far away, rose the
green trees of the gardens of the Villa Reale. Farther away rose the
hills on whose slope stands what is claimed to be the grave of
Virgil, whose picturesque monument, whether it be really his or not,
suggests his well-known epitaph:

"I sing flocks, tillage, heroes. Mantua gave
Me life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave."

Through those hills runs the Titanic grotto of Posilippo, which leads
to that historic land beyond--the land of the Cumaeans and Oscans;
or, still more, the land of the luxurious Romans of the empire; where
Sylla lived, and Cicero loved to retire; which Julius loved, and
Horace, and every Roman of taste or refinement. There spread away the
lake Lucrine, bordered by the Elysian Fields; there was the long
grotto through which Aeneas passed; where once the Cumaean Sibyl
dwelt and delivered her oracles. There was Misenum, where once the
Roman navy rode at anchor; Baiae, where once all Roman luxury loved
to pass the summer season; Puteoli, where St. Paul landed when on his
way to Caesar's throne. There were the waters in which Nero thought
to drown Agrippina, and over which another Roman emperor built that
colossal bridge which set at defiance the prohibition of nature.
There was the rock of Ischia, terminating the line of coast; and out
at sea, immediately in front, the isle of Capri, forever associated
with the memory of Tiberius, with his deep wiles, his treachery, and
his remorseless cruelty. There, too, on the left and nearest Capri,
were the shores of Sorrento, that earthly paradise whose trees are
always green, whose fruits always ripe; there the cave of Polyphemus
penetrates the lofty mountains, and brings back that song of Homer by
which it is immortalized. Coming nearer, the eye rested on the
winding shores of Castellamare, on vineyards and meadows and
orchards, which fill all this glorious land. Nearer yet the scene was
dominated by the stupendous form of Vesuvius, at once the glory and
the terror of all this scene, from whose summit there never ceases to
come that thin line of smoke, the symbol of possible ruin to all who
dwell within sight of it. Round it lie the buried cities, whose
charred remains have been exhumed to tell what may yet be the fate of
those other younger cities which have arisen on their ashes.

While the scene beyond was so enthralling, there was one nearer by
which was no less so. This was the street itself, with that wild,
never-ending rush