door of the tomb is the following inscription, said to be from the pen of the poet himself, " but now rejected on the cliff as a forgery :"— Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc

Parthenope: cecini pascua, rura, duces.

The beauty of the spot, as well as the poet's name, has attracted many of our countrymen to choose Pausilippo for their last abode, and tombstones of English are gathering fast around the ashes of Virgil. We heretics seem to have good taste in burial-places while the orthodox catholics of Rome and Naples are cast, "unknelled and uncoffined," into their beastly cemeteries, the protestant dead repose here in the lovely vineyards of Pausilippo, or around the pyramid of Cestius at Rome*.

From

Issuing from the grotto on the other side, the pilgrim finds himself in the Phlegrean fields; and a short drive brings him to Puzzuoli, where many ruins of antiquity will attract and deserve his attention, especially the remains of the port, and of the Temple of Serapis. "The stones of Rome," says Petrarch, "are more eloquent than the men," and here are names more eloquent than either stones or men. Puzzuoli the shore extends towards the north in a semicircle as far as the lofty cape of Misenum-need I quote Virgil to prove the celebrity of the name? the trumpeter of Æneas seems to have been appropriately buried in the stormy eminence. Here, too, was the Lucullan villa, where the last western emperor was confined and died. Proceeding inland from the promontory is the harbour, "once the Portsmouth of the Roman empire ;"-it is now aptly termed the Mure Morto: on its banks they impudently show the Styx and the Elysian fields-as bleak an Elysium as Italy could well afford. Further on is Baiæ, the hills, the shore, and far into the sea, all ruins; of a calm day you can see beneath your boat the ruins of a thousand villas. This Roman "watering-place" must have been as bleak, as bare, and as unfertile as Brighton; and it is hard to conceive, what fascination drew the fashionables of old to these realms of sulphur and barrenness. The vapour-baths must have been the original attraction; "who would believe," says Petrarch, "that so near the abodes of death, nature should have placed these preservatives of life?"

'Dictaque cessantem nervis elidere morbum
Sulfura."

Half-way between Misenum and Puzzuoli are the lakes Lucrine and Avernus, one more inland than the other. Augustus joined them together by a canal, cut away all the woods that surrounded Avernus, and, opening them to the sea, converted them into secure harbours for his galleys. But in the earthquake of November 1538, a mountain suddenly sprang in the place of the Lucrine lake, and shrank it into a mere pool, shutting up at the same time Avernus once more from the sea. Petrarch has left us a full account of this region previous to the earthquake. He visited it in 1343, and wrote on the subject, in Latin verse and prose, to Cardinal Colonna and his friend Barbatus. He speaks of the Grotto of the Sibyl in a stupendous rock over Avernus, and of

Among the English dead at Testaccio lies Keats, and the remains of Shelley have but just arrived at Rome to be placed near those of his infant son.

its hundred mouths: this appears to have been overwhelmed by the Monte Nuovo, for the subterranean passage, which the guides at present call the Sibyl's Grotto, Petrarch evidently considered and described as the road to Hell. In sober reality it seems no more than a subterranean passage to Baiæ, similar to the one under Pausilippo. Common fame makes the lake Avernus, of course, unfathomable; but the master of his Majesty's ship the Rochfort sounded it the other day, and ascertained its depth to be no more than seventeen fathoms. It is well stored with tench; while the little that remains of the Lucrine lake so abounds in fish, that the King has made it a preserve, and has laid hold on it for himself. I could not altogether ascertain whether Horace's precepts still hold true,

"Murice Baiano melior Lucrina peloris;

Ostrea Circæis, Miseno oriuntur echini :"

The Lucrine still holds its pre-eminence; while for oysters the Lake Fusaro, or ancient Acheron, has succeeded to the fame of the Circæan promontory. But such culinary minutia ill beseem the poetical pilgrim.

"Indi fra monte Barbaro, ed Averno
L'antichissimo albergo di Sibylla

Passando, se n'andar dritto a Linterno."
Trionfo della Castità.

This passage of Petrarch proves, that what he considered to have been the Grotto of the Sibyl, was on that side of the Avernus since covered by the Monte Nuovo. The poet and many others have mistaken Monte Barbaro for Monte Falerno, and the Cicerones of Puzzuoli follow him at present in pointing out the place where the ancients gathered their favourite wine. If the Falernian grape was cultivated here to meet the poet's demand,

"Ad mare cum veni, generosum et lene requiro,"

the soil must have sadly altered, being incapable at present of producing even a blade of grass. From hence we may take the road, described by Petrarch, to Linternum, where Scipio lies buried by "th' upbraiding shore." Guide-books tell you that the following fragment has been found at Linternum.....TA PATRIA NEC, which may have been part of the inscription on the tomb of Africanus mentioned by Livy :

"Ingrata patria, nec ossa quidem mea habes."

Not far is Cumæ, upon a bleak flat shore. I had anticipated this region the very opposite of what I found it, and had figured to myself sunken lakes, hidden caves, and dark inaccessible groves, fit for the retreat of mystery and superstition. There is nothing of all this ;the country is flat and unbroken, save by a few dwarfish hills; and from the Camaldulæ, or any neighbouring eminence, the eye takes in one view the small, insignificant, unromantic space, that once included all the attractions of the Roman world.

It is almost inconceivable, that the sixth book of the Eneid was written, as it must have been, at the very time when the fashionable resort of the Roman great, with all their gaiety and all their scepticism, was situated on the very banks of Avernus, when even the little hor

ror, that Nature could ever have bestowed upon it, was cleared away by the command of Augustus, and when a numerous fleet was daily exercising upon its pestilential waters. To us, undoubtedly, one of the great charms of the Æneid is a kind of belief in its superstition and divine machinery; if not an actual belief, at least a persuasion, that the age and people to whom it was addressed, looked upon its fictions with credulity and awe. But to see Avernus and Baiæ side by side, and to call to mind the fashionable scepticism of the Augustan age, we must conclude that the glowing pictures of heathenism, that warm even us moderns into momentary belief, were merely calculated to please the taste and flatter the pride of the ancient sceptic, by celebrating the race which he sprang from, and the chosen spot where he resided. The vulgar may have had credulity enough to enjoy the horrors and the beauties of Virgil's Hell; but books in those days, above all, the Eneid, was not written for them. And the philosopher who spent his summer months of leisure and merry-making on the brink of Avernus, must have looked upon the poem as little more than an elegant and cold allegory.

But any more than a simple account of these interesting spots would be impertinent on so beaten a theme as the Æneid and its author.

THE SKELETON DANCE. A BALLAD.

THE anthem is chaunting-the priests kneel around—
No unlistening ear in the village is found,

The loud-swelling chorus flies upward to heaven,
To the organ's full peal a fresh volume is given-
The day is now waning-declining the sun,

And the Lord's-day bless'd matins are over and done.
A troop of young villagers outward are pressing,
All greeting, and laughing, and joyful caressing.
Young Roger de Tracy and Ralph Boranville,
Robert Wivell was there, and the young Amourduile.
All gay-blooded Normans-in tourney or court
Could none match the youths of fair Rix-â-la-Port.
The moon she shone mildly, the stars twinkled bright,
And flooded the Chapel with silvery light-

The spires and gravestones look'd gay; and the trees
Seem'd tipped with fair splendour, and waved in the breeze;
And out rush'd the band of the villagers gay

As the last anthem-peal was dying away.

"Ho! ho!" cried young Roger,

66 a night such as this

Is sacred to lovers and kisses and bliss-
What say'st, sweet Sibylla? what, comrades? what, ho!
Shall we creep to our couches demurely and slow?
Let us hail
yon fair goddess-ay now, ere we rest-
Let us hail her with revel, with dance, and with jest."
Then loud laugh'd his comrades, and shouted assent,
"Let us to the Green;" but now, as they went,
The holy monk Francis besought them to stay,
"Oh! sin not," he cried, "oh think on the day-
Oh! think that God hallow'd this day out of seven-
Oh! think that to pleasure six days hath he given!"

"Away with thy priesteraft," cried Roger with scorn,
"We will dance, we will jest, we will revel till morn!
Nay, to punish thy pride, and throw shame on thy face,
Instead of the Green, we will dance in this place!
Over the gravestones and over the dead!"—
"Ay, ay," all his revelling company said.

All but one-and he was the young Amourduile;
The rest of the baud could not hear-could not feel.
"Dear Matilda," cried he, " oh! quit, love, this place!"
But she jeer'd at his fears, and laugh'd in his face,

Go, coward," she said, "go pray if you will,
Give me dance and high revel the sunbeams until."
And now each brave youth has a fair partner led
To dance o'er the gravestones and over the dead;
And loud shouted Roger, and Sibyl laugh'd high,
As over the tombs and the flesh-grass they fly.
And holy St. Francis went mutt'ring away,
"Ay-dance on for ever-for ever, for aye!"
Then revell'd they on, and the moon she shone bright,
And still they dance on, as departed the night;
And then fathers and mothers and elders so grey
Pray'd in vain that they'd stop, in vain that they'd stay.
They laugh'd at their fathers, they jeer'd at the grey,
And all went with jokes or profaneness away.

Still they danced-still they danced, but now nothing said!
As they rush'd o'er the gravestones and over the dead.
No laughter's now heard-no revel-no jeer-
They seem'd not to see, or to feel, or to hear!
The maidens look'd pale, and no cheek there was red,
As they flew o'er the gravestones and over the dead.
The morning-blush now had just dappled the sky,
Still o'er the churchyard-ah! fastly they fly!
The villagers gazed on the horrible band,
And speechless-and motionless-spiritless stand.
Some pray-some lament-some weep, and some kneel,
When rush'd from the village the young Amourduile.
"Matilda! Matilda, oh! stop thee," he cried;
"Oh! quit soon this horrible motion, my bride."
She stopp'd not a moment, and nothing she said,
But flew o'er the gravestones and over the dead;
And on rush'd the band with the swiftness of light,
And whirl'd round and round in the villager's sight.
In young Amourduile rush'd-the band soon came round.
He flew to Matilda, and caught her fast round.
She was icy-his blood thrill'd-but still he held fast,
And on rush'd the horrible company past,
And on swept Matilda-with fright and alarm
He found he clasp'd still but a skeleton-arm!
Then vanish'd the band-though that night every year
Their dance you may see-their shrieks you may hear-
There lash'd by fierce spirits, they sweep on till morn,
Who treated God's day and his servants with scorn.
There the Skeleton Dance may be seen, it is said,
Dance over the tombstones and over the dead.

`L.

A FEW THOUGHTS ON SMALL-TALK.

THE Science of small-talking is as valuable as it is difficult to be acquired. I never had the least aptitude for it myself, yet Heaven knows the labour I have bestowed in order to master it. It is not that I have nothing to say; but when I am in company a sort of spell seems to hang over me, and I feel like some fat sleeper who has a vision of thieves, and dreams that he cannot call out for assistance. It is in vain that I observe others, and endeavour to imitate them; a shallow-headed chatterer will make himself agreeable in society, while I sit by in silence. I have taken very considerable pains in my time to observe the various kinds of small-talk, with a view of turning my knowledge to some account; but, though the scheme has totally failed in my own person, a few remarks upon the subject may not be useless to others.

I hold it to be an incontrovertible truth, that every subject is to be best treated of distributivè, under proper divisions and subdivisions. In pursuance of this plan, I shall distribute all small-talk into two species, I. General small-talk; II. Special, or professional small-talk. The former class includes the small-talk which we hear in mixed society, where men and women, young and old, wise and foolish, are all mingled together. In the latter division I would include the small-talk of persons of the same profession or mode of life, as between two apothecaries, two dissenters, two lawyers, two beggars, two reviewers, two butchers, two statesmen, two thieves, &c. &c. &c.; in short, all conversations which are tinctured with the art, craft, mystery, occupation, or habits of the interlocutors.

And, first, of General Small-talk. However simple the art of general small-talking may seem, and however plain and intelligible the topics may be upon which it is employed; yet, in fact, it is more difficult than the special kind. The materials out of which it is formed are few in number, and easily accessible. The following is a pretty complete assortment. The weather-the health of your friends-the funds-any accidents which have happened to any of your acquaintances, such as deaths or marriages—the King-Bonaparte-Lord Byron-the cheapness of meat-any watering-place-the corn-bill-the author of Waverleyand the theatre. These are the coin that will pass current in any society. Thus, in a morning call, if two strangers happen to be left together, how agreeably they may pass the time in enlarging upon the above topics. "A very hot day, Sir!" "Yes, indeed, Sir; my thermometer stood 80 in the shade. Pray, Sir, are you related to the Rev. Jeremiah Jollison? I hope he is well."-" I am his brother, Sir: he died two years ago."-"God bless me! but it's more than two years since I saw him. Pray, Sir, what do you think of Spanish bonds?" &c.

&c. Such is the conversation you generally hear after dinner (before dinner there is none), in stage-coaches, at hotels, and at watering-places. It is most suitable for adults. The grand difficulty in this kind of smalltalk is to discover any subject; for as I imagine it to be a metaphysical truth, that the mind cannot, ex mero motu suo, call up any subject it pleases, the dialogue must necessarily depend on the power of association in the brain of the individuals who maintain it. It requires great presence of mind to call up a sufficient number of topics to meet a sudden emergency. Thus, when you meet a friend in the street, who, in