Mountain paths near Sorrento.—The Scaricatòjo.—Picturesque house.—Amalfi.—Salerno.—Eboli.—The Castle.—View from it.—Unhealthiness of the Peasantry.—Buffaloes.—Useful breed of Oxen.—Scene of Murder.—Pæstum.—The Temple of Neptune.—Scenery of Pæstum.—Beautiful route to Pompeii.—Castel-a-Mare.—American Vessels seized by Murat.—Influence of the Commercial Class in America.—Rights of individual Citizens disregarded.

The season having advanced far enough to remove all apprehension of malaria, we sent notice to our friend Mr. Hammett, at Naples, and prepared to visit Pæstum. On the appointed day the consul appeared, and, the next morning, after an early breakfast, we left la Casa detta del Tasso, on donkeys as usual, and took one of the mountain paths that led towards the gulf of Salerno. We had often explored these very heights, and had often admired the loveliness of the view, as from the elevations we overlooked both bays, and all the radiant scenery, but never more so than on this occasion. The shores of this promontory, on the gulf of Salerno, are, as a rule, much higher than those of the bay of Naples, though they cannot well be more precipitous. At the highest point of the road we dismissed the donkeys, and prepared to make the descent on foot, followed by a man to carry the night-sack and the cloaks. The place to which we were going, and, in particular, the path which leads to it, has great local celebrity, and that deservedly, among the lovers of the picturesque, under the name of the Scaricatòjo, which signifies, I believe, a place to discharge at, or a landing. W——, who justifies his Pennsylvanian descent by a love of puns, termed it the “Scare-you-the-toes-oh!”—and really it is one of the last places on the coast I should have expected to find a marine landing at. The precipice is very high, many times higher than that of Sorrento, and almost as steep. We went down it by a zig-zag, half stairs and half path, or what —— would call an amphibious road, wondering what there could be at the bottom, but the sea. We did find, however, a landing just large enough to receive a boat or two, and the site of a small house, in which two or three custom-house officers live; for so great is the jealousy of this government, in matters of revenue, that every spot at which a boat can throw its crew ashore is closely watched.

At the Scaricatòjo, we took a small boat with a pair of oars, and launched upon the water, bound to Amalfi, which lies some six or eight miles further up the gulf towards Salerno. Our party consisted of five; and these, with the two oars, gave us more freight than would have been agreeable in a blow; but fortunately there was scarcely any air, though the cradle of old Neptune was lazily rocking, as it is ever known to be, gale or calm. Occasionally, as we rounded the cliffs, the scend of the sea would carry us close in, giving us the appearance of one of the bubbles, though in fact there was no risk.

I had often rowed under mountains, in Switzerland, though not often so immediately beneath rocks of the same elevation for some of the peaks between Amalfi and the Scaricatòjo are said to be six thousand feet high. This is almost equal to Mount Washington, and all, too, in the distance of a mile, or even less, of base. In Switzerland, certainly, one sees cottages, and even churches, convents, and châteaux, on the spurs of mountains; but I do not remember to have ever met with habitations of the same pretension so crowded on rocks so nearly perpendicular, as was the case to-day, a few miles before we reached Amalfi. Some of the country-houses seemed to us, who were floating beneath, to be absolutely stuck against the rocks; though I dare say there was ample room for safety, and even for gardens. Just before reaching the town, a convent appeared built into the cliffs, in a most picturesque manner, the wall of rock rising above the buildings half way to the clouds.

Amalfi is in a sort of a gorge, and certainly has as few commercial facilities, in the way of a port, as any ordinary mile of sea beach. Beach it has, and that in a region like this, is distinction enough to form a town; for the light craft most in use by the ancients could be hauled on it, an effectual mode of security. I never before witnessed a scene of wrangling, begging, vociferations, and rapacity, equal to that which followed our landing on the beach of Amalfi. Men, women, and children beset us in schulls, particularly the two latter, until we were compelled to use strong measures to get rid of them.

Amalfi would seem to have been built for pleasure, for the situation is beautifully picturesque; though, the beach excepted, and a gorge in the mountains that permits of a better path than is usual here, were the only two practical advantages I could discover about its site. You may imagine the effect of a town of some size, clinging to rocks between mountains and the sea, with churches, convents, and villas, stuck about on shelves, according to caprice or accident. These people are the very opposites of us Americans in their urban economy; for while we level molehills with the sagacity and zeal of speculators, they perch themselves on cliffs, and people ravines like poets. We may have the best of it, considering a house as an article, in which a room must contain but two windows, since the third curtain will prevent its letting; but they have greatly the best of it, considering a house as a place, in which one is to indulge in his individuality, and in pleasant thoughts. I believe we make money faster than any other nation, while we spend it with less satisfaction. A copy of the lost Pandects of Justinian was found at Amalfi, in 1137. I wonder where the Pandects of Trade were found?

As our time was short, we ordered a large boat with six oars, and left Amalfi within an hour, taking some refreshments with us, the country changed materially as we approached the head of the gulf, the peaks becoming lower and less perpendicular, and the shores generally more accessible. In the direction of Calabria the coast appeared low, the Apennines retiring inland, though their blue and ridgy outlines were visible in the haze. A lad who pulled the stroke oar, and who answered most of our questions, amused us greatly with his patois. Signore, he invariably pronounced like snore;—“S’nore, si; s’nore, no;”—as you may suppose, to W——’s great delight.

We found Salerno seated on the strand, with hills behind it, and an amphitheatre of mountains in their rear, again. It occupies some such situation on the gulf of Salerno as Naples occupies on her own bay, though less picturesquely surrounded in some respects, while it is more so in others. The southern, or rather, the eastern, shore of the gulf, especially, is comparatively tame, on account of the flat land bounding the water. The place of our destination was in that direction, still distant some five-and-twenty or thirty miles. Salerno is little more than a roadstead, for vessels of any size; though it has a mole of some extent, behind which smaller craft can lie. The sciroccos have a full rake into this bay; but against all winds from west northerly, round to south-east, there is a tolerable protection.

As the great post-road from Naples to Calabria, (the Ancient Appian Way) passes through Salerno, we here took a carriage and three horses, with which we proceeded, as soon as possible, towards Eboli. The road was excellent, and the scenery enchanting. I can scarcely recall more beautiful pastoral glimpses of glades and meadows, all relieved by noble oaks, than we passed this evening. The population, too, appeared admirably suited to increase the effect. The dresses were in the highest degree picturesque, though a little rude, and we met few men who did not carry guns. Some even wore short swords. I believe the practice has arisen from the violence of the banditti, who formerly frequented the mountains. The danger of descents by the Barbary corsairs, too, on a coast so favourable, may have had its influence. A pointed, high-crowned hat, occasionally decorated with ribands, leathern gaiters rising to the knees, a jacket a little á la hussar, with a gun thrown into the hollow of the arm, at all events, made a man fit for a picture. Although we were not actually in Calabria, the peasants more resembled Calabrians than Neapolitans.

We did not get to Eboli until after dark. The carriage stopped at an inn without the walls, which had once been a convent. On examining it, we found it little more than a coarse drinking-house, with a table and two or three chairs placed in each cell, most of which were reeking with wine, and the bed-rooms quite as unpromising. It was clear the ladies could not sleep there, and yet it was the best public-house Eboli afforded. From this awkward and uncomfortable situation we were extricated by the kindness and forethought of the consul. That gentleman had bethought him, before leaving Naples, of addressing a note to the Prince of Angra,—who is not only lord of Eboli, but the proprietor of most of the adjacent country,—and had received, in reply, a letter addressed to all the prince’s dependents or stewards, commanding them to put any of his numerous houses at our disposal. The head manager of the estate lived in Eboli, and to his dwelling Mr. Hammett and myself forthwith proceeded. On reading the letter, we were told the castle of Eboli should be immediately put at our disposition, and that we had only to go and conduct the ladies up to it. This we did not require two invitations to do.

Eboli is a small crowded town, lying against an acclivity, at the foot of the Apennines, and is crowned by the castle, which occupies, as was usual in the middle ages, the highest site. The place is walled, and the streets are rather rapid and irregular. Most of the ancient castle has disappeared, though a few towers remain; but, in its stead, a spacious and comfortable hunting-seat has been erected. We entered a spacious court, and were conducted by a private way to a large sala, in which a fire was lighted in a brazier placed in the chimney. Around this we gladly gathered, for the cool air of the Apennines was beginning to chill us. A supper was prepared, and we were furnished with good beds and excellent rooms. All was done with great assiduity, and with a profound desire to do credit to the lord of Eboli; two or three servants remaining always in the castle, whither, however, the owner seldom comes, and then only to pass a few days.

In the morning I rose betimes, and went out on a terrace to look at the scenery, for the darkness had hid every thing from observation the previous night. The elevation of the castle gave it a commanding view, and we were enabled to see most of the country through which we were to travel to reach Pæstum, then distant from us twelve miles.

Eboli stands on the verge of the great plain that stretches leagues along the sea at this place. This country was probably once fertile, and, of course, healthful, like the Campagna of Rome, or it never would have been occupied as the site of such a town as Pæstum. It is now nearly deserted; though there are a few hunting seats scattered about its surface, which may be occupied in the cool months. Among others is Persano, a house belonging to the king, and which was much frequented by the late sporting monarch, Don Francesco. The sea was visible in the distance; and the site of Pæstum might also be discerned, across a wide reach of plain. This plain was much covered with small trees in the foreground, though it was more naked nearer to the sea.

After breakfast we left the castle of Eboli, grateful for its hospitality, and very sensible of the politeness by which it had been accorded. The road, for some distance, was beautiful; but it gradually led us upon the plain, where soon little was visible besides bushes. Persano was passed, lying on our left; and then, for miles, it was a country that, while it was not positively pleasant, offered nothing that was positively disagreeable.

Peasants soon began to appear that seemed not only out of their region, but almost out of their hemisphere. The physical peculiarities were certainly European; but in size, tint, and almost dress, they might have passed for Esquimaux. Sheep-skins with the wool on were the favourite jacket; and some actually wore blankets, like our own Indians. The sallow hue made us shudder; for one saw it was not owing to climate and habits, acting through centuries, but to disease. Had the same individual been so happy as to pass his days on the adjacent mountains, the springs of life would have remained pure: his colour might have been dark under this fierce sun, but it would not have denoted disease; and his days, though numbered, would have reached the allotted time of man. As it was, the fabulous adventurers of the Bohan Upas were not more certainly doomed than these poor wretches. The rice fields of Carolina are kind in comparison with these wastes; for those kill, and there is an end of it; and, unlike these, they do not much injure those whose hard fortune compels them to dwell there, but merely those who yield to cupidity, and not to necessity.

On reaching the Silaro, we found the bridge broken, and we had to cross in a boat. The carriage was swamped, and buffaloes were procured to drag it out. In all this country, buffaloes appear to be used instead of oxen. The plains abound with them, and we saw them at work in all directions. Of course, you are naturalist enough to know that the animal familiarly called the buffalo in America, and which furnishes the sleigh-skins, is not the buffalo, but the bison; the real buffalo differing little from the ox. At Florence oxen are employed, and oxen too of a breed I was very desirous of getting sent to America. They are of a cream colour, a little inclining to the dun, and, besides having a handsome form, are admirably suited to a warm climate, and are the fastest walkers I have ever seen in the yoke. I have frequently walked by their sides, at a quick pace, and have generally found them as nimble as I am myself; nor do I remember ever to have seen one lolling. They are said to fatten kindly, and have a good carcase, though certainly they are a little longer-legged than our own. Their weight might fail a little in the heavy toil of a clearing; but there is a vast deal of lighter American labour in which their qualities would come admirably in use. I was told the breed is Hungarian. I question if the cows are very good milkers; though this may be the result of husbandry and climate, for milk is far more precious and scarcer in Italy than wine, as I have already told you, and good pasture is very scarce—almost unknown.

Passing a house or two of the Prince of Angra, we trotted on by a straight even road, for a league or two farther. The country had become more wild and sterile, though it could be hardly termed a desert. It had the appearance of neglect rather than of barrenness, and, like the Campagna of Rome, doubtless has gotten the upper hand of industry, by having been so long permitted to go uncultivated. The coachman stopped the carriage by a copse of bushes, and told us the spot was the scene of a recent robbery and murder. A newly-married English couple were going into Pæstum, when their carriage was stopped at this place. A lad was stationed with a musket by the copse, while two or three others appeared in the road by the horse’s head. This lad wanted nerves for his task; for on the Englishman’s remonstrating, most probably against his holding the gun pointed, he fired, and shot man and wife through their bodies, as they sat side by side. Both were killed, or both died of the wounds, and the robbers were subsequently taken and executed. A hamlet, against the Apennines, was pointed out to us as the place in which they had lived. It was said, murder formed no part of their original intention. Since that time, however, the police has been much more active, and no robbery has occurred. As for ourselves, the affair of the “runner” between Bologna and Florence has completely removed all uneasiness on the subject.

A few yards beyond the thicket of the robbers, we came to the ruined fragments of a gateway and of walls, and then entered within the precincts of the ancient city of Pæstum. There are three or four modern houses within these walls, one or two of which are of respectable dimensions, belonging to the proprietor of the country, and they injure the effect, although, in the season when one may sleep here with impunity, they contribute to the comfort of a visit. It would have aided the general effect, had the site of the city itself been left to its solitude, and the dwellings might have stood without the walls as well as within them.

The history of Pæstum is not very well settled. It is popularly said to have been built by a colony of marine adventurers, who named the place after their own particular god, Neptune.^[1] The temples that remain are certainly of very remote antiquity; probably little less ancient, if any, than the Pyramids of Egypt. The Romans got possession of the place, of course, and Augustus is said to have visited the very temples that are now standing, as specimens of ancient architecture! The Saracens destroyed the town about a thousand years since, and it has lain the whole of the intervening time virtually a waste. So completely was the place forgotten and lost, that, standing on the coast, and at no great distance from what must have been the great road into Calabria, since the time of Appius Claudius, at least, its site was unknown to the reading and travelling portion of mankind, until the year 1755, when a painter of Naples, who was out sketching from nature, blundered on the ruins, and brought them into notice. This sounds extraordinary in the ears of an American; but a little explanation removes half the causes of wonder.

In the first place, Pæstum, though it stands within a mile of the sea, lies on the eastern side of the gulf of Salerno, and away from the track of all but the small vessels of the adjoining country. The temples are not high, and when first seen by the painter, were said to have been nearly buried in vines and trees. A common Italian is so much accustomed to see ruins, that the peasants of the neighbourhood would not be struck by their existence; things to which we have been habituated appearing always as things of course, and occasioning no surprise. Besides, Pæstum was never a place much noted in history, but is principally remarkable for containing a rare specimen of architecture in its ruder state, and for the durability of its works. Perhaps the ruins, concealed in tangled brakes, required the keen eye and cultivated tastes of an artist, to attract the attention necessary to draw them from obscurity. How many hunters, land surveyors, and even land speculators, saw the Falls of Trenton before they wore spoken of beyond their own neighbourhood! I can well recollect the time when I first heard of them as a thing that would well repay the trouble of walking a mile or two to see; and yet it may be questioned if all Europe has a cascade that so well merits a visit;—certainly it has not more than one or two, if it has any.

The size of Pæstum is easily to be seen by the remains of its walls. The guide-books say these walls were once fifty feet high; though I saw nothing that would have led me to believe them so lofty. Parts remain, notwithstanding, in a tolerable state of preservation. Their circuit is stated at two miles, the form being elliptical; and this would give, on the shortest side, a diameter a little exceeding half a mile, which is about the real distance. We have few villages, containing fifteen hundred souls, in America, that do not cover at much ground as this; although we have no edifice to compare with the temples that have stood on this spot, near two thousand years, as ruins, even in the largest towns. One of the gates still remains; but it may be questioned if it is as old as the temples. There are also the remains of an amphitheatre, or of a theatre, and of many other edifices that belonged to the civilisation of that remote age. It is probable the theatre was Roman.

It sounds odd to speak of antiquity as being comparatively modern, because it was Roman; but comparing the temple of Neptune with any thing else of the sort, in Italy, would seem quite out of the question. Its history and its style prove it to be one of the most venerable specimens of human art of which we have any knowledge. The Pyramids themselves are scarcely older. And yet, standing a few hundred feet in its front, and examining the structure, one can scarcely fancy that he sees a blemish on its exterior. The lightning has scathed it; but time appears to have wrought nearly in vain on its massive columns. Some of the interior columns are gone, it is true, and a little of the pediment is broken, but scarcely more than is absolutely necessary to give the structure the air of a ruin.

The temple of Neptune is thought to be the oldest of the remaining edifices of Pæstum, and it certainly is much the finest, although that called of Ceres belongs to a more advanced taste in architecture. The rudeness of the former, however, accords so admirably with its massiveness, as well as its antiquity, that I believe few people hesitate about giving it the preference. To me, it was much the most impressive, and I had almost said the most imposing, edifice I know. The mind insensibly ran back to other ages as I gazed at the pile, which, like the fresh-looking lava of Ischia, appeared to laugh at human annals. Three centuries since, I said mentally, Columbus discovered half the world, astonishing the inhabitants of the two hemispheres equally, by bringing each to a knowledge of the other. At that period, which more than swallowed the entire history of my own country, this temple lay buried in vines and brambles, the haunt of serpents and birds. Seven centuries would take us back to the period of the English conquest, when England itself was a nation scarcely emerged from barbarism. Four or five more might carry us back to the age when marauders from the East laid waste the sickly town that had succeeded the city of the original colonists, when the past, to even its people, seemed remote and obscure. Four or five centuries more would take us up to the Romans, who came to see this temple as an object of wonder, and as a curious relic of distant ages. Another thousand years would probably bring us to the period when the priests officiated at the altar, and homage was paid to one of the attributes of Divine power, through the mysticisms of heathen allegory. What a speck does the history of America become in this long vista of events—what a point the life and adventures of a single man! And yet even this temple does not reach to the last great convulsion, when the earth was virtually destroyed, and animal life may be said to have taken a new commencement: at the next, even the temple of Neptune will disappear.

Some astronomers, by calculating the epochs of a particular and a remarkable comet, that which was last seen in 1681, suppose it possible that it may have struck the earth about the time of the Deluge, causing that phenomenon, and producing most of those physical changes that certainly have altered the face of the earth, destroying many of its animals, and which may have actually given it new revolutions. Admitting that this theory is substantially true,—and it is as likely to be so as any other that has been broached,—we may regard the temple of Neptune as one of the best specimens of architecture that succeeded the new civilisation. At all events, it is something even to fancy one has seen a work of human art that may be esteemed a standard of human skill three thousand years ago.

A good deal has been written about the scenery of Pæstum, which is certainly not unsuited to the ruins. It would be better without the half-dozen modern dwellings, perhaps; but the mind takes little heed of these intruders, when once occupied with the temples. There is something too engrossing in the study of structures like these, to admit of interruption. The plain is not a desert, but it is covered rather with the luxuriant vegetation of weeds, that associate with the spot the idea of wildness, instead of that of solitude. In this respect, the Pyramids are the most sublime; for there nature, and even vegetation, appear to have gone to decay, while the works of man endure. Still, there are a homeliness and familiarity in the wastes of Pæstum, that suit the nature of the ruins better, perhaps, than a plain of sand. The site of each class of ruins is suited to its particular character. This is a town, and the fancy endeavours to people its streets, to crowd the altar, and to imagine the thousand familiar objects and scenes that once enlivened its avenues. The tangled brake, the wild flower, the luxuriant and negligent vine, while they are eloquent on the subject of solitude, comport well with such recollections. In Egypt the grandeur of the desolation, with the interminable and sterile plains, better suit the magnificence of the works, and the mystery that conceals their origin and history. Au reste, the moral of the entourage of Pæstum is different from that of the Pyramids; for the Apennines form a distant but beautiful amphitheatre on one side, while the blue Mediterranean on the other, the “eternal hills,” and “the great sea” of antiquity, exhibit all the glories of their nature, as they hover over and around these memorials of man.

We sat down to the most disgusting and the nastiest meal at Pæstum I ever saw served; but nothing besides wine would seem to be fit for use at the place. Our host did credit to the latter; and he frankly admitted that, without plenty of good warm liquor, life was a slippery tenure on this plain. What a happy apology for one who takes kindly to the remedy! Several miserable looking wretches, in whom life seemed to be withering hourly, came round the hovel, and he pointed to them as proofs of the truth of his theory.

We did not return to Eboli, but proceeded direct to Salerno, on our return, reaching that place just as night closed. The inn at this place struck me as being more thoroughly foreign and strange than any I had yet been in. The grand sala was in the centre of the house, and almost without external light. It also answered the purposes of a kitchen; the travellers, who were seated around the vast room, eating by dim lamps, enjoying the advantage of whetting their appetites by the aid of the flavours of the different dishes. We succeeded in obtaining three rooms, in one of which, that afterwards served me for a bed-room, we contrived to eat a very unscientific supper.

After a better breakfast the next morning, we proceeded by land, taking the road to Pompeii. The route was beautiful, running over mountains and through gorges, with brilliant views of the sea; for we had now to cross the broken range of the Apennines, that separates the two bays, and which forms the promontory of Sorrento. The cliffs near Salerno were truly magnificent, and a hermitage or two on their giddy shelves put every thing of the sort we had seen, even in Switzerland, to shame.

One of the great charms of Italy is the manner in which the most picturesque sites are thus occupied. Pinnacles, peaks, rocks, terraces, that, in other countries, the traveller might feel disposed to embellish by some structure, in his fancy, poetical alike in its form and uses, are here actually occupied, and frequently by objects whose beauty surpasses even the workings of the imagination. Of this character was the extraordinary scene already mentioned, in the island of Ischia. Then the softness of the atmosphere and the skies throw a charm over all, to comprehend which, one must be acquainted with the effect of light in low latitudes.

There were a great many small isolated towers standing along the ridges and sides of the mountains, which, I was told, were used for the field-sports of the king, though in what way I cannot tell you. The mountains between Castel-a-mare and Sorrento also have several. If I understood the explanation, they are not intended for hunting or shooting-seats, for which they are too small and too numerous, but merely as stands to shoot from! This may be set down as royal poaching.

Our visit to Pompeii was short, though we nearly made the circuit of the walls. The amphitheatre is built against these walls, at one end; for, standing on its uppermost point, I found I looked out of the city. The house of the fountain was now completely disinterred, and we saw a few small domestic articles that had been found in the ashes. I was more strongly impressed than ever, at this visit, with the notion of restoring and furnishing entire one of the best of the houses; a thing that might be done from the Royal Museum with tolerable success. Even a respectable approach to the truth would be infinitely interesting.

I must still think that a portion of the town of the greatest interest, as respects private dwellings, remains to be explored. I believe that the street parallel to that of the Appian Way will yet, when opened, offer some dwelling suited to this plan of restoration, and that by proper care the walls and paintings may be preserved. It would be better to open a house with this express intention, than to attempt restoring one of those that has long been exposed to the air.

From Pompeii we went to Castel-a-mare. This town stands near the ancient site of Stabiæ, which was also destroyed by the eruption of the year 79. The king has a favourite country palace on the heights behind the town; it is called Qui si sana,^[2] a name that answers to the Sans Souci of Frederic, though of a different signification. We saw, a short time since, the royal squadron on its way from Naples to Castel-a-mare, the king having several vessels that he uses as yachts. One was a ship, and there were also a brig and a schooner. There is a schooner now lying at Naples, that was seized under the decrees of Murat, which was formerly appropriated to the same purposes. Since my arrival here, I have heard an interesting fact coupled with these seizures, on authority so good that I give it credit.

When the proposition to seize these vessels was made to Murat, he resisted it, on the ground that it was a species of piracy, a breach of faith that could not be tolerated for a moment by any independent nation, and that immediate war would be the consequence. His minister knew America better than his master: “America will not declare war, sire, for it is a country of traders, and these are men who will not consent to lose their present profits for the maintenance of a principle. It is true, in the end something will be done, for no nation can submit to such an aggression; but at present it will be nothing but talk. Hereafter, Naples may have to make compensation; but your majesty needs money, and we can consider this as a forced loan.” The counsel was followed, and we now know how true was the minister’s prediction. This person was wrong in his general estimate of the American nation, but perfectly right in that of its merchants, who have the character common to all in trade. They never look beyond the day. It is our misfortune to have no towns but trading towns, and, consequently, no collected influence to resist their published opinions and interested clamour, which are fast tending to a misconception, and to a displacing of all the interests of life. Thus it is we find men treating commerce, which is merely an incident of human affairs, as a principal, and struggling to make every thing, even morals and laws, subservient to its ends, and this, too, without a due regard to means. This class of citizens overawe those presses which have the greatest circulation, and by acting in concert, and with available means, form a powerful, and, more especially, a clamorous resistance, to any thing that thwarts, or which they fancy thwarts, their interests. The commercial class of America, as a class, will ever be found in opposition to any administration that loyally carries out the intention of the government; for that intention is indissolubly connected with great principles, whereas their bias has ever been to expedients that are temporary and fluctuating, or to the policy that suits the prevailing interest of the hour. Trade, liable to so many vicissitudes and sudden reverses, never can have any higher code of principles.

I cannot express to you the sensations which crowded my mind as, seated on the mole at Naples, I regarded the schooner in question; a vessel that had been wrested, without even the pretence of legality, from an American citizen, to contribute to the pleasures of the king of this country. Of what avails it that one is an American? His property is taken from him by violence, his person outraged, and if he complain so as seriously to bring in danger the relations of his country, the chances are more than equal that his character would follow his property, if no other means offered to protect, as it is termed, the interests of trade. What aggravates the wrong, is the fact that a large portion of the class who have given this false direction to the public policy are not even Americans, but foreigners who assume the American character merely to advance their fortunes, and who are always ready to throw it aside when there is a question of national pride, or of national disgrace.

For myself, a near view of the effects of these wrongs, and a consideration of the policy and feelings that have succeeded them, has destroyed all confidence in the protection of my native country. I deem the national character of no more use or service to me, as a traveller beyond the influence of his own laws, than if I were an Esquimaux. I know that others of more experience,—I may say, of bitter experience,—have the same feeling. I declare solemnly, were I a merchant, and were my vessel seized by any power of sufficient force to render a contest with it of momentary importance to trade, that, so far from believing myself protected by my flag,—unless, indeed, I could call to my immediate succour some of those gallant and right-feeling men who command the cruisers, who are ready enough to assert the honour and rights of the flag, but who are oftener reproached than commended, however, when they do discover a proper spirit of this nature,—I should conceive I had made a good escape by compromising with the aggressor for one half, instead of appealing to the government for protection.

There is a great deal of vapouring in the papers about the protection of the flag; but I am perfectly persuaded that my feeling is the feelings of a large majority of the Americans abroad. I do not believe one in ten has the smallest reliance on the spirit, wisdom, patriotism, or justice of the government at home. By government, I mean that body which alone possesses any efficient authority in such cases, which is Congress. Were I personally to be brought under the displeasure of any of these governments, I would sooner seek the protection of a Russian, or even of a French, than of an American minister, unless my personal relations with the latter were such as to render me confident of his support. On those diplomatic men who look forward to political advancement at home, I should have no dependance at all, as a rule, (I admit the character of the individual might influence his conduct,) for such men, as a class, regard the clamour of the most clamorous, far more than either principles or their duties.

This is a sore spot in the American character, and a blot on the American name. I once thought differently, for I followed my feelings rather than my knowledge; but observation and reflection have taught me to think as I now think. What renders the consciousness of this false policy most of all bitter, is the certainty that the heart of the nation is sound, its bones and sinews being as ready as those of any people on earth to maintain a true and a spirited policy. But they are neutralized by the congregated and arrogant interests of trade. Let any wrong of this nature be fairly laid before the nation in the spirit of honesty and truth, and nine men in ten will be ready to avenge the honour or to justify the rights of the republic: but politicians do not, or will not see this truth, and they invariably point to the towns and the presses of the merchants. I have had several conversations on this very topic with diplomatic men in Europe, and have not found one who was not under this malign and unmanly fear, and insomuch unfit for his trust.^[3]

This is not the popular manner of regarding these things, I know; but I am writing to tell you what, at least, I conceive to be, under the deepest conviction of my responsibilities as a man, the naked truth. The day will come when these opinions will be believed, the political ephemera of the hour having withered, died, and become forgotten, notwithstanding the charlatanism and laboured industry of the Tacituses of the day.