually occur, and no city has a higher social life, or more agreeable, but at the same time frivolous, gossiping, censorious, addicted to gambling and all kinds of selfish enjoyment. That which I know is, that she is unusual and beautiful, that her palaces and churches, with their oriental, Saracenic, Normanic character and ornaments, captivate and delight my eyes, as they rise encircled by the deep-blue sea and by the dark-green woods with their golden fruit; and, that all this shines through the day in the splendor of the sun, and in the evenings in the light of the moon, with a dazzling, enchanting splendor; and, that the air on its shores is so pure, so delicious, that the air of Naples seems, by comparison, to be that of a sewer.

It was in Palermo that the poetical art of Italy first found expression and beautiful form through the earliest poetess of Italy, La Nina Siciliana, who, at the court of Frederic Barbarossa, sung of pure and noble love in the most graceful sonnets, and obtained thereby a love which made her life happy. The celebrated songstress of Sicily was after this known only as La Nina di Dante.^[2] It was in Palermo, that Rosalia, the young daughter of William the Good, abandoned, in the flower of her youth and beauty, a court full of delights, to live in a desolate cave, solely for prayer and intercourse with heaven, and there was lost to human sight and knowledge, until, after many hundred years, a vision of some shepherds led to the discovery of her bones, which,—so says tradition,—carried in procession through Palermo, saved the city from a desolating pestilence.

It was in rain and mist that we ascended to Monte Pellegrino, and the cave of Santa Rosalia. This therefore might perhaps be the cause that her recumbent figure, in that singularly formed grotto, the peculiar light there, and the tranquillity, whilst the rain was pouring without, produced upon us such an agreeable impression. The young girl is represented in the position in which, according to tradition, her body was found lying on the altar of the grotto. The clothing is of massive gold, and the countenance, of white marble, has an indescribable expression of innocence, goodness, and ecstatic joy, whilst she seems to be listening to heavenly music, audible alone to herself. She holds her hand behind her ear, listening, and her rich hair falls upon her arm. Lamps are kept burning around the lovely figure, and cast upon it a soft radiance, lighting up the lofty arch of the grotto and its wonderful forms. Some hunters and shepherds—wild figures—came into the grotto when we were there, and reverently knelt beside the image of Santa Rosalia. I am glad that I have seen it. A life of prayer without work, is no longer, and ought not to be, the ideal of a life of piety; but the image of Santa Rosalia breathes forth a peace and a joy, which, once seen or felt, leave behind a light in the soul, like the assurance of an inner life, an inner joy, which the storms and mists of life cannot reach. An abundant spring of the freshest water bubbles up in the grotto of Santa Rosalia, has there its spring, and supplies the people throughout the whole neighborhood with an invaluable refreshment. Peace be with thee, beautiful Rosalia! May thy innocent renown long diffuse a glory over thy native city, and thy beautiful image, thy heavenly expression, attract some of thy sisters to a bent of mind like thine own!

November 2d.—I take gray paper to-day, on which to write of rain and chilliness, and—for now five days, Palermo has drawn around itself a rainy and misty mantle, which makes her golden shell resemble rather a conco d'acqua than a conco d'oro, and gloomy countenances show themselves, even before the peace and joy of a certain marriage. Judge of this for yourself, my R——.

I went into the room where the lovers were sitting, in order to impart to them a little of my wisdom of life, and to derive from them a little inner sunshine—for Hercules is now once more Hercules—when I happened to hear the following conversation:

He. But I tell you what; if you persist in making my day gloomy with your black imps, I shall take my hat and make my departure.

She. Very good! And whilst you are gone, I shall pack up all my clothes, and such of your books as most take my fancy, and that little Cupid of Sevres-china,—pack them all up together and set off with them by railway.

He. You are in a state to do that. You deserve indeed that I should lock you up in a hunger tower till you become tolerable.

She. Try to do so!

He. Try to do so? Do you defy me?

She. Yes.

He. You look like it. You think perhaps that your friends, the witches of the Blocksberg, would come and help you. Or perhaps you are enough of a little witch yourself to escape by the chimney? Eh?

She. That may be, if you are my jailor. No, that would not do, I can tell you! If I turn very bad, you can get into a rage,—a downright rage,—just once or twice, in a year, but at the same time, and between whiles, you must be very good, very amiable. I must educate you, you see, poor Hercules!

He. Educate me? Ha! ha! ha! Upon my honor! I thought it was I who was to educate you, and that—

She. That is a great mistake. You are not so good as you fancy. You are a tyrant, and only desire to rule yourself, and that I must break you of.

He. Very pretty! But now if your scheme should succeed, and I should become as good, and as amiable as you wish, how will you be? When I am an old man and you are still a young woman, and I wish to sit quietly at home in an evening, then what will my little wife do with herself?

She. I? I shall draw your chair a little nearer to the fire, and then I shall order a little nice soup to be made for you, and then put on you your night-cap, and then—I shall drive to the theatre!

He. Nay, only hear the little monster! You are really too bad to escape without punishment, and as the first degree of penance you shall have—

I entered just in time to interrupt the awarded penance and to hear the complaints of both sides. I said that they were both in fault and both deserved to do penance. Therefore I now sentenced them both to hear some passages from Xenophon's Ekonomia, that they might reflect upon the ideal of a happy marriage according to the views of classical antiquity.

The conversation between the husband and wife in the dialogue of the learned Greek, begins with the charming inquiry, “My wife, do you know why I married you?” and ends with this ideal of wedded life: “That you might attend to my house and look after my servants, so that I may be able, quite free from anxiety, to spend the day at the Forum; if you endeavor in every thing to please me and make me comfortable in my home, then I shall be there your most obedient slave!”

All this was very amusing and edifying to the lovers. The Waldensian had, it is true, quite another ideal of wedded life, one, in which two souls unite themselves to strengthen and gladden each other, during a common labor to carry out the loving plan of a common Father; and of this he spoke later on in the day, whilst little Elsa's head rested on his shoulder and her eyes beamed a joyful Amen to the picture of the future which he sketched out for their life.

I have a great deal to thank Italy for; its heaven has given me much, but nothing more beautiful, more precious and dear to me than the sight of an affection without selfishness, the drama of two richly-gifted souls, in which I have taken and still take part, as a mother and a friend. This drama will soon commence a new act, and then I shall be no longer with them. In the mean time the lovers will accompany me to Catania and Etna. I long to become acquainted with Etna, as one longs to make the acquaintance of a great character. We intended to have driven thither from Girgenti, but we were not able to reach that place on account of the swollen state of the rivers, which had overflowed the roads so as to render them dangerous in many places.

We go therefore by way of Messina, and shall afterwards return thither, where we separate. They to proceed northward, and I to the south.

November 9th.—The sun shines again, after many days' rain, and Palermo beams forth again by its blue sea and its fertile valley olive, lemon, and orange groves, making an atmosphere fragrant which it is life and health to inhale. We have visited Montreal, a glorious morning drive, with such views from the resting places and the marble fountains, and such perfume from the blossoming groves! The church and convent of Montreal are noble monuments of the age when the new life gave inspiration to architecture, which devoted its best powers to the service of the church, that by symbolic imagery it might express and perpetuate for thousands of generations the thoughts of eternal life. It erected here grand, airy arches for the emancipated spirit, and it has ornamented every portion of the building with the loveliest symbols of life. Every pillar possesses individuality, every ornament significance and language. The whole history of creation is exhibited in pictures on a gold ground—childish in conception, laughable in execution, but in which the eyes, the glances, often beam with wonderful power. So in particular in the head of Christ in the great fresco painting on the roof of the choir. And this glance, this expression of the spirit, I have often observed in many paintings here. It occurs to me that it lies latent in the people, whose expression of earnestness and mildness strikes one very agreeably after the street population of Naples. At Palermo one sees the churches full of devout people, though the devotion may be somewhat sleepy—but can it be otherwise, during a spiritless form of worship.

The male population—almost the only one you see in the streets—appears, for the rest, to have a particular enjoyment in doing nothing. You see them sitting in long rows, or hanging to the stone-benches, of which there are so many, in the squares and along the Marina, talking leisurely or saying nothing. You often see on the Marina a crowd of two or three hundred sitting, as in a little theatre, round an improvisatore or story-teller, who relates, with animated gestures, some legend or historical romance, to which they listen attentively and silently. Guitar players or shepherds with the zampogna—the bag-pipe which is now heard every day in Palermo, as at this time in Rome, are always sure of collecting a little audience around them; but whether from mere inoccupation or from their love of music, I know not. Frequently also you see a throng gathered round a man with the timbola, or some other game of chance, for play is a chief enjoyment of both great and small in Palermo.

We have visited many private palaces in Palermo, as well as the celebrated pleasure castles and villas, La Favorita, La Grazia, La Bagaria and many others. There are no works of art of a high character there, but great splendor in mosaics and other ornaments, also a good deal that is very peculiar and curious.

The villas of Palermo, and their natural beauty, their views of the bays, of the mountains and, parks, have reminded me of the dreams of my childhood about fairy-castles and gardens. From the greater number of these villas, however, the inhabitants have fled to other countries, or to the other world. Life, the creative and the powerful, flows now in other directions. Palermo is bright as yet with the past, whilst it glances onward, waiting for a new, an approaching life.

The want of unity and independent power has made the people of Sicily, for centuries, a ball to be played with by foreign powers, has made them dependent on foreign rulers whom they obey without loving, and it has made them what they are at the present time. But is this to last always? Will it never become dependent upon its better self alone, become a people as independent and noble as its land is rich and beautiful?

And now, farewell for this time, beautiful Palermo, thou princess, thou rose amongst the cities of southern Italy! Spite of thy rainy days thou art to me, in thy conco d'oro, as a golden memory of splendor and color, unlike any other city of earth.

Yet, who does not praise the beauty of Italy, in her scenery, her cities, and her art? But, the people of Italy, who praises them? How usual it is for foreigners to speak of them with mistrustful reservation! And yet, it seems to me, that there has been quite too small a recognition of their peculiar goodness and excellence. Some one, I do not remember whom, has remarked, that when the Italian is kind and good, he is so in a higher and more perfect degree than the man of any other nation. And, as with the grape, which at a certain period of its ripeness, is said to be nobly ripe—edel-reif, is the expression on the Rhine—so may it be said of the human being of Italian blood, fully matured to goodness, he or she is then “nobly matured.” To strict conscientiousness, noble-mindedness, earnestness, all the virtues which adorn humanity, must then be added, refinement, beauty, a nameless grace which is more easily felt than described, and which is like the flower and the perfume of the Italian individuality. I have seen and experienced this amongst the Italian men, especially of the learned class—not the clergy—in all the states of Italy, where I have as yet been. Social-life, feelings, thoughts, receive thence, as it were, a higher, clearer coloring, a deeper harmony. But, when that which now is peculiar to the few, becomes peculiar to the many—because this beautiful individuality lies in the depth of the Italian popular character—when religion and the constitution of the states; popular-life and domestic-life; folks-festivals, like those of Switzerland, homes, such as my Swiss house by the Living-Waters, unite to liberate this peculiar, yet fettered national beauty, then will Italy assuredly become that which one of its noblest sons prophetically beheld, many centuries back, “Common soil, daughter and mother of all lands alike, elect of the gods to make heaven more beautiful, to collect scattered mankind, to soften the manners, to make a brotherhood of nations separated by barbarous tongues, to give to all a human sociability and amiability, and to become a common father-land to all the nations of the earth.”^[3]

But He who gave to the peoples the ability to supply each other's wants, who called all to become members of one great family, voices in one great harmony, who gave to one and all of us small human beings, his part and his vocation in the common work; who gave us in it infinite pleasure to husband, for ourselves and for others, for all, for the hour, and for eternity; who gave us to enjoy the dew-drop and the sun, the little bickering, and the kiss of love and fidelity unto death; labor for Him and rest in Him. Him let us praise; and let us pray Him that His Kingdom may come!

And now good-night, my R——.

---

NOTE.

Pompeii seems to have been at the height of its prosperity when, in the year 63, A. D.; a great portion of the most beautiful buildings of the city were overthrown by an earthquake, which also visited several other cities in the neighborhood. The terrified inhabitants fled; but afterwards returned, took heart and re-erected the buildings which had been destroyed still more beautifully than before, especially the Forum and Amphitheatre. In the year 79, however, another eruption of Vesuvius occurred, accompanied by a deluge of ashes and pumice-stone which entirely buried Pompeii, Stabia Optentum, Retina, Herculaneum, and many other cities. The eruption lasted for three days. Pliny the younger has given, in a letter to Tacitus, an account of this terrible occurrence, from which I select the following passages:

“My uncle,” he says, “was then stationed at Misenum, where he had command of the Roman fleet. The eruption occurred on the 24th of August, and at about one o'clock, P. M. His mother called the attention of his uncle to a cloud of extraordinary size and form which appeared in the air. On this,” he says, “that his uncle went to a place whence he could obtain a better view. But it was difficult, at that distance, to ascertain from what mountain the cloud proceeded. Afterwards, it was found to be from Vesuvius. Its form resembled that of a tree, but rather that of a pine tree than any other, for it shot up a great height in the form of a trunk, extending above like branches, occasioned, I imagine, either by a sudden gust of air, which impelled it, and the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or the cloud, being pressed down again by its own weight, expanded in this manner. It appeared sometimes white and sometimes dark and spotted, as it became more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. This extraordinary phenomenon excited my uncle's philosophical curiosity to take a nearer view.” He then describes his uncle's embarkation in one of his light vessels, he having given his nephew permission to accompany him, if he liked; but he preferred remaining behind at his studies, his uncle, having, by chance, given him some writing to do. He therefore left his house, taking his note-book with him. The sea-officers at Retina, alarmed at the impending danger, prayed him to save them from so great a calamity, for there was no other escape for them but by sea. He would not, however, alter his resolution, but pursued with his utmost courage what he had commenced from curiosity. He ordered out the vessels therefore, and went on board with the design, not merely of giving succor to Retina, but to many other places, for the coast, being delightful, was thronged with villages. He proceeded thither with expedition, to find all the world retiring, making a direct course to the scene of danger himself, remaining so fearlessly as to observe and note down all the motions and forms of the phenomenon. The ashes already fell amongst the vessels, warmer and thicker the nearer they approached; then pumice-stones and others burned to a coal and broken with the fire. They were also in danger from the sudden retreat of the sea, which rendered the shore inaccessible, and from the vast fragments which rolled down from the mountains and blocked up the shore. After considering awhile whether he should return, he said to the pilot, who advised this step, “Fortune assists the bold! Tack about towards Pomponianus.” Pomponianus was then at Stabia, separated from him only by a little bay, formed by the winding of the shore. In this quarter, though the danger was distant, still it was in full view, and when it seemed approaching, Pomponianus had his goods put on board some vessels, and resolved to go off with them when the wind changed. My uncle, carried thither by a favoring gale, and finding him in great terror, embraced and encouraged him, and in order to allay his fears by his own calmness of mind, asked to be shown to the bath. After bathing, he sat down to supper cheerfully, at least with the appearance of his ordinary cheerfulness. In the mean time, large and high eruptions of fire glared from Vesuvius in several places, the brightness of which was heightened by the gloom of night. My uncle, to calm their fears, told them that what they saw burning were only villages abandoned by the peasants, and which had thus become the prey of the flames. He then lay down to rest, and slept very soundly, and, as he was a large and stout man, the sound of his snoring was faintly audible as far as the antechamber. But the court that led to his apartment was now so choked up with ashes and pumice-stones, that had he stayed longer in his room, the passage from it would have been entirely obstructed. As soon as he was awakened, he went out and joined Pomponianus and the rest, who had sat up all night. They debated whether they should stay in the house or walk in the open field; for the building was repeatedly shaken by violent earthquakes, and seemed to rock from side to side, as if shaken to the foundation. Abroad, the fall of the pumice-stone, though light and porous, alarmed them. Between the two dangers, they chose that of the field. They went out therefore, and, to guard themselves from the fall of the stones, bound each a pillow upon his head with his handkerchief or a napkin. It was now day in other places, but here it was still night, more black and dismal than ever was known before, which, however, was a little illumined by multitudes of lights and flambeaux. They thought it best to advance to the shore, to see what chance there was for them, but the sea was very stormy, and the wind contrary. There my uncle, lying down upon a sheet which was spread for him, called for water once or twice, which he drank. Soon afterwards, the flames and the stench of sulphur, a forerunner of the fumes, dispersed the company and roused him. He was supported by two servants, and, in a moment, fell and expired. The cause, I suppose, being, that the dense, smoky air suffocated him, all the more easily as he had a weak chest, and suffered from shortness of breath. On the return of light, three days afterwards, the body was found entire, in the dress in which he died. The appearance of the body was that of sleep rather than death. In the mean time, my mother and I were at Misenum. * * *

In a second letter Pliny relates what occurred to himself.

“After my uncle had taken his leave,” he says, “I employed myself in study, for which purpose I remained behind. I took a bath, supped, and went to bed, but slept very uneasily. We had been for several days sensible of an earthquake, which did not, however, greatly disturb us, because they are frequent in the towns and villages of Campania, but this night they were redoubled with such violence that one might say things were not merely shaken, but seemed to be overturned by it. My mother came hastily into my chamber at the moment when I too had arisen with the intention of waking her if she slept. We seated ourselves in the court that separates the chief buildings from the sea, by a small interval. It was now seven o'clock in the morning, but still there was very little light, like a dim twilight. The houses around us were shaken so that the terror of their fall was great and certain, the place being small. We resolved, therefore, to quit the town. The people followed us in consternation, and as a mind distracted with terror, regards any suggestion more prudent than its own, they pressed in great crowds upon us on our way out. When we were clear of the town we stopped, but here new terrors met us. The carriages which we had ordered out, were so agitated backwards and forwards, though upon level ground, that they could not be steadied even by large stones. The sea seemed rolled back of itself upon the shore, and numbers of fishes were left behind. On the other side a black and dreadful cloud, rent by a fiery vapor which started forth like igneous serpents, burst forth into flames resembling lightning, but much vaster. Soon after that the cloud descended to earth and covered the sea, hiding the island of Capri, and the promontory of Misenum. My mother then besought, urged, commanded me to save myself by any means whatever; she showed me that it was easy at my age, but that to her, encumbered with age and corpulency, the attempt was impossible; that she could willingly meet death if she did not become the means of my death also. But I refused to leave her, and taking her hand forced her to come along with me. She complied unwillingly, and not without many reproaches for being the cause of my detention. The ashes began to fall upon us, but in small quantities; I looked round, and saw a thick smoke rolling after us, like a flood. On this I said to my mother, ‘Let us whilst we can yet see, turn out of the high road, lest we should be pressed to death in the dark by the crowd which followed us.’ Scarcely had we removed ourselves before the darkness increased to such a degree that it was not like a night without a moon, but a closed room in which all the lights were put out. Nothing was to be heard but the lamentation of the women, the cries of the children, and the shouting of the men; some called aloud for their parents, some for their husbands, knowing them only by their voices. Some bewailed their own misfortunes, others those of their neighbors; some wished to die from the very fear of death; many called upon the gods, others, disbelieving in the gods, thought that the last eternal night was come in which the world was to be destroyed. Others again increased the real by imaginary dangers, and made the terrified multitudes believe that Misenum had fallen or was in flames. At length a glimpse of light appeared, which we imagined to be rather an approaching burst of fire, as in truth it was, than the return of day. The fire, however, stopped short of us; and again we were immersed in thick darkness and a plentiful shower of ashes and cinders fell, which we were obliged every now and then to shake off, or we should have been buried in the heap. At length this pitchy darkness was gradually dispersed; day appeared in reality and with it the sun, though shining but feebly and as at the approach of an eclipse. Every thing looked changed to our uncertain sight, and we beheld nothing which was not covered with ashes as with snow. On our return to Misenum, where we all refreshed ourselves as well as we could, we passed a night between fear and hope, though indeed fear had the preponderance, as the earthquake continued.”

Titus came to the aid of the unfortunate cities, or rather inhabitants; saved all who could be saved, and gave help and encouragement, even personal, to all the sufferers. Some of the towns were rebuilt, but others were abandoned altogether, every thing of value being removed from them. Pompeii was left in its grave of ashes for eighteen centuries. It was in the year 1748, when a peasant sinking a well in a vineyard at Sarno first discovered traces of the forsaken city. Carlo Borbone, King of Naples, under the name of Carlo III, became possessor of the ground and commenced the excavations with great assiduity, and Pompeii with its temples and fountains, its columns and frescos, its public and private buildings the image of the life of classical antiquity, was laid open to the day, as we see it at the present time.

THE END.

1. Amongst the women of Naples who of late years have distinguished themselves are two who have acquired celebrity as national poetesses, of no ordinary power and inspiration. The one belongs to the educated classes; her views of human life are of the highest order, and her language vigorous and full of fire. The second is a girl, taken from the children of the streets, but educated and cared for by noble Neapolitan ladies, “La Milli,” has become the ardent improvisatrice of noble and patriotic views.—Author's Note.
2. Dante da Majano, not the great Dante, who made his appearance at the same time with the Sicilian poetess, and, by his powerful pen, formed or established the Italian language.—Author's Note.
3. Pliny Hist. Cap. 3, 5.