PROCIDA. "_Ego vel Prochytam praepono Suburrae_," says Juvenal, and so would we if compelled to live in that nasty St Giles's beyond the Coliseum; but as the "_vel_" seems strangely misapplied--for the _situation_ of Procida must always have been delightful--the poet's preference must be understood as of a dull unlively place, with few inhabitants or resources, to a dense and dangerous population. Baiae itself is not three miles from Procida; but the Roman Baiae was thronged with good society, and this little island was doubtless then as unpeopled as it is now populous. Procida is about three-fourths of an hour's fair rowing from Miniseolae, on the Baian side; but you may run your boat over on a fine day in half an hour. As you approach the houses, you discern the not unpicturesque frontage of a little fishing town; but all is as revolting within as fair without. Something of the Greek or Albanese costume is still preserved here, and they offer to dress up one of their families in full _parure_ for our further satisfaction, if we will pay them. The view from the leads of the fort (under which the galley-slaves are confined) is fine indeed! Ischia and Vesuvius, and the whole stretch of the bay, and _Sorrento_, and the promontory of Minerva. Procida builds good enough trading vessels. We saw two in the harbour of Baiae, as we rowed back on a delicious evening towards sunset; they were going on a first voyage, bound for our London docks;--and _a propos_ of the London docks, all this country is, as it always was, rich in productive vineyards and bad wine. Every hill once gave its own epithet to wines celebrated in _longs and shorts_ of immortal celebrity, whereas the land round Rome could never have been viniferous. You may still drink _Falernian_, if so minded, on its native seat of St Agatha. The wine of _Gaurus_ has not deserted Monte Babaro, and _Lachryma_, though not classical, has its own celebrity; and the islands of Ischia and Procida also produce a strong, heating, white wine. But there is not any wine, from the Alps to Messina, to be compared to those of the _Garonne_, and the _Rhine_, or the _Moselle_. The _Barbarians_ subdued by the Roman legions have long had it all their own way, not only in this, but in every other good thing _except sunshine_; but the vine, growing as it grows, suspended as it is suspended, and wreathed round the hills of Italy, is still the _plant_ which secures the loudest admiration of the foreigner. "The vine of Italy for ever!"--so we join the chorus of all travellers, and say-"_till_ it lies bruised, bleeding, fermenting in the vat! _then_ commend us to the Bacchus of lands far nearer home." And here, feeling ourselves called upon for a _song_, we will sing one. A VINTAGE SONG. ABRIDGED FROM BERANGER.