though in their madness they are sporting on the brink of destruction. Amid all his depressions, he is never left without some communication of mercy. Amid all their exultings, they are never freed from some foreboding of ill. "The righteous has hope in his death." "The wicked are driven away in their wickedness." You only know the preciousness of the Saviour, who are convinced of the sinfulness of your sin. And you only are sustained at the dread entering into the eternal world, who cherish the Christian persuasion that," with the Lord," who sitteth there to judge you, "is plenteous redemption." BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF BISHOP OF DOWN, CONNOR, AND DROMORE. At this period the country was convulsed by civil commotions, in consequence of the dissensions which arose between the Parliament and the King (Charles I.) on the one hand, and between the Presbyterians and Episcopalians on the other. In this contest, Taylor espoused the cause both of the King and Episcopacy; and as a reward of his loyalty and zeal, he was admitted by the royal mandate to the degree of doctor of divinity. The Presbyterians were at first a very powerful party, and accordingly a number of the Episcopalian clergy were deprived of their livings. Among the rest, the rectory of Uppingham was sequestered; and Dr Taylor appears, for a time at least, to have followed the royal army, in the capacity of chaplain, till on the decline of the king's cause, he sought an asylum in Wales. It is generally supposed, more particularly from some remarks in the dedication to his "Liberty of Prophesying," that Dr Taylor was imprisoned during the civil war, but if so, no definite information has been obtained upon the subject. But, whether he himself was imprisoned or not, he seems to have resolutely adhered to the cause of the monarch; and at a late period of Charles's mis fortunes, he received from him, in token of his grati tude and esteem, his watch, and a few pearls and rubies which had ornamented the ebony case in which he kept his Bible. As Dr Taylor was now deprived of all church preferment, he supported himself by keeping a school, in partnership with William Nicholson, afterwards Bishop of Gloucester, and William Wyatt, after. wards Prebendary of Lincoln. While engaged in this useful occupation, he published what is, perhaps, the ablest of his writings-the "Liberty of Prophesying." This work was composed, he tells us, under great disadvantages; in adversity and want; without books or leisure, and with no other resources than his own knowledge and acquirements afforded. Yet, notwithstanding these unfavourable circumstances, the fame of its author rests, in a great measure, if not mainly, upon it. The vigour of thought, and the richness of illustration by which it is characterised, have raised the name of Jeremy Taylor to a high rank among the classical writers of England. There were some passages, however, in this work, more especially in regard to the Anabaptists, which were regarded by many as too liberal, and even excited some suspicion as to the author's opinions on the subject of baptism. In consequence of the misunderstanding which thus arose, Dr Taylor thought proper, in a subsequent edition, to enter very fully into an explanation of the language which had given rise to the ob From that period, Laud became the patron of Taylor, and took occasion, in a short time, to recommend him to a fellowship in All Souls College, Oxford. This appointment was of great importance, as affording him ample opportunity of acquiring extensive knowledge, both of theology and general literature. He had not been long, however, in the enjoyment of his fellow-jections. The mild and tolerant doctrines which he ship, when he was presented by Juxon, Bishop of London, to the rectory of Uppingham in Rutlandshire, an office which, though not inconsistent with his fellowship, yet prevented him from that regular residence at college which he would otherwise have given. At this time, probably from the fact that he was patronised by Laud, Mr Taylor was suspected of entertaining a concealed attachment to the Romish Church. This During his retirement in Wales, after he had quitted suspicion, unfounded though it was, as his after life the king's army, Dr Taylor entered again into the maramply proved, gained additional currency from the cir-ried state. His second wife was a Mrs Joanna Bridges, cumstance, that Mr Taylor lived for some time on very intimate terms with a learned Franciscan friar. It was not long, however, before Mr Taylor gave a practical refutation to the calumny, in so far at least as the doctrine of the celibacy of the clergy is concerned, for, on the 27th of March 1639, in the twenty-sixth year of his age, he married, at Uppinghain, Phoebe Langsdale, of whose family little else is known, than that her brother practised as a physician, first at Gainsborough, and afterwards at Leeds. This matrimonial union was happy, but of short duration, extending only to three years, when his wife died, leaving her husband with the care of two boys, a third having died in infancy a very short time before her. had advocated throughout, soon called forth a host of opponents; and among the rest, the well-known Samuel Rutherford, Professor of Divinity at St. Andrews. To the animadversions of Mr Rutherford, though characterised by great ability and talent, he made no reply, for what reason it is, of course, impossible to ascer tain. who was possessed of a competent estate at Mandinam, in the parish of Llangnedr, and county of Carmarthen. This marriage, though promising a considerable addition to his income, did not completely fulfil his expectations in that respect, as he seems to have been indebted for his subsistence to his own literary labours, and to the kind assistance of his friends. Of these, the most influential and wealthy was Richard Vaughan, Earl of Carbery, whose seat at Golden Grove was in the immediate neighbourhood of Dr Taylor's residence. In the friendship of this family, he found a happy asylum, and an opportunity of preaching the Gospel when excluded from the churches. His writings, at this time, were chiefly of a devotional and practical charac ter. The first was a work which soon rose to great popularity, entitled "The Life of Christ; or the Great Exemplar." This was speedily followed by other publications of the same description; and among the rest, his "Holy Living and Dying," written for the use of his patroness, Lady Carbery, and, on its publication after her death, dedicated to her afflicted husband. In the critical circumstances of the country at this period, Dr Taylor did not think himself fully justified in altogether avoiding controversy. He accordingly published a work in defence of Episcopacy, against the attacks both of the Presbyterians and the Independents, and the result was his immediate imprisonment, but where, or how long, cannot now be discovered. Shortly, however, after his liberation, he appears, for some reason of the same kind, to have been again imprisoned in Chepstow Castle. But the harsh treatment to which he was subjected did not prevent him from openly giving forth his opinions to the world. These were not always in accordance with the standards of that Church to which he belonged. On the contrary, his work on Repentance, which appeared at that period, called forth the animadversions both of churchmen and dissenters. The heresy into which he was thought to have fallen, consisted in a denial of the doctrine of original sin. From this charge of Pelagianism, Dr Taylor was very anxious to exculpate himself; and accordingly, from Chepstow Castle, he sent forth an attempted explanation of his opinions, dedicated to the Bishop of Rochester. That prelate, however, was still unsatisfied, and with reason; for the new work contained simply a repetition of the erroneous sentiments set forth in the old. The most eminent persons connected with the Episcopalian party, remonstrated strongly against the heresy thus openly promulgated within the pale of their own communion. Dr Taylor felt deeply the reproach cast upon him from all sides, and his spirits being depressed at the same time by poverty and the death of one of his children, his mind was the more easily irritated by the acrimonious censures of others. The domestic sorrows of this eminent man were many and severe. Shortly after the loss of the child already mentioned, it pleased God to send the small-pox and fever into his family, and he was thus deprived of "two sweet, hopeful boys.' The dispensation was deeply distressing, but his mind was resigned to the will of God. "For myself," says he, “I bless God, I have observed and felt so much mercy in this angry dispensation of God, that I am almost transported, I am sure highly pleased, with thinking how infinitely sweet his mercies are when his judgments are so gracious." The poverty of Dr Taylor was at this time alleviated by the generous grant of a yearly pension from his steady friend John Evelyn, Esq., who, in his letters, always speaks of him in the highest terms, and calls him indeed his spiritual father. The letter which acknowledges the generosity and kindness of Evelyn, is so beautiful, that we cannot refrain from presenting it to our readers. "Honoured and dear Sir,-A stranger came two nights since from you with a letter, and a token; full of humanity and sweetnesse that was, and this of charity. I know it is more blessed to give than to receive; and yet as I noways repine at the Providence that forces me to receive, so neither can I envy that felicity of yours, not onely that you can, but that you doe give; and as I rejoyce in that mercy which daily makes decrees in heaven for my support and comfort, Boe I doe most thankfully adore the goodnesse of God to you, whom he consignes to greater glories by the ministeries of these graces. But, Sir, what am I, or what have I done, that you thinke I have or can oblige you? Sir, you are too kinde to mee, and oblige mee not onely beyond my merit, but beyond my modesty. Ionely can love you, and honour you, and pray for you: and in all this I cannot say but that I am behind hand with you; for I have found so great effluxes of all your worthinesse and charities, that I am a debtor for your prayers, for the comfort of your letters, for the charity of your hand, and the affections of your heart. Sir, though you are beyond the reach of my returnes, and my services are very short of touching you, yet if it were possible for me to receive any commands, the obeying of which might signify my great regards of you, I could with some more confidence converse with a person so obliging; but I am obliged and ashamed, and unable to say so much as I should doe to represent myself to be, honoured and deare Sir," &c. Some men's lives are full of troubles, and such seems to have been the case with Jeremy Taylor; for in 1658 we find him again imprisoned in the Tower of London, in consequence of his bookseller having prefixed to one of his works a print of Christ in the attitude of prayer. Such representations were then regarded as scandalous, and tending to idolatry; and an act had lately passed, inflicting on those guilty of such offences the penalty of fine and imprisonment. By the kind influence and interposition of Evelyn, however, Dr Taylor was soon released, and we find him writing a letter of condolence to his friend on the loss of his sons. As a specimen of the richness and beauty even of his epistolary style of writing, we willingly quote it. "Deare Sir,-If dividing and sharing greifes were like the cutting of rivers, I dare say to you, you would find your streame much abated; for I account myselfe to have a great cause of sorrow, not onely in the diminution of the numbers of your joys and hopes, but in the losse of that pretty person, your strangely hopeful boy. I cannot tell all my owne sorrowes without adding to yours; and the causes of my real sadnesse in your losse are so just and reasonable, that I can no otherwise comfort you but by telling you, that you have great cause to mourne: so certaine it is that greife does propagate as fire does. You have enkindled my funeral torch, and by joining mine to yours, I doe but increase the flame. But, Sir, I cannot choose, but I must hold another and a brighter flame to you, it is already burning in your heart; and if I can but remove the darke side of the lanthorne, you have enoughe within you to warme yourselfe, and to shine to others. Remember, Sir, your two boyes are two bright starres, and their innocence is secured, and you shall never hear evil of them agayne. Their state is safe, and heaven is given to them upon very easy termes; nothing but to be borne and die. It will cost you more trouble to get where they are; and, amongst other things, one of the hardnesses will be, that you must overcome even this just and reasonable greife: and, indeed, though the greife hath but too reasonable a cause, yet it is much more reasonable that you master it. For besides that they are no loosers, but you are the person that complaines, doe but consider what you would have suffered for their interest; you [would] have suffered them to goe from you, to be great princes in a strange country: and if you can be content to suffer your owne inconvenience for their interest, you command [commend?] your worthiest love, and the question of mourning is at an end. But you have said and done well, when you looke upon it as a rod of God; and he that so smites here will spare hereafter: and if you, by patience and submission, imprint the discipline upon your own flesh, you kill the cause, and make the effect very tolerable; because it is, in some sense, chosen, and therefore, in no sense, insufferable. Sir, if you doe not looke to it, time will snatch your honour from you, and reproach you for not effecting that by Christian philosophy which time will doe alone. And if you consider, that of the bravest men in the world, we find the seldomest stories of their children, and the apostles had none, and thousands of the worthiest persons, that sound most in story, diea childlesse; you will find it a rare act of Providence so to impose upon worthy men a necessity of perpetuating their names by worthy actions and discourses, governments, and reasonings. If the breach be never repaired, it is because God does not see it fitt to be; and if you will be of his mind, it will be much the better. But, Sir, you will pardon my zeale and passion for your comfort; I will readily confesse that you have no need of any discourse from me to comfort you. Sir, now you have an opportunity of serving God by passive graces; strive to be an example and a comfort to your lady, and by your wise counsel and comfort, stand in the breaches of your owne family, and make it appeare that you are more to her than ten sons. Sir, by the assistance of Almighty God, I purpose to wait on you some time next weeke, that I may be a witnesse of your Christian courage and bravery; and that I may see, that God never displeases you, as long as the main stake is preserved, I meane your hopes and confidences of heaven. Sir, I shall pray for all that you can want, that is, some degrees of comfort and a present mind; and shall alwayes doe you honour, and faine also would doe you service, if it were in the power, as it is in the affections and desires of, dear Sir," &c. For some time Dr Taylor was accustomed to exercise his ministerial functions in private houses in London, but at length his friends became anxious to provide for him some permanent settlement. The Earl of Conway proposed, through Evelyn, that he should accept of an alternate lectureship in Lisburn, in the north of Ireland, with a prospect of other advantages. To this proposal, accordingly, he acceded, and having been provided with several letters of recommendation to men of talent and influence in Ireland, he set out for that country. Poor and dependent though he still continued, his residence at Lisburn, or rather Portmore, about eight miles distant from it, appears to have been the happiest period of his life. But even here, he was not entirely exempt from the evils of the times, or the effects of private malice. He was represented to the Irish Privy Council as a dangerous and disaffected character, and, in consequence of this, he was summoned to appear before them for examination. By the intervention of his friends, however, he was speedily discharged. As Dr Taylor had now almost completed his great work on cases of conscience, entitled "Ductor Dubitantium," he took a journey to London, with the view of carrying it through the press. While in the metropolis, he was brought under the notice of Charles II., who had recently returned to the throne, and to that monarch he dedicated the work on which he rested his fame, and which had occupied many years of his life. The work attracted at first considerable notice, and raised the renown of the author as a learned and able divine. This circumstance, probably in connection with the favour in which he was held by the restored government, led to his appointment, on the 6th of August after the king's return, to the bishopric of Down and Connor; and shortly after, he was elected, by the Duke of Ormond's recommendation, Vice-Chancellor of the University of Dublin. In both offices Dr Taylor was indefatigable in his exertions; and such was the high opinion entertained of his wisdom, that he was chosen a member of the Irish Privy Council, and intrusted, in addition to his former diocese, with the administration of the small adjacent one of Dromore. His incessant occupations were now sufficient to engage his undivided attention, and his contributions to the press were accordingly few in number. In the midst of his outward prosperity, however, he was subjected to a sore domestic bereavement in the loss of his son Edward-the only surviving son of the second marriage. This afflictive dispensation bore heavy | upon Dr Taylor's mind, but, supported by the consola. tions of God, which are neither few nor small, he con tinued to discharge his varied duties with faithfulness and efficiency. His race, however, was nearly run. His last work which he lived to publish, was a "Dissuasive from Popery," written at the express desire of the collective body of Irish bishops. For three years after the appearance of this work he continued to prosecute his active and zealous labours in the cause of his Redeemer, but, on August 3d, 1667, he was attacked by a fever, which cut him off, after only ten days' illness, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. THE HAPPY INFLUENCE OF GOOD EXAMPLE, AND THE TENDENCY OF CHRISTIANITY TO IMPROVE THE CHARACTER. ALTHOUGH the officers of the army in India do not universally set a full example of the Christian life and character; yet with many deficiencies, their general integrity, truth, and honour, are unimpeachable, and in these qualities they rise far above the natives. This cannot be imputed, with truth, to any other cause than their being brought up in the knowledge of the Scriptures, which, though it has not produced all its fruits, has yet done this so far, that falsehood, fraud, and dishonesty, have come to be regarded as such degrading vices, that no man who pretends to the character of an honourable man, will allow himself to be guilty of them. The following narrative, from Captain Skinner's "Excursions in India," shows how much good even this imperfect catalogue of Christian virtues is capable of producing, whence we may infer what mighty effects would be produced, if all professed Christians were to act any thing nearly in accordance with their profession and name: "We hear very little of Hindoo conversion," says the author," and many who have not had the opportunity of witnessing the zeal and perseverance of our Missionaries may imagine that they slumber at their posts. But theirs is a silent way, and their endeavours, though little seen or heard, have, under the divine assistance, produced some effect. It would be enlarging on a wellknown tale to dwell on the sorrows that a Hindoo must bear, and the struggles he must make, before he can renounce his religion. The severest sacrifices, however, have been made; and as it has often been gravely asserted, that such examples of sincerity have never occurred, I cannot resist relating the following instance, which fell under my own observation. "A soldier belonging to one of the native regiments had been baptized by the chaplain of the station where it was quartered. He was a great favourite with his comrades, and such a circumstance made no inconsiderable stir among them. The government, on hearing of the matter, ordered an investigation into it; the soldier's story was simple, and his subsequent conduct proved it true. "From the first year I entered the service,' he said, I was struck with the difference of the conduct of the British officers and the higher men of my own country. The former, I noticed, never told an untruth, and were never guilty of a dishonest action. Among the latter, truth was little considered, and knavish tricks were far too common. On the expedition to Java, while on shipboard, I had an opportunity of observing the manners of the English more minutely, and was confirmed in my ideas concerning them. I was struck with their mode of praying every Sunday, and became anxious to be better informed in their religious belief. I conversed whenever I could with Europeans on the subject, and never ceased to think on all they told me, till on my return to Calcutta, I obtained a translated copy of the Bible. I studied it constantly, and determined to become a Christian. I knew it was necessary, before I could make this declaration, to take leave of every member of my family, and I got a furlough for that purpose. I had much to struggle with. I put off the disclosure to the last moment; and when at last I made it, all the opposition I anticipated was offered. When I combated their arguments, they assailed me with reproaches and tears. I remained firm, however, and parted with them as if I had been going to execution. I can never hope to meet them again. Judge if I am not sincere. And now, gentlemen,' continued he, addressing the military court of inquiry, are you not Christians and soldiers too? How then can my becoming a Christian unfit me for a soldier? And why, because I believe in your God, am I not capable of serving your king?' It was considered proper to remove this man from his regiment. A pension, the amount of his pay, was settled upon him, and he is now free to attend the Christian worship; and a man of more exemplary manners, or more respectable appearance, cannot be found in any Church in Europe, A VISIT TO POMPEII, AND AN ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF VESUVIUS. You en to congratulate ourselves than we had imagined. The bed-rooms, it is true, are never larger than ten feet square; but then they open on a sheltered court: the floors, it is true, are of mosaic; but this is an advantage in so warm a climate. The same reply will serve, if the very small quantity of window glass in use be made an objection. One circumstance deserves notice in illustration of the morals of the ancients. The most shockingly indecent pictures are found both in the public and private apartments of the best houses, betraying a very slight regard to female modesty and virtue, and leading us to infer from this fact, a general corruption and depravity of manners. After visiting Pompeii, Herculaneum is scarcely worthy of attention. But two excavations have been made. By one, a private house, resembling those of Pompeii, has been completely opened. The material which buried it was not the solid lava that covered a part of the town, but merely cinders caked with boiling water. The other excavation leads along passages cut through lava, solid and hard as stone, into various parts of the theatre. You cannot enter these subterranean passages, nor indeed any part of the buried cities, without being oppressed with a sense of the almighty power and mysterious providence of God. Here were two cities ruined in a few short hours, almost like Sodom and Gomorrah, by fire out of heaven. Here were multitudes deprived of all their substance, and driven from their houses by an approaching flood of liquid fire, amid a cloud of sulphurous smoke, and more feet, the mountain roaring in their rear, the sea itself destructive cinders, the earth quaking beneath their retiring as if affrighted, calling, as they fled, for friends or kindred lost or perished, and deeming themselves fortunate to escape with the loss of all but life. Perhaps it was their peculiar crimes which thus devoted them to the vengeance of heaven; perhaps some other cause operated in the Almighty mind, and led to this tremendous visitation. Without judging them, however, I could not, with these monuments before my eyes, but stand in awe of that almighty sway, which holds us, and all men, and all things, in heaven and earth, at its sovereign and irresistible disposal. From these ruined cities of the plain, the transition is natural to the tremendous cause of their disasters. is built upon the lava that covered Herculaneum, you At Resina, which is about five miles from Naples, and leave your carriage to mount mules or asses for the ascent of the mountain. The scene in the court-yard of Salvatore (the principal guide to Vesuvius) is ludicrous enough. You have been attended about half a to the rostrum of the orator-in this basilica was the tribunal of the judge-here are the shaded portico, and the Juxurious bath-here are the bed-room, the parlour, the dining-room, the garden-here is the shop of the apothe-mile back, by a multitude of muleteers, cantering their cary, the baker, the vender of oil, the carpenter, the miller, and the armourer-on these very pavements rolled the carriages of Pompeii-on these very stepping-stones the inhabitants crossed the streets-into these very doors they entered on these very stairs they ascended to the roof: a thousand circumstances, at every step, concur in transporting you back to a distant age. If the ruins of Rome exhibit, as they unquestionably do, a far greater magnificence, still enough is seen here to astonish us at the splendour of a mere provincial city. I will venture to affirm, that there is not a public place in any city have visited, (always excepting Rome), which can be compared at all, in architectural beauty and effect, with the forum of Pompeii. The ornaments of the houses, too, contribute to produce the same impression: floors of mosaic, walls of paintings, colonnaded courts, statues of bronze and marble, are only the ordinary attributes of those of the better class. The very cooking utensils found there are all of bronze. In comfort, however, if we compare them with our own, there will be found, at first sight, a great inferiority; yet, when we consider the climate of the place, we shall perceive less reason From "Remains of Edmund D. Griffins." New York, 1831. poor jaded beasts, to show their paces, and offering arrive in the yard, unless you are very alert in descendthem from time to time to your acceptance. When you ing, you will probably be blockaded in your carriage by heads and tails jammed close around it, with only room enough for the noisy masters to stand, offering the rope, Perhaps one or two, more lucky than the rest, have bridle, and club, and bawling in your ears, buono mulo." caught from travellers a few words of English, which vociferating good mool,'new sad,' as long as their they are careful to display to the best advantage, by breath allows them. At length, however, you are mountclub. No sooner is the signal for departure given, than ed, with a guide in your rear, armed with a substantial the club falls first on one flank, and then upon the other, of the much-enduring animal, who does his best, for a short distance, to imitate a gallop. But, alas! a distance of ten rods convinces you of the futility of his efforts. For the remainder of the journey, you are fortunate if, once in a while, he can be induced, even by the most forcible arguments, to trot. The nature of the ground, in fact, soon becomes such as to render even this impracticable; winding up steep ascents, and sending forth smoke and flame from every crevice. In the midst arises a low cone, formed of ejected matter, upon whose summit open the very jaws of the subterranean abyss of fire. From thence issue clouds rolling upon clouds, of sulphurous smoke, mingled from time to time with flashing flames, and at every burst of the volcano pierced by a thousand fragments of shivered rocks. The loud breathing of the fire is borne across the crater, seeming the fierce pantings of some chained monster; the sharp sound of the crackling flame pierces the ear, as if, assuming another form, sound had become material; while the tremendous roar of explosions succeeding each other at every instant, fills the organs, and almost confounds the soul. Forcibly abstracting my attention from this fearful gulf, and turning once more towards a world which I almost seemed to have left for ever behind me, a scene burst upon my view, which I could not deem less than Elysian. Far in the west, the setting sun yet shed a parting smile upon the landscape, communicating a still softer, still more tranquil beauty. That golden atmosphere, those purple mountains, richer far in hue than northern climes can furnish or their inhabitants imagine, those glorious islands, those lofty promontories, that ample bay, that beautiful city, those long lines of villages, I never shall forget, as they appeared at sunset from the summit of Vesuvius. When The appearance of the mountain even here is awfal. The black masses which lie beneath your feet, you cannot but remember, were once sheets of gliding liquid fire. This stream, your guide will tell you, ruined Torre del Greco; that buried Herculaneum; and this bed of ashes is of the same species with those which covered Pompeii. Far above you rises the conic crater, apparently too steep for any human foot to mount, crowned with its light cloud of smoke waving in the sun with treacherous beauty. Look downward, however, and what a contrast is presented in the glorious prospect which bursts upon the view! Northward lie the delicious plains of Campania Felice, rich with verdure and with foliage, and crowded with the habitations of men. Westward beneath your feet, a line of villages, Torre del Greco, Resina, and Portici, is stretched along the coast. Opposite lies Naples, on a gentle ascent, crowned with the conic eminence and castle of St. Elmo, terminated on the bay by its projecting moles, and leading the eye westward still along the lofty promontory of Posilippo. Further on, in the same direction, Cape Miseno juts into the sea, sheltering the classic gulf of Baiæ. Procida comes next, a little to the south; and closing the semicircular sweep, Ischia lifts towards heaven its volcanic summit. Turning to the It was now time to descend into the crater, an exsouth, you behold a long and mountainous promontory,|periment without danger, though attended with great beautifully diversified by the varied outline of its high-fatigue. There was still light enough to guide us, and lands, by its retreating bays, and lofty capes, edged at the same time, the approach of evening of course inwith delightfully situated villages, Castel a Mare, Vico, creased the apparent brightness of the flames. and Sorrento, and others scarcely less remarkable, and arrived at the bottom of the crater, we found ourselves at its descending point separated by a narrow strait treading on a black uneven surface, yet warm beneath from the island of Capri, whose wildly graceful outline our feet. It was broken into blocks, like ice on the appropriately terminates on this side the most enchant- surface of a river, and in the intervals was to be seen, ing bay in all the world. three or four feet below the surface, instead of water, lava still red hot. Fortunately the mountain had poured out on the very morning of our ascent a fresh stream of lava, which now surrounded about one-half of the circumference of the crater. On approaching it, the heat, both of the air and of the surface under our feet, was greatly increased. In some places we could see the lava still in a state of fusion, and boiling like molten glass. In others, it had begun to grow black on the exterior crust. It would have been easier in some respects to obtain specimens, by thrusting a stick into the boiling liquid. But it was actually too hot to be approached. We were therefore content to strike off with our canes, by a strong effort, pieces from a part which was much cooler, though still red hot. I did not attempt to ascend the cone containing the actually operative crater, as stones were constantly falling around it, and I was far from wishing to court the fate of Pliny. As twilight began to fall thickly around us, we hastened our ascent to the edge of the great crater, each conscious, I believe, of something like a wish not to be the hindmost. When arrived once more at the top, we lay down in our cloaks upon the brink, again to enjoy the terrible sublimity of the scene, which is in fact witnessed best from hence. In the crater you are occupied with parts-here the grand whole not only occupies, it absorbs you. But my powers of description, when compared with the mighty subject, are, I confess, exhausted, utterly inadequate; and though I remained three hours longer on the spot, to observe the increased magnificence both of sight and sound, in the darkness and stillness of night, I must not dare to add another word. Our descent, which would have been dangerous on any other animal than a mule, was performed by torch-light; and as there was a number of parties at the same time upon the mountain, some above and some below us, and others winding along on either side, our march was exceedingly picturesque. I must confess, however, that I hailed, with great plea Near the base of the cone lives a hermit, in the habit of a Capuchin friar, who furnishes travellers with the refreshment of bread and cheese, and the delicious wine produced on the mountain, and known under the name of Lachrymæ Christi. He lives here without apprehension, being confident in his ability to discern the signs of an approaching eruption. The signs are indeed, in general, sufficiently distinct. Tremblings of the earth, and the emission of black smoke, which rises to an enormous height in the air in the form of a column or a cone, almost uniformly give warning of impending danger. At length, after an ascent of two hours, you arrive at the bottom of the cone, and alight from your mule. Henceforward you must trust to your own exertions. Your guide will offer to let you hold by a belt around his body; but, for my own part, I preferred to endure a little additional fatigue, rather than increase the burden of any man so greatly. The ascent is very steep; but, what is worse, the soil on which you tread is a loose sand, into which you constantly sink up to the ankles, and which slips from beneath your feet to such a degree, that you lose at least one step in three. The perpendicular height of the mountain is three thousand six hundred feet-that of the cone I could not ascertain, but should conjecture it to be about one-fifth of the whole. The labour of the ascent is of course prodigious. Frequent pauses are necessary, to enable one to reach the top in a state short of utter exhaustion. Arrived at the top, you are indeed rewarded for all your fatigue. Directly beneath your feet yawns a horrd gulf, three or four hundred feet in depth, and upwards of a mile in circumference, occupying the whole -unit of the mountain, except a narrow border, generally not more than four feet wide. The sides of the guit, in many places precipitous, are steep in all. Below is seen the surface of the crater, in part black with cooled lava, and covered in part with liquid fire, and |