Returning to our boat, we proceeded to Baiæ, where are the temples of Venus Genitrix, of Diana Lucifera, and of Mercury, names which at least serve to distinguish the objects. The first is octagonal externally, built of brick and reticulated tufo: it forms a good object among the vines. Behind it are some small chambers ornamented in stucco, called the baths of Venus. The Temple of Mercury, called also _Truglio_, a word of uncertain derivation, is a large, domed room nearly entire, but in which the ground is considerably raised. It is about 130 feet in diameter, and is famous for an echo, which repeats a sound several times, an effect apparently owing to the manner in which the dome is broken: there are many smaller buildings about it, and it appears to be a place well worth investigation. The reticulated work in some of the vaults is covered with a stucco containing fragments of marble, which seem to have been commonly used as a sort of gauge, when a marble lining was intended. The Temple of Diana is also a rotunda, and half the dome remains, shewing that there was no opening at the top, which there is in the temple of Mercury. The hills seem to be cut away to make room for these buildings, many of which are still half underground. They are generally of tufo faced with brick, and sometimes with alternate layers of brick and tufo. Among all these ruins there is perhaps no one which individually would make much impression, and the ornamental architecture has long disappeared, but the immense number of fragments scattered in all directions, keeps up a continual feeling of astonishment. Wherever we see some mass of masonry, or some half-ruined vault, we are reminded of Rome, of her luxurious senators, and of their eagerness to enjoy the delights which Baiæ could afford. The recollection is principally of selfishness, slavery, and cruelty. The stern virtues of republican Rome, which have so much power over the imagination, are not here called to mind. About Baiæ the peasants do not mention Cicero and Virgil, whose names cast something of a redeeming spell over the ruins at Pozzuoli and Pausilippo. All is vice, and the mind feels a sort of satisfaction in the destruction even of objects, which considered in themselves, might have been highly beautiful. Yet I doubt this. Architecture seems highly sensible of mental degradation, and the caprices of an over-indulged taste, tend rapidly to deprive her of every beauty. In point of scenery, nothing can be more enchanting. The broken coast rising into rocky hills of various forms; sometimes projecting into headlands, sometimes retiring into charming bays, where the unruffled mirror doubles by reflecting every beauty, presents an inexhaustible variety. It nowhere rises so high as to be of difficult access, it is everywhere inhabitable, and even now, everywhere inhabited and cultivated. The loose, steep banks, which at Hastings or the Isle of Wight would only be