We made our descent by jumps through the sliding ashes, frequently tumbling over each other, and retracing in five minutes the toil of an hour. Our donkeys stood tethered together on the herbless field of cinders, and we were soon in the clumsy saddles, and with a call at the hermitage, and a parting draught of wine with the friar, we reached our carriages at the little village of Resina in safety. The feet of the whole troop were in a wretched condition. The ladies had worn shoes, or slight boots, which were cut to pieces of course, and one very fine-looking girl, the daughter of an elderly French gentleman, had, with the usual improvidence of her nation, started in satin slippers. She was probably lamed for a month, as she insisted on persevering, and wrapped her feet in handkerchiefs to return.
We rode along the curve of the bay, by one of these matchless sunsets of Italy, and arrived at Naples at dark.
I have had the pleasure lately of making the acquaintance of Mr. Mathias, the distinguished author of the “Pursuits of Literature,” and the translator of Spenser and other English poets into Italian. About twenty years ago, this well-known scholar came to Italy on a desperate experiment of health. Finding himself better almost against hope, he has remained from year to year in Naples, in love with the climate and the language, until, at this day, he belongs less to the English than the Italian literature, having written various original poems in Italian, and translated into Italian verse, to the wonder and admiration of the scholars of the country. I found him this morning at his lodgings, in an old palace on the Pizzofalcone, buried in books as usual, and good-humoured enough to give an hour to a young man who had no claim on him beyond the ordinary interest in a distinguished scholar. He talked a great deal of America naturally, and expressed a very strong friendship for Mr. Everett, whom he had met on his travels, requesting me at the same time to take to him a set of his works as a remembrance. Mr. Mathias is a small man, of perhaps sixty years, perfectly bald, and a little inclined to corpulency. His head is ample, and would make a fine picture of a scholar. His voice is hurried and modest, and from long residence in Italy, his English is full of Italian idioms. He spoke with rapture of Da Ponte, calling me back as I shut the door, to ask for him. It seemed to give him uncommon pleasure that we appreciated and valued him in America.
I have looked over, this evening, a small volume, which he was kind enough to give me. It is entitled “Lyric Poetry, by T. I. Mathias; a new edition, printed privately.” It is dated 1832, and the poems were probably all written within the last two years. The shortest extract I can make is a “Sonnet to the Memory of Gray,” which strikes me as very beautiful.
“Lord of the various lyre! devout we turn
Our pilgrim steps to thy supreme abode,
And tread with awe the solitary road
To grace with votive wreaths thy hallowed urn.
Yet, as we wander through this dark sojourn,