this must be a very comfortable world, after all, for people do enjoy themselves in it amazingly." This difference is still more perceptible on personal acquaintance. An Italian lady never sits and utters common-places with freezing formality. She is more flexible, and, indeed, if the truth must be said, better natured and happier than too many of my countrywomen. She is not on the keen look-out lest she should fail to frown every time propriety demands.

There is no country in the world where woman is so worshipped, and allowed to have her own way as in America, and yet there is no country where she is so ungrateful for the place and power she occupies. Have you never in Broadway, when the ♦ omnibus was full, stepped out into the rain to let a lady take your place, which she most unhesitatingly did, and with an indifference in her manner as if she considered it the merest trifle in the world you had done? How cold and heartless her "thank ye," if she gave one! Dickens makes the same remark with regard to stage-coaches—so does Hamilton. Now, do such a favor for an Italian lady, and you would be rewarded with one of the sweetest smiles that ever brightened on a human countenance. I do not go on the principle that a man must always expect a reward for his good deeds; yet, when I have had my kindest offices as a stranger, received as if I were almost suspected of making improper advances, I have felt there was little pleasure in being civil. The "grazie, Signore," and smile with which an Italian rewards the commonest civility, would make the plainest woman appear handsome in the eyes of a foreigner.

They also become more easily animated, till they make it all sunlight around them. They never tire you with the same monotonous aspect, but yield in tone and look to the passing thought, whether it be sad or mirthful; and then they are so free from all formality, and so sensitively careful of your feelings. I shall never forget one of the first acquaintances I made in Italy. I was at the Marquis of -'s one evening, conversing with some gentlemen, when the Marquis came up and said, "Come, let me introduce you to a beautiful lady"—indeed she was the most beautiful Italian woman I had ever seen. I declined, saying I did not understand the Italian language well enough to converse

with so brilliant a creature, “for you know (said I) one wants to say very clever things in such a case, and a blunder would be crucifying." "Pooh, pooh," said he, "come along "—and taking me by the shoulders led me along, and forced me down into a chair by her side, saying, "Now talk." If she had been half as much disconcerted as I was, I should have blundered beyond redemption but the good-natured laugh with which she regarded the Marquis's performance entirely restored my confidence, and I stumbled along in the Italian for half an hour, without her ever giving the least intimation, by look or word, that I did not speak it with perfect propriety.

This same naiveté of manner extends itself everywhere. If you meet a beautiful peasant girl, and bow to her, instead of resenting it as an insult, she shows a most brilliant set of teeth, and laughs in the most perfect good humor. As I was once coming down from Mount Vesuvius, I passed an Italian lady with her husband, who by their attendants I took for persons of distinction. I had an immense stick in my hand, with which I had descended into the crater. As I rode slowly by, she turned to me in the pleasantest manner, and said, "Ha un grand bastone, signore" (you have got a large cane, sir). I certainly did not respect her less for her "forwardness!!" (civility), but on the contrary felt I would have gone any length to have served her.

Indeed, this same freedom from the ridiculous frigidity, which in my country is thought an indispensable safeguard to virtue, is found everywhere in Europe. It has given me, when a solitary stranger, many a happy hour on the Rhine, and on the Mediterranean. In my late passage from Civita Vecchia to Naples in a steamer, I met an instance of this, in the Russian baron and lady, and the pretty young Finlandess his niece. I forgot to mention the manner in which our acquaintance commenced. The old gentleman and his niece were sitting on deck enjoying the moonlight, and looking off on the shores of Italy and the islands past which we were speeding like a spirit; while I was slowly pacing backwards and forwards, thinking now of the sky I was under, and now of the far home on which a colder moonlight was sleeping, when the old baron pleasantly accosted me, and we slid off into an easy conversation. Soon after he went into the cabin a

short time, when, passing by the Finlandess, she addressed me so pleasantly and lady-like, that I was perfectly charmed with her civility. Ah, said I to myself, a solitary stranger would have promenaded the deck of a vessel in my fatherland long, before one of my beautiful country women would have uttered a word to cheer him, and make him long after bless her in his heart.

The Italian has another attraction peculiar to the beings of warm climes she possesses deeper emotions than those of colder latitudes, while she has less power to conceal them. The dark eye flashes out its love or its hatred as soon as felt; and in its intense and passionate gaze is an eloquence that thrills deeper than any language. She is a being all passion, which gives poetry to her movements, looks, and words. It has made her land the land of song, and herself an object of interest the world over. A beautiful eye and eyebrow are more frequently met here than at home. The brow is peculiarly beautiful-not merely from its regularity, but singular flexibility. It will laugh of itself, and the slight arch always heralds and utters beforehand the piquant thing the tongue is about to utter; and then she laughs so sweetly! Your Italian knows how to laugh, and, by the way, she knows how to walk, which an American lady does not. An American walks better than an English woman, who steps like a grenadier, but still she walks badly. Her movements lack grace, ease, and naturalness.

Yet notwithstanding all this, beauty of face is more common at home than here. I will not speak of moral qualities, for here the "dark-eyed beauty" of Italy must lose in comparison; and, indeed, with all her passionate nature, she is not capable of so lasting affection as an American. It is fiercer, wilder, but more changeable.

Truly yours.

ISLANDS ABOUT NAPLES.

91

LETTER XIX.

Islands about Naples-Virgil's Scenes, &c.

Naples, April.

DEAR E.-I designed to have given one letter on the Islands around Naples, and another on the ruins that cover the ground that Virgil has made so classic. But really Virgil never was my admiration; and his River Styx, and Acheron, and Sea of the Dead, and Avernus, and above all, his Elysian Fields, are such entire creations of the imagination that I cannot with a sober face speak of them with the dignity that the scholar asks. So one letter must answer for the whole region. The truth is, Styx cannot be found, and Avernus is but a fish-pond, and the Elysian Fields a little bank that was once used for a Cemetery. Yet when I came to see these localities of Virgil's Æneid, I had a greater respect for him than ever before. He had more imagination than gave him credit for. It is not every one that could gather two worlds and the passage between them into so narrow and ordinary a place. The truth is, this region was the resort of the Emperors, and Philosophers, and Poets of Rome, in their leisure hours. On this beautiful shore they built villas and temples, and adorned every hill-top, and made every glen and pool mysterious by the gods and nymphs they gathered around them. Virgil wrote for royal ears, and hence chose a spot that would flatter those whose favor he sought.

I

Near by is the ancient Cuma, the Temple of Apollo, where Dædalus alighted in his winged flight from Crete; and, right below, the shore where Eneas drew up his ships, and the very cave to which he ascended to consult the Cumaan Sybil. Here Tarquinius Superbus found an asylum, and here, long after, Alaric piled his spoils. The whole shore and hill-side is covered with ruined temples dedicated to Venus, Apollo, Mercury, Diana, &c.

Once this shore must have been a picture. Two things interested me more than all others, as they were not fictions of the imagination:-One was a view from the top of the Sybil's Cave, of the Tomb of Scipio Africanus, standing "solitary and alone" on the far sea-shore. Thither in pride and scorn the old hero retired, and died and was buried. It is close on the beach, all alone, looking proudly desolate. The sea murmurs around it, and the night-tempest howls by-making the only dirge that is chanted over the proud chieftain. The other was the harbor of Misenum. As I stood on the summit of the hill that overlooked the now ruined and desolate harbor, on which not even a fisher's boat was moored, with here and there an arch just rising from the water, where an earthquake had tumbled it, it did not seem possible that there the Roman fleet was wont to ride in its glory. Yet it was anchored here, commanded by Pliny the elder, at the time of the eruption of Vesuvius that buried Pompeii. In this very harbor occurred a scene that well-nigh changed the destinies of the World. Right below me, on that quiet, unconscious sheet of water, now so lonely-looking and desolate, sat once the galley of Sextus Pompeius, and on board of it Octavius Cæsar and Antony at dinner. Light as a sea-bird she sat on the wave, while those master-spirits discussed together the fate of the World. During dinner, Pompey's Admiral, formerly his slave, whom he had freed and honored, came and whispered in his ear—" Shall I cut the cable and make you master of the World?" Why did you not do so without asking me?" answered Pompeius. 'My word is now given, and I must abide by it." One good stroke of the knife then would have changed the fate of Rome and the World. On that single rope hung immense destinies, and the fingers were already feeling the handle of the knife that should sever it. On

66

66

a rope did I say ? On a lighter thing than that: on a man's

word! Poor man! he would do a thousand lies to gain a trifling object, but yet would not utter one aloud in the ears of the World for an Empire. Ah! methinks after all, that fear of human scorn had more to do with the holding of that rope than sense of obligation. To ordinary men princes may utter what falsehoods they please. Mere will is holier than obligation, and the bare questioning the right by others is bolder than their own violation