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house, temple on temple, building after building, and
street after street, are still lying underneath the roots of
all the quiet cultivation, waiting to be turned up to the
light of day; is something so wonderful, so full of mystery,
so captivating to the imagination, that one would think it
would be paramount, and yield to nothing else. To nothing
but Vesuvius; but the mountain is the genius of the scene.
From every indication of the ruin it has worked, we look,
again, with an absorbing interest to where its smoke is
rising up into the sky. It is beyond us, as we thread the
ruined streets: above us, as we stand upon the ruined walls;
we follow it through every vista of broken columns, as
we wander through the empty courtyards of the houses;
and through the garlandings and interlacings of every
wanton vine. Turning away to Paestum yonder, to see the
awful structures built, the least aged of them, hundreds of
years before the birth of Christ, and standing yet, erect
in lonely majesty, upon the wild, malaria-blighted plain
- we watch Vesuvius as it disappears from the prospect,
and watch for it again, on our return, with the same thrill
of interest: as the doom and destiny of all this beautiful
country, biding its terrible time.

It is very warm in the sun, on this early spring-day,
when we return from Paestum, but very cold in the
shade: insomuch, that although we may lunch, pleas-
antly, at noon, in the open air, by the gate of Pompeii,
the neighbouring rivulet supplies thick ice for our wine.
But, the sun is shining brightly; there is not a cloud or
speck of vapour in the whole blue sky, looking down
upon the bay of Naples; and the moon will be at the

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