At last our voyagers arrived at Terracina, on the coast bordering the kingdom of Naples. There the south indeed begins, and receives the stranger in its full magnificence. The _Campagna Felicé_ seems separated from the rest of Europe, not only by the sea, but by the destructive land which must be crossed to reach it. It is as if nature wished to keep her loveliest secret, and therefore rendered the road to it so hazardous. Not far from Terracina is the promontory chosen by poets as the abode of Circea, behind rises Mount Anxur, where Theodoric, king of the Goths, built one of his strongest castles. There are few traces of these invading barbarians left, and those, being mere works of destruction, are confounded with the works of time. The northern nations have not given Italy that warlike aspect which Germany retains. It seems as if the soft earth of Ausonia could not keep the fortifications and citadels that bristle through northern snows. Rarely is a Gothic edifice or feudal castle to be found here. The antique Romans still reign over the memory even of their conquerors. The whole of the mountain above Terracina is covered with orange and lemon trees, that delicately embalm the air. Nothing in our own climes resemble the effect of this perfume: it is like that of some exquisite melody, exciting and inebriating talent into poetry. The aloes and large-leaved cactus that abound here remind one of Africa's gigantic vegetation, almost fearfully; they seem belonging to a realm of tyranny and violence. Everything is strange as another world, known but by the songs of antique bards, who, in all their lays, evinced more imagination than truth. As they entered Terracina, the children threw into Corinne's carriage immense heaps of flowers, gathered by the wayside, or on the hills, and strewn at random, so confident are they in the prodigality of nature. The wagons that bring the harvest from the fields are daily garlanded with roses: one sees and hears, besides these smiling pictures, the waves that rage unlashed by storms against the rocks, eternal barriers that chafe the ocean's pride. "E non udite ancor come risuona Il roco ed alto fremito marino?" "And hear you not still how resounds The hoarse and deep roar of the sea?" This endless motion, this aimless strength, renewed eternally, Whose cause and termination are alike unknown to us, draws us to the shore whence so grand a spectacle may be seen, till we feel a fearful desire to rush into its waves, and stun our thoughts amid their tumultuous voices.