mean.

hind the gorgeous vehicle, and letting down a sort of trap-door, displayed two long, open trays, in each of which was an adult body. These were sewn up in coarse rags, their faces being uncovered. They were taken from the hearse, which at once drove off, and placed in little cabinets at the side of the Campo. I asked the custodian what all this parade, this perambulating whited sepulchre, might He said it bore the bodies of those whose friends could afford to pay a dollar that they might be buried "con magnificenza," in other words, that they might ride in state to the grave. Those who were thus brought to the cemetery were not buried till later in the evening than the rest, when a greater degree of ceremony was observed, though all were deposited in the same grave. The custode was extremely civil, and explained everything to me with great kindness. He seemed to feel a certain pride in his position as ruler of this realm of death.

But now the moment for opening the pit had arrived. The stone was raised from its mouth by the attendants. The coffins of children, fourteen in number, were piled confusedly together near it, and the doors of the dead-carts were opened. Some of the bodies were covered with rags, some had no covering at all. A priest, with an attendant bearing a vase of holy water, now came forward with an air of perfect indifference, and read a very few sentences from the ritual. Then, taking the brush from the neophyte, he sprinkled some slight drops of water from the vase over the bodies. Advancing a step,

he made the sign of the cross, muttered some indistinct words, (they might have been a blessing, they might have been a curse,) and went away. The men thereupon opened the coffins of the infants and children, one after another, and dropped the bodies into the pit of horror in a manner perfectly unfeeling. There was one, and only one, sign of human sensibility at this vicinity of death. Two peasants had approached, and with heads uncovered were watching the scene with an expression of deep interest. As one body after another disappeared below, they broke the deep silence by exclaiming in a low, mournful tone, which sounded like a requiem over the dead, "Quanto è bellino! Quanto è bellino!" And this was the only manifestation of human interest.

The bodies of the adults were then taken from the dead-carts, and one by one were lowered into the tomb, with a sound that made me thrill with horror. The last was that of a young man of perhaps twenty years, without one rag to conceal the lineaments of death. He was not wasted away by the slow progress of disease, but his athleticform yet bore the signs of vigor and strength. The flesh was firm and the muscles large. He had met with his fate from the hand of violence, and the wound which had caused it was visible. He was slowly lowered into the throat of the grave, until he hung for a moment suspended by one arm over the hecatomb of death below him. He was the crowning sacrifice. As I looked, his form swung

round, as if by his own will, and the full glance of those open eyes fell upon me with an expression I shall never forget. It told of deathly anguish and undying remorse. It was the look of a lost being, peering through the dim veil that separates us all from the grave, and yearning to speak of the misery which devoured him. He seemed to say, "Weep, weep, forever weep, my soul!" He appeared like a messenger from beyond the tomb beckoning me to follow him that he might reveal the anguish of the past and seek consolation for the future. "Yes,' I cried, "I will go with thee. The bitter cup thou hast tasted I fear not to drink. Thy footsteps in the sad ashes of desolation I dread not to trace." He disappeared. I sprang to the mouth of the pit and saw the spectacle below me. He had done his work. He lay on one arm upon the altar of death. Yet still those wistful, longing eyes, steeped in woe, summon me to go forth into the dread unknown. They haunt me by day, and in the shades of night I still see them. They draw me each moment nearer the pale regions of the dead, and while I live they will never leave me.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CAPRI.

THE mode of going to Capri, as I found it, is not according to any ideas of travel entertained or practised in my own country, or, in fact, among any other people whom I ever had the pleasure of visiting. The uncertainties of getting there are very great. The boat is advertised to sail on a particular day and hour, and if at that time a number of passengers sufficient to pay the expenses of the trip (to wit, fourteen) make their appearance, it starts, but not otherwise. As the proprietors are accountable to no one but themselves, they are perfectly independent. Under these circumstances, I was not surprised, on arriving at the quay, to learn that at least half of the voyagers present had waited ten days for the opportunity of making the trip. The steamer proved to be small, decrepit, and vicious-looking. I did not see any name on her, but should not have been surprised to see painted on her stern,

"Lasciate ogni speranza, voi che 'ntrate." *

She was stationed about two rods from the shore,

* "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

too far to jump on board, but near enough to be extremely aggravating. This was done for no other reason than to compel the passengers to pay an extra fee to the boatmen for taking them to her in their small boats, of which there were a number at hand. For this service they exacted all they thought they could get, according to their custom, hectoring one, abusing another, in their barbarous Neapolitan patois, flattering and cajoling, wheedling and threatening, and always appealing to the Madonna for the rectitude of their intentions. In one somewhat crowded boat near the steamer was a young Englishman, who appeared to have had a little experience in the art of travelling, and was not going on board till certain terms had been exacted from the captain. He was energetically oratorizing in broken Italian, in fact, so badly broken that it was difficult, out of a dozen sentences, to find one whole idea. As the boat slightly rose and fell with the swell of the bay, and the orator had nothing to rest upon for a support, he appeared somewhat unsteady. He did not have at all the aspect of Demosthenes; and I doubt if Webster himself could have made a trustworthy declaration of his political belief on so uncertain a platform.

The advertisement which announced the proposed trip had stated that the boat would sail for Capri at a certain hour, and, returning, stop at Sorrento. It had happened several times before that the same form of notice had been published, but the captain, on his return, had thought it more for his advantage