The preceding account is the result not of one, but of several visits to Pozzuoli. The first time that I was there, after leaving the temple, I ascended the hill behind it to some ruins of considerable extent, called with very little reason, the Temple of Neptune. They consist of two massive parallel walls, each I suppose, 300 feet long. The space between has been covered by vaults in different directions, and at different elevations. The brow of the hill here forms a noble terrace, whence the views are admirable. At one end of this terrace is a monument, probably sepulchral, in the form of a little temple. The front was adorned with four brick half columns, and there were five, or possibly six, on the sides; but internally it appears almost solid. A little farther back is the fragment of a room covered with a circular dome, which has been named the Temple of Diana. All these are so buried among vines and poplars, that it is impossible to obtain any general view of them; and as for the architecture, none remains; they are mere masses of brick and rubble walls, mixed with reticulated work. The amphitheatre is of similar materials, and overgrown in the same manner. It has been a large one, but its great object of attraction to the modern Italians is the cell where San Gennajo was confined, previously to being exposed to wild beasts on the arena. At a convent at a little distance a stone is shown, said to have been stained with his blood. At the time when the blood of the saint liquefies at Naples, the mark on this stone becomes of a bright red, which, after eight days, gradually fades into a dull brown, which is its permanent colour; there is no standing against so many sham miracles. It becomes not charity, but folly, to hesitate in pronouncing the monks a set of impostors. The views here are exquisite, for the convent is just on the brow of the hill, and wherever circumstances admit any command of distant objects, the landscape is most beautiful; yet all this beauty is passed over as a matter of course, after a short residence on the spot, and we walk about without noticing it, except now and then from some point where it is seen to particular advantage, or when some circumstances in the sky, or in the mind of the spectator, awaken his attention.