"And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide
From day-break when the mountain pales his fire,
Yet more and more, and from the mountain top,
Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,
Solemn and slow."

"Vedi Napoli! e poi muori!"

Memory! beloved memory! to us thou art as hope to other men. The present--solitary, unexciting--where are its charms? The future hath no joys in store for us; and may bereave us of some of the few faint pleasures that still are ours.

What then is left us--old before our time--but to banquet on the past?

Memory! thou art in us, as the basil of the enamoured Florentine. [Footnote 1: See Keats' poem taken from Boccaccio.] Thy blossoms, thy leaves,--green, fresh, and fragrant,--draw their nurture, receive their every colouring, from what was dearest to us on earth. And are they not watered by our tears?

The poet tells us--

"Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria."

But it is not so. Where is he of the tribe of the unfortunate, who would not gladly barter the contemplation of present wretchedness, for the remembrance, clogged as it is by a thousand woes, of a time when joyous visions flitted across life's path?

Yes! though the contrast, the succeeding moment, should cut him to the soul.

But

"Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
Whilst sorrow's memory is a sorrow still."

Ah! there's the rub! yet, better to think it was joy, than gaze unveiled on the cold reality around; than view the wreck--the grievous wreck--a few short years have made.

We care not,--and, alas! to such as we have in our mind's eye, these are the only cases allowed,--we care not! whether rapture has been succeeded by apathy, or whether the feelings continue as deeply enlisted--the thoughts as intensely concentrated;--but--in the servitude of despair!

And again we say--gentle memory! let us dream over our past joys! ay! and brood over our sorrows--undeserved--as in this hour of solitude, we may justly deem them.

Yes! let us again live over our days of suffering, and deem it wiser to steep our soul in tears, than let it freeze with an iced coating of cynic miscalled philosophy.

And shall adversity--that touchstone--softened as our hearts shall thus be--shall it pass over us, and improve us not?

No! it has purifying and cleansing qualities; and for us, it has them not in vain.

We are not dust, to be more defiled by water; nor are we as the turbid stream, which passing over driven snow, becomes more impure by the close contact.

Thee, Mnemosyne! let us still adore; content rather to droop, fade, and die--martyrs to thee! than linger on as beasts of the forest, that know thee not. No hope may be ours to animate the future: let us still cling to thee, though thine influence sadden the past.

Away! we are on the placid sea! and Naples lies before us.

The sun had just risen from ocean's bed, attired in his robe of gold; as our travellers watched from the deck of their Sparonara, to catch the first view of the "garden of the world," as the Neapolitans fondly style their city,

A dim haze was abroad, the mists were slowly stealing up the mountains, as their vessel glided on; a light breeze anon filling its canvas, then dying away, and leaving the sails to flap against the loosened cordage.

On their left, extended the charming heights of Posilipo---the classic site of Baia--Pozzuoli--Nisida--and Ischia, to be reverenced for its wine.

On their right, Capra's isle and Portici--and Vesuvius--wreathed in vapour, presented themselves.

As their vessel held on her way, Naples became visible--its turrets capt by a solitary cloud, which had not yet acknowledged the supremacy of the rising deity.

The effulgence of the city was dimmed, but it was lovely still,--as a diamond, obscured by a passing breath; or woman's eye, humid from pity's tear.

"And this," said Sir Henry, for it happened that his travels in Italy had not extended so far south, "this is Naples! and this sea view the second finest in the world!"

"Which is the first?" said AcmÉ, laughing, "not in England, I trust; for we foreigners do not invest your island with beauty's attributes."

"My dear AcmÉ!" replied Sir Henry, somewhat gravely, "I trust the day may arrive, when you will deem DelmÉ Park, with its mansion bronzed by time--its many hillocks studded with ancient trees--its glistening brook, and hoary gateways--its wooded avenue, where the rooks have built for generations--its verdant glades, where the deer have long found a home:--when you will consider all these, as forming as fair a prospect, as ever eye reposed on. But I did not allude at the time to England; but to the Turkish capital. George! I remember your glowing description of your trip in Mildmay's frigate, up the Dardanelles. What comparison would you make between the two scenes?"

"I confess to have been much disappointed," replied George, "in my first view of Stamboul; and even the beauty of the passage to the Dardanelles, seemed to me to have been exaggerated. But what really did strike me, as being the most varied, the most interesting scenery I had ever witnessed, was that which greeted us, on an excursion we made in a row boat, from the Bosphorus into the Black Sea.

"There all my floating conceptions of Oriental luxury, and of Moslem pomp, were more than realised.

"The elegant kiosks--the ornamented gardens--the pinnacled harems, the entrance to which lofty barriers jealously guarded--the number of the tombs in their silent cities---gave an intense interest to the Turkish coast;--while sumptuous barges, filled with veiled women, swept by us, and gave a fairy charm to the sea. On our return, we were nearly lost from our ignorance of the current, which is rapid and dangerous."

"Well! I am glad to hear such a smiling account of Stamboul," rejoined AcmÉ. "My feelings regarding it have been quite Grecian. It has always been to me a sort of Ogre city."

The breeze began to freshen, and the vessel made way fast.

As they neared the termination of their voyage, some church, or casino bedecked with statues, or fertile glen, whose sides blushed with the luscious grape, opened at every instant, and drew forth their admiration.

Their little vessel swung to her anchor.

The busy hum of the restless inhabitants, and the joyous toll of the churches, announcing one of the never-failing Neapolitan processions, was borne on the breeze.

The whole party embarked for the quarantine office, and--once authorised to join the throng of Naples--soon found themselves in the Strada Toledo, moving towards the Santa Lucia.

Their hotel was near the mole; its windows commanding an extensive view of the purple sea, beyond which the eye took in the changeful volcano; and many a vista--sunny, smiling, and beauteous enough, for the exacting fancy of an Englishman, who conjures up for an Italian landscape, marble-like villas--and porticoes, where grapes cluster, in festoons of the vine--heaving mountains--a purple sky--faces bronzed, but oh how fair!--and song, revelry, and grace.

But what struck AcmÉ, and even Sir Henry, who was more inured to the whirl of cities, as the characteristical feature of Naples, was its moving life. In the streets, there was an incessant bustle from morning until midnight. Each passer by wore an air of importance, almost amounting to a consciousness of happiness. There was fire in the glance--speech in the action--on the lip a ready smile.

In no city of Italy, does care seem more misplaced. The noble rolls on in his vehicle on the Corso, with features gay and self-possessed; while the merry laugh of the beggar--as he feasts on the lengthened honors of his Macaroni--greets the ear at every turn. Stray not there! oh thou with brow furrowed by anguish!

If thy young affections have been blighted--if hope fondly indulged, be replaced by despair--if feelings that lent their roseate hue, to the commonest occurrences of life, now darken every scene--if thou knowest thyself the accessary to this, thy misery, stray not in Naples, all too joyous for thee!

Rather haunt the shrines of the world's ancient mistress! Perchance the sunken pillar--and the marble torso--and the moss-grown edifice--and the sepulchre, with the owl as tenant--and the thought that the great, the good, and the talented, who reared these fading monuments--are silent and mouldering below: mayhap these things will speak to thy heart, and repress the full gush of a sorrow that may not be controlled! And if--the martyr to o'er-sicklied refinement--to sentiment too etherialised for the world, where God hath placed thee--ideal woes have stamped a wrinkle on the brow, and ideal dreams now constitute thy pleasure and thy bane: for such as thou art! living on feeling's excess--soaring to rapture's heights--or sinking to despair's abyss--Naples is not fitting!

Visit the city of the sea! there indulge thy shapeless imaginings--with no sound to break thy day dreams--save the shrill cry of the gondolier, and the splash of his busy oar.

The young Greek, DelmÉ, and George, were soon immersed in the round of sight seeing.

Visits to the ancient palace of Queen Joanna--to the modern villa of the Margravine--to the Sibyl's Cave, and to Maro's Tomb--to some sites that owed their interest to classic associations--to others that claimed it from present beauty--wiled away days swiftly and pleasurably.

What with youth, change of scene, and an Italian sky, George was no longer an invalid. His eye wore neither the film of apathy, nor the unnatural flush of delirium; but smiled its happiness on all, and beamed its love on AcmÉ.

One night they were at the Fondo, and after listening delightedly to Lalande, and following with quick glance, the rapid movements of the agile ballerina, and after George had been honoured by a bow--which greatly amused AcmÉ--from the beautiful princess; who, poor girl! then felt a penchant for Englishmen, which she failed not to avow from her opera box--the party agreed to walk home to the hotel. On their way, they turned into a coffee-room to take ice.

The fluent waiter prattled over his catalogue; and AcmÉ selected his "sorbetto Maltese," because the name reminded her of the loved island.

Leaving the coffee-room, they were accosted by a driver of one of the public coaches.

"Now, Signore! just in time for Vesuvius! See the sun rise! superb sight! elegant carriage!"

"Do let us go!" said AcmÉ, clapping her hands with youthful enthusiasm.

"No, no! my dear!" said Sir Henry, "we must not think of it! you would be so tired."

"No, no! you do not know how strong I am; and I intend sleeping on George's shoulder all the way--and we are all in such high spirits--and these improvised excursions you yourself granted were always best--and besides, you know we must always start at this hour, if we expect to see the sunrise from the mountain. What do you say, Giorgio?"

The discussion ended, by the driver taking the direction of the hotel; whence, after making arrangements as to provisions and change of dress, the party started for the mountain.

The warm cheek of AcmÉ was reposing on that of her husband; and the wanton night air was disporting with her wavy tresses, as the loud halloo of the driver, warned them that they were in Portici, and in the act of arousing Salvador, the guide to the mountain. After some short delay, they procured mules. Each brother armed himself with a long staff, and leaving the carriage, they wended their way towards the Hermitage.

It was a clear night. The moon was majestically gliding on her path, vassalled by myriads of stars.

There was something in the hour--and the scene--and the novelty of the excursion--that enjoined silence.

Arrived at the Hermitage, the party dismounted. AcmÉ clung to the strap, fastened round their guide, and they commenced the ascent. In a short time, they had manifest proofs of their vicinity to the volcano. The ashy lava gave way at each footstep, and it was only by taking short and quick steps, and perseveringly toiling on, that they were enabled to make any progress.

More than once, was AcmÉ inclined to stop, and take breath, but the guide assured them they were already late, and that they would only just be in time for the sunrise.

As the last of the party reached the summit, the sun became perceptible--and rose in glory indescribable. The scene afar how gorgeous! around them how grand!

Panting from their exertions, they sat on a cloak of Salvador's, and gazed with astonishment at the novelties bursting on the eye.

Each succeeding moment, gusts of flame issued forth from the crater.

They looked down on the bason, above which they were. From a conical pyramid of lava, were emitted volumes of smoke, which rolled up to heaven in rounded and fantastic shapes of beauty. Below, a deep azure--above, of a clear amber hue--the clouds wreathed and ascended majestically, as if in time to the rumbling thunder--the accompaniments of nature's subterraneous throes.

Their fatigues were amply repaid. Sir Henry's curiosity was aroused, and he descended with the guide to the crater. George and AcmÉ, delighted with the excursion, remained on the summit, partaking of Salvador's provisions.

The descent they found easy and rapid; the lava now assisting, as much as it had formerly impeded them.

At Portici, Salvador introduced them to his apartment, embellished with specimens of lava. They purchased some memorials of their visit--partook of some fruit--and, after rewarding the guide, they returned to Naples.

Another of their excursions, and it is one than which there are few more interesting, was to that city--which, like the fabulous one of the eastern tale, rears its temples, but there are none to worship; its theatres, but there are none to applaud; its marble statues, where are the eyes that should dwell on them with pride? Its mansions are many--its walls and tesselated pavements, show colours of vivid hue, and describe tales familiar from our boyhood. The priest is at his altar--the soldiers in their guard-room--the citizen in his bath. It is indeed difficult, as our step re-echoes through the silent streets, to divest ourselves of the impression, that we are wandering where the enchanter's wand has been all powerful, that he has waved it, and lo! the city sleeps for a season, until some event shall have been fulfilled.

Our party were in the Via Appia of Pompeii, when AcmÉ turned aside, to remark one tomb more particularly. It was an extensive one, surrounded with a species of iron net work, through which might be seen ranges of red earthen vases. Acme turned to the custode, and asked if this was the burial place of some noble family.

"No! Signora! this is where the ashes of the gladiators are preserved."

From the Appian Way, they entered through the public gate; and passing many shops, whose signs yet draw notice, if they no longer attract custom, they came to the private houses, and entered one--that called Sallust's--for the purpose of a more minute inspection.

"Nothing appears to be more strange," said George, "on looking at these frescoed paintings, and on such mosaics as we have yet seen; than the extraordinary familiarity of their subjects.

"There are many depicted on these walls, and I do not think, Henry, we are first rate classics;--and yet it would be difficult to puzzle us, in naming the story whence these frescoes have their birth. Look at this Latona--and Leda--and the Ariadne abbandonata--and this must certainly be the blooming Hebe. Ah! and look at this little niche! This grinning little deity--the facsimile of an Indian idol--must express their idea of the Penates. Strange! is it not?"

"But are you not," rejoined Sir Henry, "somewhat disappointed in the dwelling-houses? This seems one of the most extensive, and yet, how diminutive the rooms! and how little of attraction in the whole arrangement, if we except this classic fountain.

"This I think is a proof, that the ancient Romans must have chiefly passed their day abroad--in the temples--the forum--or the baths--and have left as home tenants none but women, and those unadorned with the toga virilis.

"These habits may have tended to engender a manlier independence; and to impart to their designs a loftier spirit of enterprise. What say you, AcmÉ?"

"I might perhaps answer," replied AcmÉ, "that the happiness gained, is well worth the glory lost. But I must not fail to remind you, that--grand as this nation must have been--my poor fallen one was its precursor--its tutor--and its model."

Hence they wandered to the theatre--the forum--the pantheon--and amphitheatre:--which last, from their converse in the earlier part of the day--fancy failed not to fill with daring combatants. As the guide pointed out the dens for the wild beasts--the passages through which they came--and the arena for the combat--Sir Henry, like most British travellers, recalled the inimitable story of Thraso, and his lion fight. [Footnote: In Valerius.]

The following day was devoted to the Studio, and to the inspection of the relics of Pompeii.

These relics, interesting as they are, yet convey a melancholy lesson to the contemplative mind. Each modern vanity here has its parallel--each luxury its archetype. Here may be found the cameoed ring--and the signet seal--and the bodkin--and paint for the frail one's cheek--a cuirass, that a life guardsman might envy--weights--whose elegance of shape charm the eye. Not an article of modern convenience or of domestic comfort, that has not its representative. They teach us the trite French lesson.

"L'histoire se rÉpÈte." With the exception of these two excursions, and one to Poestum; our travellers passed their mornings sight-seeing in Naples, and chiefly at the Studio, whose grand attraction is the thrilling group of the Taureau Farnese.

In the cool of the evening, until twilight's hour was past, they drove into the country, or promenaded in the gardens of the Villa Reale, to the sound of the military band.

Each night they turned their footsteps towards the Mole; where they embarked on the unruffled bay. To a young and loving heart--the heart of a bride--no pleasure can equal that, of being next the one loved best on earth--at night's still witching hour. The peculiar scenery of Naples, yet more enhances such pleasure.

Elsewhere night may boast its azure vault and its silver stars. Cynthia may ride the heavens in majesty--the water may be serene--and the heart attuned to the night's beauty:--but from the land, if discernible--we can rarely expect much addition to the charms of the scene, and can never expect it to form its chief attraction. At Naples it is otherwise.

Our eyes turn to the Volcano, whose flame, crowning the mountain's summit, crimsons the sky.

We watch with undiminished interest, its fitful action--now bursting out brilliantly--now fading, as if about to be extinguished for ever. Seated beside George, and thus gazing, what pleasure was AcmÉ's! We need not say time flew swiftly. Never did happiness meet with more ardent votary than in that young bride--or find a more ready mirror, on which to reflect her beaming attributes--than on the features of that bride's husband.

Their swimming eyes would fill with tears--and their voices sink to the lowest whisper.

Sir Henry rarely interrupted their converse; but leant his head on the boat's side, and thoughtfully gazed on the placid waters, till he almost deemed he saw reflected on its surface, the face of one, in whose society he felt he too might be blest.

But these fancies would not endure long. DelmÉ would quickly arouse himself; and, warned by the lateness of the hour, and feeling the necessity that existed, for his thinking for the all-engrossed pair, would order the rowers to direct the boat's course homewards.

Returned to their hotel, it may be that orisons more heavenward, have issued from hearts more pure.

Few prayers more full of gratitude, have been whispered by earthly lips, than were breathed by George and his young wife in the solitude of their chamber.

How often is such uncommon happiness as this the precursor of evil!

Chapter II.