Onu.—­To attempt to form any opinion with respect to the people that anciently inhabited these now deserted plains is useless and a vain labour.  In the geological conversation which took place before dinner, some series of interesting facts were presented to us; and the monuments of Nature, though they do not speak a distinct language, yet speak an intelligible one; but with respect to Paestum, there is neither history nor tradition to guide us; and we shall do wisely to resume our philosophical inquiries, if we have not already exhausted the patience of our new guest by doubts or objections to his views.

The Stranger.—­One of you referred in our conversation this morning to a vision, which had some relation to the subject of our discussion, and I was promised some information on this matter.

I immediately gave a sketch of my vision, and of the opinions which had been expressed by Ambrosio on the early history of man, and the termination of our discussions on religion.

The Stranger.—­I agree with Ambrosio in opinion on the subjects you have just mentioned.  In my youth, I was a sceptic; and this I believe is usually the case with young persons given to general and discursive reading, and accustomed to adopt something like a mathematical form in their reasonings; and it was in considering the nature of the intellectual faculties of brutes, as compared with those of man, and in examining the nature of instinctive powers, that I became a believer.  After I had formed the idea that Revelation was to man in the place of an instinct, my faith constantly became stronger; and it was exalted by many circumstances I had occasion to witness in a journey that I made through Egypt and a part of Asia Minor, and by no one more than by a very remarkable dream which occurred to me in Palestine, and which, as we are now almost at the hour of the siesta, I will relate to you, though perhaps you will be asleep before I have finished it.  I was walking along that deserted shore which contains the ruins of Ptolemais, one of the most ancient ports of Judaea.  It was evening; the sun was sinking in the sea; I seated myself on a rock, lost in melancholy contemplations on the destinies of a spot once so famous in the history of man.  The calm Mediterranean, bright in the glowing light of the west, was the only object before me.  “These waves,” I said to myself, “once bore the ships of the monarch of Jerusalem which were freighted with the riches of the East to adorn and honour the sanctuary of Jehovah; here are now no remains of greatness or of commerce; a few red stones and broken bricks only mark what might have been once a flourishing port, and the citadel above, raised by the Saracens, is filled with Turkish soldiers.”  The janissary, who was my guide, and my servant, were preparing some food for me in a tent which had been raised for the purpose, and whilst waiting for their summons to my repast, I continued