EUROPA.

I.

THE VOYAGE.

"VISIT NAPLES, AND THEN DIE," is a saying of which every traveler is reminded, as he pursues his way down through sunny France, and along the shores of the deep blue Mediterranean, to that city of wonders, and to that region of buried wealth, fashion, and beauty, where God has chosen to exhibit himself in awful forms of grandeur and power, and where he speaks to man in the thunder of volcanoes, and in the eloquent silence of deserted cities. I well remember, when a child, to have found an old, musty book, containing a traveler's account of his pleasures and perils in the south of Europe. His description of old, hoary Vesuvius, which had smoked and blazed, bellowed and thundered, there for ages; of Rome, the city of seven hills; of massive piles, and grand old ruins, stirred up smouldering fires, and awakened an intense desire to see what had been so graphically portrayed.

The studies of later years have increased the desire. I have scarcely been content with reading of battle fields, monumental piles, old ruined towers and cities, palaces of dead and living kings, crowned monarchs, and a

presumptuous pope. Mine eyes have desired to witness scenes so long familiar to imagination, and become acquainted with men whose works I have read, and whose names I have loved to honor. All through youth, fancy drew vivid sketches of the vine-clad hills over which Italia's children gaze; of Rome, that city where proud Cæsar dwelt in his now ruined palace, and where the broken fragments of temple, forum, circus, and sepulchre are piled together in confusion; of Florence, that sparkling gem of the south, with its galleries of painting and sculpture, and the studios of its artists in every street; of Venice, with its wave-washed piles, its “bridge of sighs," its light, fantastic gondolas, propelled over sparkling waters, 'neath golden skies, to the simple melody of the boatman's song. The time when the reality should be substituted for the ideal, and I should cross the Tiber, by old, frowning St. Angelo, and pursue my way along the Via Appia, amid the crumbling monuments of the past, has been ardently desired.

A few months ago, the way was opened by which these desires could be gratified; and, with the threefold purpose of securing health, recreation, and knowledge, I left the familiar scenes of home, and set sail for the land of poetry and song. The sad parting, the tender farewell, the good-by song, and the last cordial grasp of the hand you remember, while the hearty welcome given to the wanderer, on his return, has not yet died out.

I took passage, as you know, from Boston, in the "Daniel Webster," the ominous name of one of the finest packet ships that ever sailed from port. The horror of the sea, which I had always felt, disappeared as I stood upon her deck, and contrasted her fine form and majestic proportions with the miserable craft which