lege widely different from the general independence enjoyed by many of its members in the nineteenth century.

Students who reside at Cambridge are expected to pay regularly a fixed salary to their college tutors; and about four thousand pounds per annum becomes due every year in this manner from the students of Trinity College to their college tutors, for tuition money. A much larger sum is probably paid by the more opulent or ambitious students to their private tutors, for their valuable exertions.

At the present day the ancient statutes, both of the Colleges and of the University, are easily forgotten in the routine of new duties and new payments, where the advancement of knowledge is alone affected; and success in the scientific and literary examinations required by the Colleges as well as by the University, is recommended as the most laudable object of ambition to the students who are educated at Cambridge.

J. H.

ART. V.-LUCUBRATIONS IN TRAVEL, No. 2.

NAPLES.

HOWEVER separated by years of time, or miles of space, from the scenes of past pleasure, as we turn over the pages that with a slight and hasty outline preserve the memory of them to us, and half-forgotten feelings come clearly and freshly back upon us, we feel that the things which interested when present, enchain when past. It surely is "vivere bis-vitâ posse priore frui."

It is not merely that all petty annoyances and vexations, all envious drawbacks and discontentments, are forgotten, and that the Beautiful and the Glorious stand forth in full relief, but that in the exuberance of gratitude for the enjoyments of the past, the mind indulges in a kind of lavish affectionateness for all things, times, places, and persons, in any way connected with them. We reflect the joyous rays from our own spirits on everything around us. In the plenitude of our happiness we do not contract and concentrate, but expand and disperse our feelings of delight. Everything within the circle of the magic ring floats in the sunshine of our hearts. It is this feeling that makes you in after times regard even the beggar that pursued you, or the guide that teased you, with a certain species of complacency. Actual feelings of abhorrence are softened, as actual feelings of regard are heightened by the bonhomie, so to speak, that pervades one in recalling the seasons of delicious Travel.

But this is not peculiar to recollections of beautiful and distant scenes. A similar impression is left on most sanguine temperaments after any species of high pleasure, a similar light emanates from the sources of Pleasure, and a similar halo is spread over the surrounding objects and accompanying circumstances. Observe, for instance, the general empressement that appears in the manners of persons fresh from an intellectual treat. Their inward delight vents itself on the first objects that encounter it from without. It is not mere selfish pleasure manifesting itself by outward indication, but the force of strong human sympathy demanding an outburst, that we trace in the manners of those whom humanizing associations have been recently affecting. They may have gone forth to seek the excitement for their own pleasure, but when once it is communicated, when the noble Thought is imparted, the exquisite scene engraven on their spirits, they emerge from their reserve-there is a kinder glance in their eye, of regard, a firmer grasp in their hand of friendship.

They went forth Eremites-they came back restored to the human Family. They went forth Misanthropes-they came back Lovers of their Race. We should rather meet a man coming from some place where he had been listening to the outpourings of Thoughts that interested and raised him, than meet him going to it. We should rather meet an acquaintance for the first time in our wanderings, at the foot of the Galleria Stairs at Florence, "drunk with Beauty," than meet him at the same place "thirsting for it." He does not then, perhaps, wish of all things for solitude-he is rather delighted to lay claim to the sympathy you will give him.

It is not the man who retires to his closet, wedged up more closely than ever into his own selfishness, that really enjoys nature and art, but he whose bosom warms towards his kind, and in the plenitude of its own happiness relieves itself in a shower of gentle emotions and kindly feelings, whose impressed manner shows recently impressed sentiment. Hazlitt well remarks, that " we are cold to others only when we are dull in ourselves, and have neither thoughts nor feelings to impart to them. Give a man a topic in his head, and a throb of pleasure in his heart, and he will be glad to share it with the first person he meets."

The Universe may not be mental in Bishop Berkeley's sense, but if the Prototype be material, at least each part of it is cast in a thousand mental moulds. It may exist in itself, but it assuredly re-exists in our spirits. Ten thousand minds carry off a scene from the Lakes-some Waterfall, with its rocky and mossed ravines, the sunlight glancing over the edge of crag and thicket—and it is ever after in its own physical properties present to their minds, though not a drop has been drawn off from its bonny waters, or a grain subtracted from the hill-side. Nature and art are eternal and exhaustless treasuries, from which we gather without diminishing them, which we actually carry off with us, and yet leave inviolate and untouched for others. These are flowers that willingly yield, but never lose their honey. To all purposes of mental being, the great forms of Beauty that fill the galleries and grace the vales of Italy are present to a million appreciating hearts, and yet remain, still to become possessions to a million more.

What can adequately express the Creator's benignity in thus amplifying so generously the sources of human joy? What endless films of themselves are the Beautiful and the Grand perpetually flinging off! Each traveller who asks for them takes them back with him; and the Prototype remains, with scarce the power of self-exhaustion, to supply ages to come. It is gloomy, foggy, dark November-but that sun that shone

in January on the gardens of the Chiaja-that danced and sparkled on the laughing Bay-that lit up the white City and villages as they wound in graceful curve along the edge of the circling waters-shines in upon one now, as warm, as fair, as happy as 'twas then.

Joseph Fawcett, of Old Jewry Lectureship celebrity, says that none are so tired as those who are always resting, none so uneasy as those who consult nothing but their ease. It may be supposed then that the person thoroughly to enjoy a few days or weeks idleness is one whose average life is tolerably active. To such a man, seeking for the luxury of indolence, I would say, "Go to Naples." You may be vigorous at Florence-industrious at Rome (in winter time at least)-but if you want to be intensely and gloriously idle, "Go to Naples." You need not, in fact you scarcely ought, to do anything there. It is not the genius of the Place, it is not the will of the Climate. If you can avail yourself of a few happy days ere the nerves which another clime has braced, are entirely relaxed, or while the imperative sense of propriety carries, for its brief moment, all before it, use them well, and then-resign yourself to your fate. You will not deem it an exertion to allow the balmy air to enter your lungs, to receive the sunshine on the Toledo, or suffer the little skiff to dance you up and down between Capri and the mainland. You will perhaps at intervals think yourself equal to Bulwer's Pompeii, a few passages of Pliny, a revision of the sixth Æneid, and the old Canonico's book on the Geography thereof, before you take your ramble to the City of the Dead, or the sunny shores of Puteoli and Baiæ.

But, in the meantime, we are in Naples. The Albergo di Crocelle had opened its gates to us, the night before, on our arrival from Rome; and Mola di Gaeta, with its indescribable and fairy inn, (inn one can scarcely bring oneself to call it,) had, during the early day, begun to hint that the weather was not like the 27th of January. At Capua, whether it was the recollections of Hannibal's troops, or the reality of the climate, that occasioned it, I will not say; but the air certainly felt singularly balmy. But, on the morning of the 28th, all doubt about the reality of the change must have entirely disappeared. Imagine going to sleep in January, and awakening in July. Conceive of being boxed up in a well-fired room, in rather rainy weather, at Rome on Sunday, and sitting on the Wednesday following with windows wide open,-gales of summer breathing in; Vesuvius on your left hand, and the sparkling Bay of Naples before you. Also, a great consolation, there are few churches; and, except the Borbonico, few galleries or museums

that you need go to see. As Willis righteously remarks,-"To live on these things, as one does in Italy, is like dining from morning till night."

Go, then, and look at living pictures. Go at once to the Toledo. While away some hours on your first morning in stroling through this very Greek and lively population. You are first, perhaps, greeted with a little bouquet of early violets. If you are riding, they will be flung prodigally and bountifully into your carriage on speculation. Remember, Mr. Englishman, it is with flowers that you are pelted, so do not look so indignant, because you do not want their violets. As you pass along, do not forget to note the frequent money-changer's table, and perhaps even (though, for this, you had better go to the piazzi of the San Carlo,) the letter-writer's table also. There is a poor fellow asking you for a baioch; he has just got one from some one else, and awaits another from you, and then his day's work is done. He will sit down on the causeway, rest his back against the wall, take out his piece of bread, his bunch of grapes, and his bicchiere di vins, and is at the summit of his earthly felicity. Look around you on all sides, and on all sides there will appear life and vivacity. At first, you will think yourself in the busiest street in the world; till you look again, and then you are at a loss to know what their employment is. The fact is, they are all exceedingly busy, with nothing in the world to do; exceedingly happy, with perhaps nothing in the world for to-morrow; laughing, gesticulating, singing, smiling, and basking in the sun; their very beggars begging half in mirth; their signs to express suffering and hunger, exaggerated into the burlesque.

When you retire from this strange and motley scene, and while still clothed in that nameless sort of genial, happy, sunny feeling, in which one first rises, and in which one continues throughout the day to glory, at the year's first decisive leap into summer, throw yourself into a boat, get a mile or two out into the Bay, and look back upon its city and village-crowned shore. You may thus experience that kind of quick and sudden fascination which at once entrances the stranger on his first coming into this sunny South, and very Greek people. The early colonists fixed on a good name when they called this spot the Virgin-face Parthenope; and if you will go some day beyond the Chiaja Gardens, on towards a certain grotto and a certain tomb, you will know why they called a portion of its neighbourhood Pausilype, Cessation of Care. I girded on the armour of Faith when I went there, and believed that I stood on the site of Virgil's Burial-place. The wind blew about the elevated spot. The long hanging creeper swung in a mass, as the Menai Bridge