spotted with tufts of rank grass, are here luxuriantly covered with vines. The bay of Naples takes the appearance of a large lake, and Vesuvius, the bold and rugged promontory of Sorrento, and the high summit of Ischia, form a delightful contrast to the milder beauties of the near landscape. We did not get back till ten o’clock in the evening, and could not at that time enter the harbour, as no boats are admitted at night, but we landed at a part called Santa Lucia, which suited us better. I walked a day or two after this to the Camaldoli, a convent on the summit of a hill, which rises above all the places I have just been describing. The roads about Naples are generally in close lanes between the walls of the vineyards, and the country is full of little villages; but as I began to ascend the hill, the walls were exchanged for high, sandy banks, sprinkled with bushes of chesnut. The more level ground is covered with vineyards to a considerable elevation, but extensive woods cover the higher part of the hill, and descend into the deep ravines which intersect it. From the garden of the monastery, the prospect is wonderfully fine, comprehending the whole bay of Naples, with the surrounding islands and mountains, the ridges of the Apennines, and the coast, as far as Monte Circello, sixty miles distant; yet there was an appearance of haziness in the atmosphere. The lake of Agnano seemed to be just below me. The fathers complain that the steeping hemp and flax in that lake renders the air unwholesome; yet it is two miles off, and the elevation of the convent must exceed 1,000 feet. Many winding ravines penetrate into this hill, which afford a solitary walk at a small distance from the city, and there are many little patches of wood, besides that which spreads over the summit of the hill, which afford a pleasant shade, and are interesting to the botanist by the variety of plants to be found there. Yet in spite of the glorious views from some points, and the romantic home scenes in others, the country about Naples is not generally an agreeable one for foot rambles. It is too uniformly covered, and I long at times for a quiet path, through pleasant meadows, to a country church. Perhaps one of the greatest defects I find here is, that there are no country churches; not that there are no churches in the country; on the contrary, they are numerous, but they all partake of what in persons we call shabby genteel; rags and lace: always a wish of display. Sometimes they are fine buildings, and sometimes occupy noble situations, with a platform in front, whence you have a magnificent prospect. But they are never calculated to excite those ideas of retiring, unobtrusive piety, which give so great a charm to our English ones. I believe too, I miss the churchyards. “The rugged elms, the yew tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,” and where