the coffin at the time of his
decease, and renewed every year by friends, when the cobwebs of the year
preceding are brushed away. One elder, the pride of the collection, had
lain in his court-suit for nearly a hundred years, the aforesaid
aromatics having kept off the moths all this time. The room felt dry,
and, except for the _company_, what one calls _comfortable_.
Knee-buckles and shoe-buckles, and steel-hilted swords, do not rust
here, and white cravats and embroidered waistcoats might almost return
to the world! The Capucins themselves are disposed in niches, and each
has a text from Scripture over his cowl. "Do you _prepare_ these
mummies?" we enquire "_Nienti preparati, signor!_ We only lay them to
dry in yonder room over a sink, and when they have lain four months, we
take them out and complete the process in another room, where the sun
comes; after which we dress them and place them here." These Capucins,
they tell us, are the strictest of all sects of Franciscans. From the
sights of the mummy chamber, we see at least that they are not idle, and
must always have a job on hand. Females, if _not_ Catholic, are here
admitted to see the grounds, and they offer wine and bread for our
refreshment, which we, thinking of their _wallets_, decline on the plea
of _anorexia_. Near the Capucins is the Church of _San Giovanni_, a
singularly wild spot, in the midst of bad air, and within reach of the
Ear of Dionysius. We descend with a fellow filthier than the filthiest
Capucin, calling himself a hermit, to guide us in the vast catacombs
over which the hermitage stands. It was a trial to follow him--the rank
woollen dress, uncleansed till it falls to pieces, diffuses an odour
which, in such confined passages, is particularly unpleasant.
Cleanliness, says an English proverb, is next to godliness; but, in
cowled society, it assuredly forms no part of it. Catacombs, in general,
are called interesting--we never saw one in which we did not pay heavy
penalty for gratifying curiosity. Those of Syracuse are vast indeed;
spacious arcaded streets intersect each other in all directions, and
your walk throughout lies between lengthening files of niches, cut into
the walls for coffins, tier above tier, like berths in a steamboat,
conducting here and there into a circular apartment, with a cupola and a
central aperture, looking out upon the wild moor above.

SHARKS, FIREFLIES, &c.

We form to-day the acquaintance of an intelligent medi