which we had agreed to take our passage to Naples, came to tell us we must get ready immediately, as the wind was fair, and he had determined to sail out that evening: we had no time to lose; our things lay dispersed about in the most picturesque confusion, on the floor, on the beds, on tables, on chairs; the very genius of disorder could hardly have arranged our effects in positions more unfavourable to haste, so of course in they went, pell mell, as chance directed, shoes into breeches, shirts into hats, and stockings into waistcoat pockets: it was an awful scene; the sailors swore dreadfully that the port would be shut, while we were crying,"Where's Eustace? Where's Forsyth? Where's the book of roads? D-n the book of roads, I've lost my shirt. Give me the pistols and the telescope. Where?-upon the corner," &c. In half an hour we contrived to cram every thing in, tant bien que mal; some sailors took charge of our portmanteau, and we ran down to the quay.

On passing the barrier, we had to pay the customary tax to the impromptu honesty of the sentinel, and then getting into a boat, as soon as we had manoeuvred through the throng of wherries and lighters, we saw our vessel steering out, her angular sail and scanty rigging faintly relieved against the darkening sky. The water foamed with our oars, and in a little time we reached the vessel, scrambled up the side, and got fairly on board, and while we were discharging the boat the captain arrived, bringing with him another passenger. Oh! Babel, what was thy confusion, compared with the uproar which took place on board the "San Guiseppe," when its commander, Don Guiseppe Russo, arrived? The sailors ran up and down, yelling in unintelligible Neapolitan; a lamp was placed in the bows, and the sails spread; the wind blew in noisy gusts, the cordage rattled, and the old vessel groaned heavily as she hulled to and fro. While this was passing, we seated ourselves on a coil of ropes, to gaze on the scene which seemed to retreat before us, and on which the thickest shadows of night were now settling. A thousand lights were burning in Genoa, but the feeble illumination scarcely

rendered any object distinet; long black lines traversed the city, intersected occasionally by broad gaps, and sometimes the straining eye might distinguish a tower, or the broad front of a palace. The mountains behind looked almost like clouds, and described a dim and fantastic line in the air, but little darker than the sky. These mountains are the first of the Apennine chain; Genoa lies just at their feet, and is hence called Porta d' Italia. As night came on, the lights in the city grew more bright; but as we sailed away, they seemed to sink one after another into the sea, until nothing but the flaming Lanterna was visible. The confusion on board at length subsided; the captain had retired below deck, and the sailors, muffled up in their hooded capotes, were sitting or lying about, idle and silent. Å steady landwind sprang up, we went on rapidly, and all was "calm as a midnight sleep." Nothing disturbed the stillness and silence of the hour, except the shrinking waters which plashed and murmured beneath our keel, and now and then leaped up in sudden spray. Our fellow-passenger was a young German, he spoke English pretty well, and we entered into conversation. He had taken a passage on board a Genoese vessel several days before; the vessel sailed out, but was obliged to put back, on account of contrary winds; on returning to the port he was apprehended by an order from the government, and thrown into a prison among felons; and a few papers, letters of introduction, private notes, &c. all which he had upon his person, were seized and inspected. As he considered he must have been apprehended in consequence of some mistake, and expected he should be set free the next morning, he took only a night-bag of clothes with him on shore, and suffered his trunks to remain on board the vessel, which sailed the next morning for Naples. He had the misfortune to be the subject of a petty state in Germany, which could not compel the respect of the Majesty of Sardinia, and which had no stationary Consul, nor Chargé d'Affaires at Genoa; his remonstrances were consequently unheeded, the inspection of his papers was carried on very leisurely, and when he was at

one man and a boy; the other sailors and the captain were on shore. We returned to the city, took another stupid stroll, and at an early hour repaired to the Trattoria dell' Orso, where we consumed three or four hours in eating and chat; after which we went to the Café to drink punch, and play chess. In the morning we were on board again, but the vessel was now drawn into the inner harbour, as though intending to lie there for some time; we could not find the captain, nor learn at what time he proposed to sail. On returning to the city, the German met with an acquaintance, who took us to his house, where we amused ourselves for some time with cards, and after that, two young women sang some songs and duets, accompanied by their guitars; their voices were not equal to their skill, but the whole effect was very agreeable. The elegance and airiness of Italian vocal music are looked for in vain in the music of other nations. Italian song has a grace, a pathos, peculiar to itself; it flows as it were without effort from the lips, rising or falling in sighing slides, and sprinkled with emphatic appoggiaturas, now sinking into a low murmur, now swelling into firmness and vigour; and it is admirably assisted by the throbbing arpeggios, the full or feeble chords, and the silken notes of the indolent guitar. It is much to be wished that the rough and naked force of northern music could be dulcified by the sweetness, and adorned by the smiling graces of the southern lyre, or that English singers could at least catch the magic of Italian manner; the kindling eye, the slight but expressive gesture, the voice swelling, or failing, or pausing on the final cadence; expressing, and communicating that deep emotion which makes us fancy that music is the natural language of the gentler passions. This enthusiasm, which never supposes any ear can be indifferent, gives a force, a freedom, a beauty, in short a magic charm, to the most simple and to the most complex labours of the muse; it sinks into the heart like a spell, it seizes the attention, it seduces us into sympathy, and locks up every critical and unfriendly feeling. This enthusiasm is, perhaps, a gift of the skies, but without

it what is music? It is cold and dead, like the statue of old, when first finished from the sculptor's chisel; but with it, it is like the same statue when the god had given it motion, and warmth, and life. In public singers, this source of beauty is dried up, is exhausted; their feelings are blunted by the drudgery of constant and laborious practice; they supply the place of enthusiasm by affectation, and, ceasing to feel themselves, soon cease to make others feel; they may astonish, they may even delight, but the power to "take the prisoned soul, and lap it in Elysium," is lost, we apprehend, for ever. At this same time, Italian manner has a heavy fault; it is too voluptuous, it pampers the animal sense of pleasure, it intoxicates the feelings, it is a “continual dissolution and thaw" of that reserve which is the guard of female virtue. Song and dance, the luxury of sound and the luxury of motion, both of which the Italians are immoderately fond of, are stimulants which continually urge them to break down the defences that should stand between the sexes. Of these, the second is the most important, but both would probably be inoperative without the aid of other causes. It is very likely we shall have occasion to return to this subject, and we shall then consider it more largely; at present we shall only add, that the guitar seems peculiarly adapted for those amateurs who have but little time to spare, who have some voice, and who study music rather as a pleasure than as an art. It is agreeable in its tone, it is elegant in its position, it may be practised when we are idle, or when we are ill, and its facility must, of course, recommend it to many. Music is too commonly the grave of time, and for ourselves we have long entertained the opinion, that difficult instruments should be left to professors; for we cannot forget that, however beautiful music may be, there are other things far more beautiful, and of far more lasting importance.

We now return to our tale: The next day, hearing no news of the captain nor of the vessel, and lounging idly about, having indeed nothing to do, after we had despatched our breakfast, we chanced to remember we were not far from Pisa. We

are entirely distinct. Our admiration of Greek architecture grows with our growth; we have the vantage of it; we comprehend its simplicity, its unity, its excellence; and never expect to see it equalled. But Gothic architecture hath the vantage of us; our admiration cannot increase, for our knowledge does not; and we never think about any thing equalling it, for we never had any standard to measure it by. In deciding between them, we are like Garrick in that fine picture of Sir Joshua's; our reason and judgment may incline one way, but then we are pulled the other without reason or apology.

Professional architects have a thou sand objections against Gothic architecture, which nothing but Gothic architecture itself can reply to. If it were mere licentiousness and extravagance,* * «without just proportion or beauty," how is it that it has outlived a thousand years, and gives promise to outlive a second? How is it that these objectors can never equal it, nay, can never do any thing like it in outward resemblance? How came the greatest of them to stick his ungainly, incongruous towers as a crowning ornament to those old elegancies at the western entrance of this Abbey?

It has been well observed, that Gothic architecture is much older in our imagination than its actual chromology, or a Greek temple of three times its antiquity. The fact appears to be, that it is really older in our as sociations and feeling, where alone antiquity exists at all. This very Abbey is not only 500 years old, but there is nothing like it in existence, of less reverend antiquity. Greek temples are of yesterday. The lan thern of Demosthenes has sprung up under the new street act; and the Temple of the Winds is now building, I hear, in St. Pancras church: all our architecture is Greek, or a corruption bearing some palpable relation to it; it is as familiar to us as our household furniture, in which some ornament of it is usually dis

tinguishable: we meet with a Greek portico, a Greek column, a Greek ca pital, or some part of Greek architecture, building, or just built, at every turning. With our feelings, therefore, a Greek temple is not necessarily associated with great antiquity; whereas a Gothic cathedral is not only of very great age, but seems to have outlived the capabilities of the world.

There can be nothing really old that is not separated from us by a long interval of varying manners, customs, habits, and opinions; there must be a chasm between us; a breaking off of all connexion and association between it and ourselves; it must be passed away, and Greek architecture is yet passing.

A chronological table will not decide the antiquity of a thing; that depends on a thousand other circumstances besides its age, and exists only in our individual feeling and opinions; an old book, an old author, an old statue, an old building, even an old man, are all of different ages to different people; a girl just entered on her teens looks forward to unmarried twenty as hopeless age; whereas we all know "a sickly boy" meant, with Thomas Parr, a son of eighty-six, infirm, decrepid, imbecile, worn out in mind and body. In fact, it signifies not to the antiquity of any thing, that it stretch out a long line of existence to the creation of the world; the green earth below, and the blue heavens above us, are from the first; but no man had ever the same consciousness of their great age, no man ever felt subdued by them as he would before the lone pyramids at Gizeh, or in the wilderness of the ruins of Hekatompylos. Since we know not that the days of the earth are numbered, or know not their number, it may be in its youth, its pristine vigour, its prime and lustihood. We see it instinct with life-the same that it was it is there is no change, no decay man's foot is still germane to it it is the same scene of busy contention-the common table, and the