We had been hoping for this event during all our stay in Naples. There had been every sign of an eruption for months, and now, to our great joy, it had come; for, as it was unaccompanied by any destructive earthquakes, and seemed a peaceable display of the mountain's glorious powers, we felt no compunctions at rejoicing over it. Vesuvius looked grandly, as we rode briskly along the road facing it. Heavy columns of fiery vapor arose, touched on the edges by the moonlight, and streams of fire glided, snake-like, down the mountain-sides.

There was no terrifying darkness, no fearful explosions, none of the horrible attendants on preceding eruptions. The mountain seemed simply like a huge overflowing vase of fire; a beautiful and glorious spectacle, rather than a thing of terror and ruin; and so unlike the ordinary idea of Vesuvius in action, that we almost forgot its power to do harm. The flames and lava-streams did not pour from the summit, but from the sides. We afterwards learned that new craters have formed around it, and from these came streaming down the fiery rivers; there were two beautiful currents, which we could see, of the most exquisite fire-color, not sulphureous-hued, but mellow and almost rosy.

After the first expressions of gratification we said little, but looked on the beautiful mountain with indescribable, half-bewildered feelings, such as one has in a vivid dream; it seemed like some scene from a fairy tale of gnomes and mountain spirits, some gorgeous, impossible vision of childhood, made real and possible.

Great phenomena of any kind are rarely seen under favorable circumstances; but surely our first sight of Vesuvius in flames could not have been more happily arranged.

L

SKY-ROCKETS.

AST evening, being Trinity Sunday and the Queen's birthday, the whole town was superbly illuminated. To form a complete idea of the

extent to which town illuminations can be carried, and their frequency, it is necessary to visit Naples. I have never seen so many or such interesting ones as during the few months I have been here. Partial illuminations of some quarter of the town take place several times a week.

The decoration of buildings for illuminations is quite a lucrative business in Naples, they tell me. On the fêteday of a church, that is, the day devoted to the saint whose name it bears,—its whole front is covered with hastily-erected scaffoldings, and several men can be seen running up and down ladders, from tower to roof, and roof to basement, suspending strings of small parti-colorea glass cups, and arranging them skilfully, so as to form various symbolical figures when lighted; for each cup is half-filled with oil, on which floats a taper. Sometimes the houses and stores on the sides of the open square in front of the church are decorated in a like manner. At nightfall these lamps are lighted and the scaffoldings removed, with a celerity that seems hardly possible. The church façade then looks like a fairy scene, with its

twinkling, sparkling, brilliant-hued letters and devices, and as they begin to pale and drop out, one by one, the attention of the crowd is attracted by the firing-off of petards and the sending up of remarkably fine fireworks. The pyrotechnical displays in Naples seem inexhaustible: there is one called the Girandola, which is remarkably beautiful; it is formed by a simultaneous discharge of numberless rockets, that fall back from a centre as they explode, looking like fiery petals of a gigantic lily-cup or bell.

After twilight this evening, while we were sitting on the terrace, looking at Vesuvius and watching the gradual brightening of the town, Luigi and Philip came in to propose a drive through the streets, to see the different illuminations and fireworks, and the equally fiery crowd. Janet, Venitia, Philip, and I went in the coach, Luigi on horseback.

We first drove to the Largo di Palazzo Reale, to see the illumination of the Royal Palace, and the grand sight presented by San Francesco di Paula, which is opposite. The magnificent dome of this fine church was outlined against the glowing sky by glittering gas-jets, whose tingling, tongue-like flames seemed like living things, as they mounted from the base of the dome to its apex, on which blazed a superb cross of fire.

After we have seen a moderate amount of wonders, we become very unreasonable; instead of being satisfied with our pleasure, we grow exacting, and ask not only for more, but for something greater.

To that dome and cross, whose graceful outlines trembled on the heavens and looked as if springing from the clouds themselves, and not belonging to anything on earth, we dared to suggest the addition of a new beauty.

"Instead of that simple cross-form," said our poet Philip, "it should have been like Constantine's visionary one, of which Eusebius tells us. Think how superb would have been the effect, to have seen palpitating in that gasflame a cross, with the Greek characters, EN TOYTO NIKA, 'Conquer through this.""

"O," cried Janet, deprecatingly, "how can you trouble the beautiful thing by wishing for something beyond it? Surely, it is lovely enough to satisfy a poet's imaginings. Look at those porticos and that vestibule."

This church, San Francesco di Paula, has two semicircular porticos at right and left, supported by fortyfour columns, and in front of the church itself is a vestibule with ten fine Ionic columns. These were all lighted by concealed gas-jets, and, as Janet spoke, a fresh head of gas was turned on, which glowed first at the base of the church and then mounted up to the summit, making these porticos look like enchanted aisles leading to some angelic cathedral.

"Do you remember," asked Philip, as we were noticing the resemblance of this church to the Pantheon, "what Stendhal said of it, when it was building, in 1816? Bianchi showed him the plan, and Stendhal wrote, 'Bianchi has adopted the circular form, which is a proof he appreciates the antique; but he has not remembered that the ancients proposed a very different end from ours in their temples. The religion of the Greeks was a festival, not a menace. The temple under the beautiful heavens was only a theatre of sacrifice, not immolation. Instead of kneeling, of prostrating one's self, and striking the breast, they executed in it sacred and beautiful dances. Shall our artists ever be able to read with their souls? Those of the present day seem unable to raise themselves

to a comprehension that the ancients did nothing for mere ornament; the beautiful, with them, was only the natural growth of the useful.' But I do not see," continued Philip, "how Stendhal could have been long in Naples without discovering that this Catholic religion is a great deal like that of the old Greeks,—a festival of the gayest kind."

Of

"The Neapolitans are neither Catholics nor Pagans," I remarked; "they are simply image-worshippers. But what higher religious form can be looked for in a populace so mobile, wayward, and, above all, joy-seeking? course, their religion must take the gay color of their pleasure-loving dispositions. Wait until these people, by some one of those great world-miracles, which take place every age or two, are changed into more thinking, intelligent beings, not needing visible signs like St. Thomas; then they can be St. Johns and St. Pauls."

"Yes," said Janet, "I do not think Protestants give enough weight, particularly in religion, to the needs of peculiar organizations, as well as influences of climate. Here in Naples the national appetite is for show, éclat, and bustle, not for quiet reason and calm thought. The people are quick at, and eager for, receiving impressions; but there must be new dies ready, as the burning lava of feeling and emotion is ever flowing. Their love of a sensation is a positive, passionate need, which, if not gratified, becomes as fierce as unsatisfied hunger. During this present visit of mine to Naples, while looking at the childlike throngs gazing at the spectacles in churches, or the throbbing, eager crowd in the streets, making up the religious processions, or kneeling devoutly as the sacred Host passes, I have repeatedly thought what fearful savages these people would be, without the help and control