of the old Greek Temple which commands a view of the mountains and the bay; or, if the heat were too powerful, under the shade of the hill near it.  There we would make our cheerful and elegant repast, on bread and fruits, and perhaps a bottle of Malvoisie or Champagne:  the rest of the day should be devoted to a minute examination of the principal objects of interest and curiosity:  we would wait till the shadows of evening had begun to steal over the scene, purpling the mountains and the sea; we would linger there to enjoy all the splendours of an Italian sunset; and then, with minds softened and elevated by the loveliness and solemnity of the scenes around, we would get into our carriage, and drive back to Naples beneath the bright full moon; and, by the way, we would “talk the flowing heart,” and make our recollections of the olden time, our deep impressions of the past, heighten our enjoyment of the present:  and this would be indeed a day of pleasure, of such pleasure as I think I am capable of feeling—­of imparting—­of remembering with unmixed delight.  Such was not yesterday.

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M** brought with him this evening, for our amusement, an old man, a native of Cento, who gains his livelihood by a curious exhibition of his peculiar talents.  He is blind, and plays well on the violin:  he can recite the whole of the Gerusalemme from beginning to end without missing a word:  he can repeat any given stanza or number of stanzas either forwards or backwards:  he can repeat the last words one after another of any stanzas:  if you give him the first word and the last, he can name immediately the particular line, stanza, and book:  lastly, he can tell instantly the exact number of words contained in any given stanza.  This exhibition was at first amusing; but as I soon found that the man’s head was a mere machine, that he was destitute of imagination, and that far from feeling the beauty of the poet, he did not even understand the meaning of the lines he thus repeated up and down, and backwards and forwards, it ceased to interest me after the first sensations of surprise and curiosity were over.

* * * * *

After I had read Italian with Signior B** this evening, he amused me exceedingly by detailing to me the plan of two tragedies he is now writing or about to write.  He has already produced one piece on the story of Boadicea, which is rather a drama than a regular tragedy.  It was acted here with great success.  After giving his drama due praise, I described to him the plan and characters of Fletcher’s Bonduca; and attempted to give him in Italian some idea of the most striking scenes of that admirable play:  he was alternately in enchantment and despair, and I thought he would have torn and bitten his Boadicea to pieces, in the excess of his vivacity.