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Till; SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MOUSING,
JSY
T. LOMAX &, CO.
TEXNENT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
OJire on Randolph street.
Citcnmj D c,p a vim cnf.
Conducted isy CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
What my SouJ says in Sadness.
BY ERNEST SOLE.
I.
I know, O Lord, the flower that opes
When mon itig tints are gleaming.
May droop ere evening’s roseate rays
O'er hill and vale an streaming.
11.
Yet well I know the odor sweet
Ot that lost flower, is scenting
The breeze that murmurs o’er the lea,
Its meek-eyed love lamenting.
m.
The star, O God, in yon blue vault,
So brightly now that’s beaming—
May fade from out the spangled sky,
Where myriad orbs are teeming.
IV.
But it hath sent one silver ray,
To cheer my pathway given—
To lift my weary spirit iTp
A night-time nearer Heaven.
V.
The gorgeous sight that charms each sense
Informed with beauty's seeming,
Will leave but sadness, tears, regret
That I was only dreaming.
VI.
To weary souls all fainting here,
Comes thus the radiant vision—
A glance to give through prison bars
Into the land Elysmn.
[WRITTEN TOR THE SENTINEL.J
REVERIES OF AN INVALID.
A philosopher once resolved to commence
with the morning’s dawn, and devote the
whole day to following the movements of a
child, hoping to derive great assistance in the
study of metaphysics during the process.
\\ lien twilight came on, he was perfectly
wearied and exhausted, and the only conclu
sion to which he had arrived was, that of all
.animals, man was the most restless and tin- j
reasonable. He had intended to take notes ;
of all that occurred, hut he found everything I
could he included in the compendious word,
motion.
It is as exceedingly difficult to follow the
movements of a feverish imagination, and yet
there is something in the wild aberrations of
mind, with its reins momentarily loosely
floating, more interesting than a sober and
connected train of reasoning. [ will try
to describe some of these vague and wander
ing thoughts, just as they originated, drifting
me along hero and there, without guide or
compass, on the pathless ocean of incerti
tude.
Have you ever felt the throbbings of fever
in your veins, in your temples, your brain, till
every pulsation resolved itself into a prayer
for coolness ? Till there was but one vision
of beauty in the whole, wide universe—and
that was ice?
It was in just such a state as this, the other
evening, that the visiop passed over me, or
rather held me, spell bound, in its icy folds.
Oh! it was such a lovely moonlight night!
So icy pure—so silvery bright! The beams,
as they floated on the face of the earth, look
ed like an ocean of quivering water, and I
thought I was borne along on the current,
without any volition of my own, a burning
speck, which all that oeean flood of bright
ness could not quench. The waves seemed
warmed around me, but far away, they glit
tered so cold, so pure, so clear, if I could on
ly reach one of those sparkling ice islands, I
would never more sigh for the forfeit bowers
of Eden. Floating onward and ever on
ward, 1 could see figures, shaping themselves
out of the bright, frosty atmosphere,so beau
tiful and tantalizing—so wooing, so mocking
—now beckoning with transparent, glittering
hands—now waving hack the approach with
forbidding, threatening gestures! They
were the iee spirits abroad on their moon
light revels, and imagination cannot conceive
of their resplendent beauty. All! let poets
rave about mermaids, sitting on the coral
clifls ot ocean, braiding their sea-green ring
lets—of maids enticing the river Gods with
their strains of more than mortal melody;
but they cannot compare with the ice spirits,
the Aurora Borealis children of a feverish
imagination. They rise in clusters above the
foam-crested waves. Their hair flows in
ringlets of diamonds; their eyes are the cold,
bright northern stars, sparkling under lashes
.of frozen mist; their smile, the reflection of
moonlight on the polar seas. They come
nearer and nearer. I feel their pure, chill
breath on my burning cheek; they stretch
out their cold, glittering arms, and I feel my
self slowly, lingeringly, closely clasped to
their bosom of iee.
‘['he vision vanishes. The beautiful mock
ing spirits are gone. There is nothing but
the still i ’night moonbeams shining in
through the lattice-work, silvering the large
leaves ot the vine and making bright, ~auzy
festoons, looped up by beams and fastened
by stars against the flower-twined frame
work. The night-breeze rustles through the
long trailing tendrils, clambering over the
bars, and shakes the crimson blossoms that
enrich the deep green of the leaf-work. How
like the whisper of invisible spirits it sounds!
Another vision rises. It comes from an icy
cold world, and a feeling of inexpressible re
pose is di.Tused over the restless, panting
spirit. It comes from the land of coolness
and rest. It is not the breeze that sighs
through the vine leaves—it is the breath of
those who have mingled again with the ele
ments from which they were orginally cre-
VOL. Ilf.
ated. ‘I hey never speak but in the silence
of the night. They never come forth but in
the moonlight hour.
Thus the vision flows:
Oh! ’twas a dream—a sweet, a dewy dream —
Sent to refresh me, in the feverish hour ;
The cooling murmur of the forest stream,
The west-wind whispering to the fainting flower.
Oh ! blessed mother! I, once more a child,
On thy dear bosom, in thy arms reclined—
Thy lips of love met mine and gently smiled,
Thy tender hand my burning one entwined.
I felt thy fingers on my throbbing brow,
1 hy breatli sighed softly on my glowing cheek ;
Oh ! angel ministrant, where ait thou now !
Speak to me, mother, blessed mother, speak!
Thou hast no voice—thou tumest on my gaze
Eyes of immortal depth—my spirit quails
Beneath tlu-ir still, unfathomable rays—
Lamps of the toir.b! what mist your brightness veils ?
Again I seem alone. Mv head is laid
On the damp grass, beneath the willow's boughs;
The pallid moonbeams glimmer through the shade,
And the night air in rippling coolness flows.
I see a marble stone gleam pure and w hite—
The dead, my soul, the dead arc sleeping near—
My mother’s name gleams in that ghostly light,
That blessed name! then, wherefore should I fear I
Oft, in my dreams, I've seen that sacred mound :
That gleaming marble in the church-yard’s gloom :
There have 1 knelt and wept, while sweeping round,
I’ve felt the chilling shadows of the tomb.
Dear, sainted mother ! in tiie languid hour
Os pain and richness, how my heart has thrilled
O'er childhood's memories, and each besom flower
With more than earthly redolence been filled !
It was not all a dream. There lingers vet
A life, a warmth—a deep, immortal glow—
My soul with thine in heavenly trance ha? met,
While dim and cold Time’s billows roll below.
And we shall meet azain, my spirit saith,
Where sorrow, pain and death can never come ;
0!i! for the wings of a triumphant Faith!
Oh! for that land of glory, light and bloom !
With the soft lulling of the midnight gale,
the holy vision passeth av v, leaving behind
a balmuess, a coolness, a divine repose, that
is not born of this world. If it were possible
to describe fully and clearly a reverie like
this! There certainly are moments when
the wall that separates us from the spirit land,
which sometimes seems of iron darkness and
thickness, is thin and clear and brittle as
glass—when we fear to move, lest it shiver
and break—and we find ourselves iti the un
veiled presence of the mystery of mysteries.
Byron says a change came o’er the spirit
of his dream—and so there came o’er mine.
Os all forms of existence, that of reverie ap
proaches nearest the heavenly. The body is
but an accident. It might belong to any one
else for any interest that we may feel in it.
Only let it lie still and feel a breeze stealing
ovei it, and it will trouble no one, unless the
demon of fever gains possession of it. Oh !
delightful reverie! Oh! soothing, vague
dream of existence! quietude succeeding
painful excitement—subsidence of the stormy
waves of thought!
There is more of the earth, earthy, in this
phase of the dream-picture; but it is the
flowers, the bloom, die sweetness of earth ;
nothing dark or subterranean about it. The
iee spirits no longer come glittering, smiling,
in their cold, unearthly beauty; the angel
spirits no more glide between me and the
moonbeams; there are earthly forms and
earthly faces, all wearing the stamp of a
heavenly mission—all mingling so with spir
itual dreams, one cannot tell where the ideal
and the real meet.
There is a sweet maiden, of a Saxon
name, with blue, loving eyes, and a glad, af
fectionate smile, who seems formed to be the
miuistrant of peace and comfort to the suf
fering children of humanity. How quiet and
gentle are her motions! How calm and ten
der the accents of her voice! She comes
near—she bears in her hand a crystal dish,
in which the most beautiful crimson blends
with the purest white. A cool, refreshing
dew gems the crystalline surface of the ves
sel. Angels of mercy and ministers of con
solation ! it is some of Slrupper’s delicious
strawberry cream—the nectar, the ambrosia
of the Gods! But alas! the dewy glass
vanishes—the blushing cream melts into air
—the loving, blue-eyed maiden disappears,
and nothing is left to fill the aching void.
Yes—another comes —another damsel, as
kind, as gentle and as good, with a gladder
smile and a more joyous accent ; and the
perfume of violets embalms the air through
which she moves; a crystal vase, in which
the \ce-bcains sparkle, glitters in her hands.
She administers the cooling draught, when,
just as it is about to touch the thirsty lip, it
dries up, leaving nothing but the empty cup
of Tantalus—the fever of unsatisfied desire.
“I will not deceive you,” exclaimed a mild,
sympathizing voice; “for my office is to bind
up the wounds of disappointment and to heal
the sorrows that man i* born to !eel. If there
must be suffering, be it mine to relieve. If
there must be a shadow, be it mine to gild
and soften the edges.”
Ah! I knew that voice, and I know the
expression of that gentle, sympathizing coun
tenance, “that seems to love whate'er it looks
upon.” Often and often has it come, in the
night-time of care, and left an impression of
hope and brightness behind it. But it will not
now remain long. Between it and me the Chat
tahoochee is now rolling: and it rolls be
tween me and the fair-haired maiden, who
wears the name a beauteous Saxon damsel
once adorned: and it rolls between me and
the maiden embalmed with the violets’ sweet
perfume, and many another angel spirit, too:
and it rolls a watery barrier between me and
that well-remembered saloon, where straw
berries and ice-cream temper the sultriness
of summer’s burning heat. It is all a mirage.
There is nothing but memory left. Nothing
but memory! Ah! memory is a great deal.
What would life be without it?
Reveries! Well, I suppose * reveries are
very foolish things; but Ike Marvel has writ
ten a whole book about reveries, which
every body loves to read, from the simple
fact that they are idealities, and that there is
not a word of truth in them—that is, of real
ity. But realities are sometimes very sweet,
and make us cease to sigh for what is be
yond our reach. What a delicious cloud of
fragrance is floating near! What a charm
ing bouquet comes, bearing the greetings of
friendship, associated with the charms of re
finement and taste ! The rich breath of the
glowing oleander—the sweet and graceful
honeysuckle—the most beautiful of roses—
the waxen petals of the cape jasmine—unite
to grace this token of kindly sympathy.
Nor is this all- Green and refreshing clus
ters of newly gathered grapes, shew how
beautiful the assemblage of fruit and flowers
may be!
Yes! tin's is a beautiful world! It is
full, overflowing with beauty and kind
ness, and yet we are often unconscious
of it, from its very diffusiveness. Like the
air we breathe, it is all round and about us,
and we only know how happy it makes us
from our wretchedness when it is withdrawn.
There is so much to admire and love,’ we
sigh for capacity to take in the full amount
of blessedness. llow can a single heart take
in the boundless circumference of God’s
m nicies?
Yet, there are so many strange people in
the world, one knows not what to think of
them. They walk along through paths all
strewn with flowers, with as much indiffer
ence as if they were wading through weeds.
“What is the use of this fading tinselry?”
they say ; “we have not time to gather it
and so they hurry along and gather up hand
fuls of yellow dust instead; and they rush
along the shore of life, picking up pebbles
and sand, lotting the pearls and diamonds go,
as too much trouble to gather. They must
dive for the pearlsAtd filter the sand for dia
monds. The pc*ides lie smooth on the sur
face, arid thev. shine in the sunbeams almost
as brightly.
Well, whether we gather pebbles or dia
monds, pearls or sand-grains, the great ocean
of truth keeps rolling on, and we are borne
on with it. Whether we gather flowers or
weeds, the great garden of Nature keeps
blooming on, and the air of life is laden with
the fragrance.
Life itself is a long, beautiful reverie. In
the fitful fever and unrest, the strife and tur
moil of existence, we dream of the ice spirits
that will come with their breath of frost and
cool the veins, panting with excitement and
throbbing with heat. We dream of the spirit
ministrants, fanning us with their wings of
love, and tempering with their cool, celestial
plumage the sultriness of weight and care.
We dream of the loved ones, whom space
severs and distance divides, but whose hearts
are a part of our own identity, and make but
one pulse with our own.
By and by, the fever will pass away—the
reveries will pass away—and who can tell
the brightness, the beauty, the glory of the
awakening? “Eye hath not seen it, nor hath
ear heard it, nor hath it entered into trie heart
of man to conceive it.” But God knows,
and it is the office of Faith to wait, and trust,
and believe.
C. L. 11.
Quincy, August 31, 1852.
I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
LITERARY NOTICES.
1. Pierre; or the Ambiguities —by Her- ;
man Melville. New York: Harpers.
Transcendentalism must possess a strange- ;
ly infectious power. For here is the author of
“Typee” transformed into as absurd a dream- J
eras now rejoices in the patronymic of
Y oung America. Lennox, with its learned !
neighborhood, certainly does not. suit thevov
ager of “Mardi.” He had better take to the j
sea again.
Eugene Sue never spun a story of more
impossible [dot; Alexander Dumas never de
picted more unreal characters ; nor did
George Sand ever send into the world a book i
of as questionable morality. The style, j
moreover, abounds in affectations and barba- :
risms; the efforts to be funny, are ludicrous I
only from their failure; and the attempted
eloquence degenerates into merest rodomon- j
tade. His heroic announcement that he
writes not in conformity with the rules of art
—and he might have added, of nature—to him
may seem very grand, but to us sounds snob
bish.
Whatever the “ambiguities” of the vol
ume, one thing is indubitable—namely, that
a more perfect abortion in literature than
Pierre, has not been sent into the world for
.
some time.
2. The Blithedale Romance —by Nathan- :
iel Hawthorne. Boston: Ticknor & Cos. j
A critic in the Christian Inquirer —a Uni
tarian paper, published in New Y'ork—speaks
thus of this book : “It is the most brilliant j
gem of the Satanic school of American Lit- j
erature; it is such a book as Mephisto- j
pheles might have written, in his calmer and
more contemplative moments, when, weary
of tempting men to renounce their higher as
pirations, he muses upon the hollowness of
human life, he sketches the most exquisite
sentiment, and most commanding wisdom, in
order the more to deck the victim for sacri
fice upon his own altar of selfishness and
pride.” This judgment, to us, is unjust z* it
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING. SEPTEMBER 16, 1852.
is harsh and untrue. What could have pro
voked it, we are at a loss to conceive ; the
more, as it comes from a paper, in the main,
creditably Catholic and enlightened. To
our mind, Blithedale is the most finished and
exquisite of Mr. Hawthorne’s books. There
are but five characters in if, as in the Scarlet
Letter, and the House of the Seven Gables,
(this triple recurrence of it would imply that
that number has a charm for our author,) and
as little incident. Nevertheless, our interest
from the beginning, never for an instant flags.
This famous analyst and painter of human
nature, captivates you by tiie skill and nicety
of his procedure. The superficial man of
the world, changed into a cringing shadow ;
the earnest, half noble, half deluded woman,
spurning the restrictions of her sex; the con
fiding, womanly heart, that wins the strong
man’s love; the calm student of human life,
and the herculean philanthropist, absorbed in
the cure of others, until he himself is diseas
ed beyond recovery—are all delineated, as
none but Hawthorne could draw them. The
moral of Hollingsworth’s character consti
tutes, we should say, just the study for many
New Englanders. He is the exact type of
the sincere abolitionist, affording all such,
who will take it, a profoundly true view of
their own condition and danger. The whole
storv preaches, with strongest emphasis, the
inefficiency of all reforms, where egotism is
not excluded—in which the benign soul of
the Gospel is not incarnated. Passing
strange, then, is tho condemnation of the
“ Inquirer ,” when such a searching religious
discourse is offered by this volume. Perhaps
the self-projection of the blacksmith, bapti
zed with the name of humanity, may touch
the critic in a tender place.
With our warm gratitude to Nathaniel
Hawthorne for another rich contribution to
our instruction and pleasure, and our thanks
to the Publishers, for tho handsome manner
in which they have “got up” this last work of
our greatest romancer, we commend the
book to our readers with all warmth, assuring
them that in it. they shall find a treat rarely
afforded by the issues of the press.
The Literary World.
This is the title of a weekly paper, pub
lished in New Y ork,by E. A. & G. L. Duyc
kinck. We have for some time thought of
directing the attention of our readers to it,
and now an occasion offers.
We well recollect, one day, some years
since, looking over the papers on the counter
of a pejfodical depot in Baltimore, when our
eve I fitted on a journal with this title. A
youthful sybarite in literature, we eagerly
looked to see what feast this board offered.
We found it wholesome and pleasant. Since
that day—it was the birth-day of the paper,
and the first issue, to which we refer—no
week has passed without our hebdomadal
banquet with Mr. E. A. Duyckinck—one of
the most genial and reliable of critics—and a
corps of friends worth}’ to share his compa
ny. Wherever we happen to be, East, West,
North, or South, we regularly seek out our
place at the board. Indeed, we bad rather
miss our best dinner, every week, than the
good cheer of the Literary World. By habit
and gradually ripening love, it has become
essential to us as the daily walk and the
greeting of friends. Mr. Duyckinck has
grown to us as an old and much-valued chum
—although we never saw him in the flesh —
and we believe we would as soon resent an
injury or insult offered to liirn, as to our
selves. Ha ving so long enjoyed it, we are
desirous that bis society shall be shared by
all our friends. Therefore this notice.
The paper contains, first: Three or four
reviews of the chief new books of the week;
then briefer notices of tho rest; then come re
ports of the meetings of the principal learned
societies of tiie country, followed by one or
two choice poems; after which comes as del
icate and judicious a criticism on Art, as one
would wish to see; then a serving up of per
sonal gossip of the literary and artistic nota
bles, and as spice, we have a budget of va
rieties, funny enough, and often genuinely
humorous. At the close of this part of the
print, there is a list of all the new books pub
lished in the country during the past week.
In addition, we have the advertisements of all
the principal publishing and importing houses !
of their new and forthcoming publications.!
The columns of this paper are devoted to the
cause of sound learning, and catholic criti- ’
cism; and we believe, upon the whole, we
trust its judgment more implicitly than those !
of any literary journal in the country. In- ‘
deed, it is the only true catholic in literature i
which we now recollect in the land. All
the rest are mouth-pieces of some party or 1
clique. While recognizing and applauding
excellence whencesoever coming, and speak
ing out its mind right freely about pretension
and humbuggery, it is not afraid to say tiie j
true and right word of the South—a merit*
we should not fail to appreciate at its due
worth. There is no toadyism in this, but a
genuine friendliness to all that is noble, and
a sovereign contempt of all that is mean,
which does one good, when partisanship and ;
polemics are so generally in vogue. In con
clusion, let us say to every man who would
keep posted up in the affairs of literature and
art, your best plan is to order the Literary
World, from the .Messrs. Duyckinck, New
Y’ork.
I
Marco Paul’s Voyages and Travels— by Ja
cob Abbott. New Y ok: Harpers.
Oh! what a chance the youngsters have 1
now, with the best talent of the country wri
ting books for them. The Abbotts deserve I
the heartiest gratitude of the rising genera
tion, for the numberless contributions they
have made to their profit and amusement. —
To Jacob, especially, for his admirable series
of biographies of tiie noteworthy; and now
for their new series, intended to make our
home-staying little ones acquainted with the
locality, habits, and belongings cf the differ
ent sections of our own country, and to open
the eves of those who travel, to see more
fully and accurately what is to be seen.
Here is a road-cap New Y ork boy, twelve
years old, given in charge to his cousin to
travel, because he is delicate, and pick up
what can be found upon the road. Such is
the simple plot of the books. Four volumes
have already reached us, viz.: New York ;
Erie Canal; Forests of Maine; Vermont;
giving, in a simple and natural style, results
of close observation and large intelligence.
None can read the volumes without being in
terested and instructed. A good moral in
fluence exhales from these, as from all the
Abbott books, rendering them doubly valua
ble. They should constitute part of the li
brary of every child in the land.
The History of the Restoration of Monarchy
in France —by Alphonse Do Lamartine.
2d volume. New York: Harpers.
The brilliant historian of the Girondins, is
again before the American public, in this
handsomely translated volume. It is virtual
ly the story of “The Hundred Days,” extend
ing from the return from Elba, to the defeat
at Waterloo. We need not assure our read
ers that the hook abounds in vivid descrip
tions of persons, scenes and events, combi
ned with eloquent strains of reflection. His
point of view is that of a Frenchman, of
course; an admirer, but not a worshipper, of
the great Napoleon. It is not unlikely that
his dislike of the nephew, may have influen
ced to some degree, his opinions and por
traiture of the uncle. Nevertheless, there is
nothing palpably unjust towards tho man
whose name, for twenty years, sums up the
history of Europe. Moreover, the persona
ges who surrounded the Emperor, in the
main lost in his dazzling effulgence, are here
brought out into stronger relief than is usual;
so that the whole phantasmagoria—when Eu
rope turned pale at the name of a mortal,
and a kingdom of millions, which a day be
fore had hooted at his name, now crouches
at his horse’s hoofs—when Paris is charmed
from sullen silence to boisterous acclaim, and
the final die for the world’s throne is cast at
Waterloo—passes before us in the stately
pomp and gorgeous splendor of Lamartine’s
description.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE.
ASCENT OF MT. VESUVIUS.v
July, 1852.
Mv Beak C : As I have already told you,
one of the first objects that meet the eye of
the traveller, on his approaching Naples, is
Vesuvius. It is perhaps the first thing he
looks for, and it is certainly one of the first,
after he has shaken Ihe dust of travel off
from his clothes, that he starts to visit. Os
the thousands who annually visit Naples,
hardly one fails to mount its steep sides.—
Some for the frolic of the tiling—a few out
of real curiosity—others to boast of it,
(though a very meagre boast)—and many, be
cause it is one of the things to bo “done,”
and they will be twitted with not doing it. 1
heard one poor fellow groan out at the table
d’hote, “Y es, 1 suppose 1 ?nusl ascend, but I
wish the thing would blow np to-night!” I
confess I was influenced by all these consid
erations. I had heard a good deal of the fun
of a scramble up a mountain of an inclina
tion of 45 deg., and wished to realize it. I
had a curiosity not only to see a crater, but
to look down the very mouth of the monster
that had quenched two famous cities so pret
tily. And besides, honestly, I did want to
talk about it. People prate about a laudable
curiosity, but in nine instances out of ten,
curiosity is nothing but vanity. We wish to
know more, that we may tell how much we
know. It is no less a man than Pascal, who
says: “People would never traverse the sea
if they never were to speak of it—for the
mere pleasure of seeing, without the hope of
communicating what they have seen.”—
Therefore, if I can give no better reason for
seeing a certain place, 1 will always give
this: “I wished to be able to say, I have
seen it.”
Naples is situated a little to the right (as
one faces the water) of the crest of the Bay,
embracing, with its immediate suburbs, a cir
cuit of about 12 miles. Vesuvius lies to the
left of the Bay, and so near, that the
land feels its inclination to the very water's
edge. The smoking cone is, therefore, the
prominent object of view from the balco
nies of Naples, and it is a thing looked at too,
not as a matter of course, but as a matter of
enjoyment. I don’t know in what the fasci
nation of certain favorite mountains consists,
but there is a fascination. As at Geneva, I
never rose from my bed without running, cn
chemise, to look at Nit. Blanc, so at Naples,
I never bade that beautiful Bay good morn
ing, without stopping to watch the smoke
curl down the sides of Vesuvius. And the
most fervent wish of every stranger as he ga
zes at it, is—“Oh, that there would be an erup
tion while I am here !” That young lady,
who, in my last letter, was breathing of the
cypresses and vines, counted upon an erup
tion, I’ve no doubt—for as virtue rewards its i
worshippers, so does romance—and one of
her romantic realizations was to be, I am
confident, an eruption. Did not Lord Nevil
and Corinne witness one ? why shouldn’t
she? The Neapolitans, too, love Vesuvius;
it is a pet mountain with them; it confers a
kind of glory upon their city, to have so dan
gerous a neighbor, and I don’t think they
would consent to have it removed, though it
were to threaten them with a weekly shower
ot hot stones, ft is amusing to see them stop
to observe the stranger who may be looking
at their favorite; they look into his eyes, and
then across to the mountain, talking elo
quently with their mobile features, and walk
away with a strut which says, as plainly as
need be, “magna pars sum.” 1 don’t think I
ever emerged from the hotel without being
saluted by half a dozen coachees with, “Ves
uve, (Vesoove,) M’sieur?” which reminds me
very forcibly of the dowu-easters’ “Sara
logue.”
A good day is of the first importance—if
must not only be clear, but windless weather
—else the light ashes blown in your face,
( ‘till tears shall drown the wind,” as Mac
beth says,) or sulphurous vapor choking nose
and mouth, shall make a witch’s weather for
you. We were favored—during all my stay
at Naples, there was but one good Vesuvius
day, and that we appropriated—cloudless,
windless, glorious—in a word, (for poetry’s
sake,) the sky ol Italy. I say so in order to
be orthodox, but you have in Columbus, this
same sky, 250 times a } - ear; all the romance
about ii came from the children of misty Al
bion, who never see but a patch of blue sky—
Dutch tailor measurement. We took a car
riage and rode gayly along the busy shore of the
Bay—dashed through the town of Portici—
(N. B. All the Neapolitan coachees are Jehus,
and the vehicles are called Volantes —flyers;)
and pulled up suddenly in the midst of the
next town, Resina. I know not what for, but
in less than five minutes, I was on the back
of a por.v, heading briskly, through a narrow
lane, for the mountain. How all this hap
pened, I know no better than you. I had
not been forewarned of the* exact modus of
mounting Vesuvius, (though it seems there is
a modus)—l had seen no horses. The
coachee had given no wink, as I could see.
I had been through Resina, twice or thrice
before, and the like had never happened.—
But now there seemed a spirit of divination
on the part of the handy gentlemen who have
Vesuvius in charge. I was not even asked
: where I was going, but I was put on to a po
: ny in a trice, and the pony broke away, at a
I whist! from the guide, for the mountain.—
There is no danger of not knowing how to
proceed in that country. Guides and volante
drivers have systematized matters, and they
play into each other’s hands admirably. Put
money into your purse, jump into a carriage
at your hotel door, say ‘'Vesuvius,” just as
one says “020 Broadway,” and you will
| reach the top—never fear—and be launched
to the bottom, if you wish it. The volante
man dashes off—the message precedes him
telegraphically. “I’m coming with a Vesu
vius party”—a guide, all accoutred, meets
you at the proper point—(you know lie has
to do with you as soon as you put eves
upon him)— at a stroke of his trident, horses,
ready caparisoned, rise out of the ground—(l
do believe they are stabled in the womb of
tiie mountain, for they know their work so
well) —a huge cane is given you by a lanky
“Flibbertigibbet,'’ who drops on to your
horse’s crupper. You must take it—it is Ve
suvius 1.-. v; indeed, you take it instinctively,
for you feel yourself to be at the heck of cer
tain agencies you have nothing to do with.
\ ou find scout.? on your way who have been
advised oi vour coming—food awaits you in
the “Hermitage,” and I am mistaken if the
old mountain itself does not belch out a re
cognition of you. All this is so smooth arid
nice that the chances are you will begin to
hug yourself a little, and think you are of
some importance; hut when all is over and
you are back again at Resina, you find that
it was not you, hut the purse, that was wor
shipped. The dollar is mighty.
‘Phe bridle road i3 just a passability and
that is all; it is a path over wide fields of la
va ; donkeys or horses, which can find no
Other occupation, take you over it slowly,
but securely. Yet in the midst of this desert
lava-tract, on the warm slopes of the moun
tain, grows the famous lachrynafe christi
wine, slicking its delicious flavor out of the
very rock. We reached the Hermitage in
about two hours. One may drive, I found,
quite to the Hermitage by a good road,
constructed, I suppose, at the expense of the
King, who has a very neat retreat at the base
of the cone, in which he sleeps about one
night in the year. Why we did not take this
road, the guides and the volante-men can
alone explain. By not doing it, the latter sa
ved his horses several hours of labor, easily
earned his fee for the day, and besides, put a
pretty penny into the hands of the horse
owners. It would he no libel to call all this
trickery, hut it is so innocent as compared
with some things I could mention, that
I let it pass. This Hermitage is a kind of
half-way house—a “hospice,” where you are
“taken in,” i. e., lightened of your surplus
silver, before you commence the ascent of
the mountain, a his is all accomplished un
der the farce of your buying oranges and
iachrymae christi, in order to contribute to
the support of an honest hermit who lives
there. There is always a programme, as all
the world knows, for visiting every place of
notoriety, and every body travels by pro
gramme. Now, “it is written” that every
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NO. 38.
body must stop at the little inn of Bake and
eat of the Acheron oysters, and every body
does it. It is also written that every body
must stop at the Hermitage and drink of
the anchorite’s wine, and every body does this,
too. A succession of hermits have dwelt here
for I know not how long—the mantel and
the beard descending very much as tho
Grand Lamaship does, i. e. by caprice or
favoritism. Lest you should think I am se
vere, I simply add, it is not necessary to he a
priest, in order to enjoy this pleasant little
monopoly of oranges, lachrvmre christi, and
roguery. A valet-de-cliambre of Madame de
Pompadour, once enacted this farce here.—
Banished from Court, he cultivated a heard,
turned venerable, and forgot Versailles in
V esuvius. But cowl, beard nor sanctimoni
ousness, could disguise the vaiet —(Nalurtnn
expelles, Ac.;, you remember what Ho
race says !) and the very grace with which
he handed bread to his visitors, revealed the
master of the peti/s soupers of his former lux
urious mistress. The present occupant of
the Hermitage, we did not see. The blessed
man had gone to the city. There is one
tiling I will say for him who lives hero—he
has one of the loveliest views on earth spread
out before him—and the luxury of ascending
Vesuvius just as often as he chooses ! After
a half hour’s rest, we remounted our horses
arid rode to the base of the cone, hut a milo
or two distant. The real ascent commences
here. The declivity is about as steep as
one can attempt, and maintain his equipoise.
Good sines, long breath and legs, and per
severance, are the requisites. If you are ra
ther laukisli, all the better, provided it is not
windy ; or if you have any of the knack of
Nihlo’s “Great Wall My,” still better. For
the weak and for women, a cedar chair is
ready, which swings like a hammock, always
preserving its perpendicular. Our party mo
ved on—what with guides, understrappers
and all—a small army. Not that all these are
necessary, hut that they hope to make a pen
ny. They offer yen a chair—they offer you
a rope—they will take you in their very arms
—they insist upon the arduousness of the as
cent—“nobody but that accepts of their servi
ces,” &c. Yon can’t get rid ol’them—a refusal!
you might refuse all the way up the moun
tain, and within an inch of the top they will
conquer. Whoever heard of a Neapolitan
beggar, coachee, or sub-guide, yielding to a
refusal? Perhaps you think a wave of tho
hand is sufficient to turn him off; you think
he groans inwardly, with Spenser:
“What hell it is in sueing, long to bide.”
Pooh! sueing is their trade. The volaute
man will actually walk his horses a mile by
your side, and at last persuade you into the
carriage; the beggar will limp the same dis
tance and vex you out of your loose copper.
Our path lay first over the sand, into which
we sank at every step ankle-deep, hut we
soon reached a lava stream, upon the edge of
which we picked our wav to the top. A
guide kept by my side. I was thoroughly
determined not to yield to his importunities,
though I knew I should. For a half hour he
pleaded; he extended me his rope insinua
tingly—“’twas so much easier to ascend with
it;” he foisted the end of it into my hand—
he was victor—his dollar was won. Putting
the loop of the rope over his ox-ncck, he
bent to his work. Another of his fraternity
supported me from behind. Thus dragged
by one and pushed by another, I mounted
over the difficulties at such a pace that when
I reached the top, I was completely blown.
Thanks to the guides! I had the honor of
being first at the top.
Mounting the immense sand fringe of the
crater, we stood upon its edge. I was sur
prised to find the crater worth seeing. It is
a huge bow], the sides of which are smoking
profusely at a thousand air-holes. One side
of this bowl is broken away, or caved in, (be
ing entirely of sand.) Descending by this,
about two hundred feet, we stood upon tho
edge of the crater proper—a perfectly round
hole of perhaps fifty feet in diameter—run
ning, who knows what depth, into the moun
tain. It is as cleanly done as though it had
been bored out with mathematical precision
—its sides, of course, thickly incrusted with
sulphur. We tumbled stones into the crater
in order to hear the echoes that roll up from
those unexplored depths. To one thus stand
ing within the compass of the crater, the
scene is far more impressive than would he
at first imagined, and it is precisely the time
when one would not like, to witness an erup
tion, much as he would like to see it from his
balcony at Naples. Farther than this edge
—the dread brink of a bottomless pit—no
man ever went —except one. ’Twas a
Frenchman, who, to spite his mistress, (and
when did a Frenchman ever commit suicide
for other cause?) threw himself down the
hole. But just listen—the old mountain
wouldn’t hold the revolutionary morsel—it
spit him out the very next day! Ascending
again, we made the entire circuit of the top,
almost suffocated at times by the sulphur
fumes, and then were ready for descent.
Vesuvius is a huge mole of sand within a
circle of rock, broken away to tho South,
which, of itself, might be considered a3 form
ing an immense crater. It probably was the
ancient Vesuvius, and the modern is a cone
of ashes and lava which has been formed
within it. Between the base of this cone and
the craggy, precipitous wall of rock, runs a
broad belt of level ground. The guide point
ed out the various eruptions, as far as known,
especially the last, (’49.) You would say that
the lava fairly foamed as it burnc-d along, so
