The carriages, with their epauletted chasseurs, swept on in giddy succession, and made a scene quite as imposing as is witnessed in most European capitals. Delmé did not think it advisable, to remain too long in the metropolis of Sicily; and the travellers contented themselves, with the sight-seeing of the immediate neighbourhood. They admired the mosaics of the Chiesa di Monte Reale; and fed the pheasants, at that beautiful royal villa, well styled "the Favourite." They took a boat to witness the tunny fishery; and Sir Henry explored alone the vast catacombs--that city of the dead. After a few days thus passed--the weather continuing uncommonly fine--they did not hesitate to engage one of the small vessels of the place, to convey them to Naples. After enjoying their evening drive as usual, they embarked on board the Sparonara, one fine starry night, in order to get the full advantage of the favouring night breeze. End of the First Volume. A Love Story by A Bushman. Vol. II. "My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, And bear my spirit back again Over the earth, and through the air, A wild bird and a wanderer." 1841. A Love Story. Chapter I. Naples. "And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide From day-break when the mountain pales his fire, Yet more and more, and from the mountain top, Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, Solemn and slow." "Vedi Napoli! e poi muori!" Memory! beloved memory! to us thou art as hope to other men. The present--solitary, unexciting--where are its charms? The future hath no joys in store for us; and may bereave us of some of the few faint pleasures that still are ours. What then is left us--old before our time--but to banquet on the past? Memory! thou art in us, as the basil of the enamoured Florentine. [Footnote 1: See Keats' poem taken from Boccaccio.] Thy blossoms, thy leaves,--green, fresh, and fragrant,--draw their nurture, receive their every colouring, from what was dearest to us on earth. And are they not watered by our tears? The poet tells us-- "Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria." But it is not so. Where is he of the tribe of the unfortunate, who would not gladly barter the contemplation of present wretchedness, for the remembrance, clogged as it is by a thousand woes, of a time when joyous visions flitted across life's path? Yes! though the contrast, the succeeding moment, should cut him to the soul. But "Joy's recollection is no longer joy, Whilst sorrow's memory is a sorrow still." Ah! there's the rub! yet, better to think it _was_ joy, than gaze unveiled on the cold reality around; than view the wreck--the grievous wreck--a few short years have made.