There can be no doubt that the Mont Cenis tunnel will soon be followed by similar undertakings, some probably on a still grander scale. The governments of Italy, Switzerland, and Germany have already decided upon piercing a tunnel through the Mount St. Gothard. In winter the traveller will no longer be obliged to ascend the solitudes of the Schöllenen, to cross the Devil’s Bridge, and then, after traversing the valley of Urseren, to pursue his perilous way up to the summit of the pass, before a zigzag descent, along yawning precipices, leads him into the sunny vale of the Ticino; but at Göschenen on the north he will plunge at once into the bowels of the mountain, and in an hour will suddenly emerge at Airilo into the genial south. In early spring the change of climate will be almost miraculous; on one side winter still reigning supreme, the earth covered with deep snow and the cold wind moaning through the leafless trees—and then, after a short interval of darkness, the rich vegetation of an Italian vale bursting forth in all its first luxuriance, birds singing in the chestnut groves, and the green meads enamelled with myriads of flowers. It is curious to compare these stupendous works with the most celebrated tunnel of ancient times, the Grotto of the Pausilippo, near Naples, which serves as a passage for the travellers who intend visiting Puzzuoli, Baiæ, or Cumæ, without being obliged to ascend the mountain or to cross the bay. It is about a mile long, from thirty to eighty feet high and twenty-eight feet broad, so as to allow three carriages to pass abreast. Twice a year, in February and October, the last rays of the sun dart for a few minutes through the whole length of the grotto; at all other times a speck of gray uncertain light terminates the long and solemn perspective. The origin of this celebrated grotto is unknown. Some old chroniclers have imagined it as ancient as the Trojan war; others attribute it to the mysterious race of the Cimmerians. The Neapolitans attribute a more modern, though not more certain, origin to their famous cavern, and most piously believe it to have been formed by the enchantments of Virgil, who, as Addison very justly observes, is better known at Naples in his magical character than as the author of the ‘Æneid.’ This strange infatuation most probably arose from the fact that the tomb, in which his ashes are supposed to have been deposited, is situated above the grotto, and that, according to popular tradition, it was guarded by those very spirits who assisted in constructing the cave. King Robert, a wise, though far from poetical, monarch, conducted his friend Petrarch with great solemnity to the spot, and, pointing to the entrance of the grotto, very gravely asked him whether he did not adopt the general belief, and conclude that this stupendous passage derived its origin from Virgil’s powerful incantations.