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in the bay. The water was brought from the higher land, and here reserved until it should be needed. The arches of the reservoir are supported on forty-six immense piltars, and the whole structure must have required a great amount of labor and time. In this vicinity are the Elysian Fields and the River Styx, immortalized by Virgil, and so often sighed over by romantic young men, when they begin to read the classics.

Nero's prisons are also near. They look like the bloody monster-fit memorials of his fiendish cruelty. His baths, hot and cold, were not enough to wash his stains away. We reach the entrance of the prisons, or Hundred Chambers, as they are called, by a long, narrow street, in which half-naked men and women are at work, play, or asleep, lying down on the side of the way, with pigs and dogs, defying you, in many cases, to tell which is man and which is beast. The prisons are under the spot where once stood the villa in which lived Julius Cæsar, and in which Nero killed his mother, like the fiend he was. It does not remain to perpetuate the memory of the wrongs committed in it; they are recorded on the pages of history. We entered several of the chambers. They are about eight feet wide and twenty long. A passage leads from these prisons, which are wholly under ground, to the sea, through which prisoners were taken, and cast down, mangled and torn, into the waters beneath. The very walls seem to sweat blood, as we passed from dungeon to dungeon, unadorned by a window or inlet for the fresh air, and lighted only by the flambeau carried by our guide. Criminals and Christians, confined for vices and virtues, have died here, and these walls have echoed with curses and prayers.

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As we came down the hill, we stopped a while to rest at the door of a tolerable-looking house, and in a moment were surrounded with women and young girls. I counted twenty-one at a time, varying from ten to ninety years of age. Their object was to beg, which they did in an unknown tongue. One or two young girls went away and brought us simple bouquets of flowers, which they wished us to purchase. These bouquets were of the rudest character, and some of them as unsavory as mullen. When we left, two young creatures ran by the side of our carriage nearly two miles. One of them was begging for my handkerchief, which I certainly should have thrown to her, had I not been so far from another, and the day was so hot, that such an article was indispensable. She was a darkcomplexioned, black-haired creature, with eyes fit for a princess, which sparkled as she ran along the road, casting up the dirt with her bare feet, and tossing back the hair from an intellectual forehead.

On returning towards Naples, we visited several ruins at Pozzuoli - the ruined Temple of Justice, with its marble pavements, its broken columns, forty-two of which were from the land of mythology, the large basin yet remaining in which the blood of human victims was caught, its arena and its marble seats almost as perfect as ever. The Temple of Neptune, a vast edifice, gives one a good idea of an old Roman amphitheater. Its form is oval, and the walls rise ninety feet from the level of the arena. Seats are all around, rising one above another to the top of the wall; and a canvas vas stretched over the whole, for a roof to protect from the sun. Twelve thousand persons could be seated with ease, and perhaps many more. In vaults below vere cells and dungeons, in which men and beasts

were kept preparatory to the gladiatorial exhibitions. On a slide, or elevator, they were lifted up into the arena, and man and beast stood face to face. Many a Christian has been torn to pieces on this pavement, while his death cries have furnished amusement for the degraded people. The very cell in which St. January, the idol of the people, was chained, is pointed out, and the pillar, now fallen, is shown us. Every cell has some tale of horror to unfold, and every pillar yet seems to groan beneath the silent inscriptions which are upon it.

Leaving old temples, all in ruins, of the description of which you may already be weary, we come to Lake Agnano, a sheet of water about three miles in circumference, situated near Pozzuoli. The lake is in the bed of an extinct and settled volcano, and the waters are very deep. At every eruption of Vesuvius, these waters rise and fall, showing a connection with the awful doings of that volcano, though it is between twenty and thirty miles distant.

On the shores of the lake are several grottoes, which are objects of considerable curiosity. One, the Cavern of Charon, now the "Dog Grotto," derives its name from the fact that dogs are here made the subject of a curious experiment. In this cave, a vapor rises from the ground which is fatal to life. A torch brought into contact with it is immediately extinguished, and a dog bound and thrown upon the ground will die in two minutes. The dog that was put in on the occasion of our visit remained about eighty seconds, and was, at the expiration, unable to rise. A pistol, loaded in the best manner, would not discharge itself when held near the ground.

1 Grotta del Cane

Near by is an "Ammonia Grotto," or a cave in which ammonia gas rises from the ground. The earth is cold, and yet an intense heat arises from it; and, though no draught of wind can be perceived, one feels all the heat and gentle influence which are derived while standing over the register of a large furnace. The effect of inhaling the gas is highly exhilarating, and one would soon become intoxicated, as with opium or ether. When I came out, my head felt dizzy, my feet light, and for a moment they seemed debating whether they should not exchange places with each other; but the fresh air soon decided in favor of the old way.

On the shores of this lake are sulphur baths, where one needs no fire to keep him warm. The apartments are small, rude, and covered with incrustations and saline deposits, and are formed by the sulphureous gases, and it was not difficult to imagine how soon a confinement in one of them would scorch the rheumatism out of a poor man's limbs, or sweat the palsy out of his painless sides. The idea, however, of "taking a sweat" in one of the drawing-rooms of Mount Vesuvius is somewhat novel. The region all around is volcanic; and, in many places, the earth is so warm, that, a few inches. below the surface, the hand cannot be laid upon it. There are also old Roman remains, which yet linger to tell the story of the past.

As we rode into Naples, after a visit to Agnano, we saw a novel and characteristic exhibition of the Catholic religion. Just on the outskirts of the city, a wooden cross, with a representation of our Savior hanging upon it, was set up. The whole figure was exceedingly rude and uncomely, and looked like any thing but the Savior of the world. A priest was on a little elevated platform beside it, declaiming vehemently, and frequently

pointing, with a look of rage or sorrow, to the crucifix. As his speech went on, two monkish-looking creatures were handing round the plate for the carlines. The people were uncovered, and the rude rabble who swept by took off their hats, and murmured some word of approbation, as they passed. The two monks stopped all who were willing to contribute; and if begging is any evidence of devotion, they were eminently pious. With long faces, they moved about among the crowd, thrusting the plate into the eyes of every one who looked as if he was the possessor of a single piece of money, uttering a sort of whine, which evidently was meant for an expression of religious fervency. Our guide uncovered his head as we passed, but told us, when we were out of the way, that he had no faith in that scene, though he acknowledged himself to be a devout Catholic.

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