what authority I cannot say, is called an Alexander the Great. The windows of the _sala_ open on the court, on the street, and on the sea. A street, that leads among convents, winds toward the great landing and the bay. Towards the water there is a little terrace, which forms the great attraction of the house. It is only some fifty feet long, and perhaps half as wide; but it hangs over the blue Mediterranean, and, by its position and height, commands a view of three fourths of the glorious objects of the region. It has a solid stone balustrade to protect it, massive and carved, with banisters as big as my body. This renders it perfectly safe, as you will understand when I tell you that, hearing an outcry from P---- the other day, I found him with his head fast between two of the latter, in a way that frightened me as well as the youngster himself. It was like being imbedded in a rock. As I sit at the foot of the dinner-table, I look, through a vista of five large rooms, by means of doors, at the panorama presented by Naples, which town lies directly across the bay, at the reputed distance of eighteen miles; though I see St. Elmo so distinctly, that it appears not half as far. Of course, when seated on the terrace, the view is infinitely more extended. The sea limits it to the west. Ischia, dark, broken, and volcanic, but softened by vegetation and the tints of this luxurious atmosphere, comes next; then Procida, low, verdant, and peopled. The misty abrupt bluff of Mysenum is the first land on the continent, with the Elysian fields, the port of the Roman galleys, and the “Hundred Chambers.” The site of delicious Baiæ is pointed out by the huge pile of castle that lies on the hill-side, and by the ruined condition of all the neighbouring objects of curiosity, such as the Sibyl’s cave, the lake of Avernus, and the bridge, or mole, of Agrippa. Behind a little island called Nisida, the bark of St. Paul must have sailed when he landed at Puteoli, on his way to Rome. The palace of Queen Joan, the grotto of Pausilippo, the teeming city, and the bay dotted with sails, follow. Then the eye passes over a broad expanse of rich level country, between Vesuvius and the heights of the town. This is the celebrated Felicia Campania, with Capua in its bosom; and the misty background is a wall of broken rocks, which in form are not unlike our own palisadoes, but which, a grand range of the Apennines, have probably six or seven times their height. These mountains, at times are scarcely visible, just marking the outline of the view in a sort of shadowy frame, and then, again, they come forth distinct, noble, and dark, the piles they really are. On particular days they do not appear to be a dozen miles from us. I have seen them already, more than once, glittering with snow, when they are indeed glorious. The base of Vesuvius, a continued hamlet of white edifices, including palaces and cottages, with its cone for the background,