had been ready to break. The passions of some of the rabble without doors took a different turn ; instead of sorrow, they were filled with rage and indignation at the Saint's obstinacy. They put him in mind of the zeal with which he was adored by the people of all ranks in Naples; of the honours which had been conferred on him; that he was respected here more than in any other country on earth; and some went so far, as to call him an old ungrateful yellow-faced rascal for his obduracy. It was now almost dark—and when least expected, the signal was given that the miracle was performed. The populace filled the air with repeated shouts of joy; a band of music began to play; ,Te Deum was sung; couriers were dispatched to the royal family, then at Portici, with the glad tidings; the young lady dried up her tears; the countenances of our company brightened in an instant, and they sat that some imputed the delay partly to the weather, which happened to be rainy, and colder than is usual at this season; and partly to the awkwardness of the Archbishop, who, never having performed before, was accused of not handling the phial in the same dexterous and efficacious manner that a person of experience would have done. While they imputed the failure to those causes, they seemed equally uneasy with the rest of the company about the consequences. It struck me, that the first sentiment was perfectly inconsistent with the second. I mentioned this to a French gentleman, who is here as travelling companion to the- young Comte de Grammont. * * If," said I, " the weather, or the unfkilsulness of the Archbishop, ** has prevented the substance in the phial "from bedoming liquid, this surely can*' not be an indication that Heaven or the ** Saint is displeased; if, on the contrary, ** the blood continuing solid in the pre** fence of the Saint, proceeds from Hea "expertness' on the part of the Arch-. "bishop, could have rendered it liquid." i "Monsieur," said he, * * voila ce qu'on "appelle raisonner ce que ces messieurs ne *' font jaimais." The fame evening, an acquaintance of mine, who is also a Roman Catholic, and who remained close by the Archbishop till all was over, assured me, that the miracle had failed entirely; for the old monk seeing no symptom of the blood liquefying, had called out, that the miracle had succeeded; on which the signal had been given, the people had shouted, the Archbishop had held up the bottle, moving it with a rapid motion before the eyes of the'spectators, and nobody choosing to contradict what every body wished, he had been allowed to cover up the phial, and carry it back to the chapel, with the contents, in the same form they had come abroad. How far this account is exactly true, I will not take on me to assert; I was not near enough to fee the transaction myself, and I have only the authority of this person, LETTER LXVI. Naples* *-r*HE tomb of Virgil is on the mountain of Paufilippo, a little above the grotto of that name; you ascend to ic by a narrow path which runs through a vineyard; it is overgrown with ivy leaves, and shaded with branches, shrubs, and buslies; an ancient bay-tree, with infinite propriety, overhangs it. Many a solitary walk have I taken to this place. The earth, which contains his ashes, we expect to find clothed in the brightest verdure. Viewed from this magic spot, the objects which adorn the bay become doubly interesting. The Poet's verses are here recollected with additional pleasure; the verses of Virgil are interwoven in our minds with a thousand interesting ideas, with the me 1 mnrv r»f nnr hnvifli vpars nr thf» snnrtive and companions, many of whom are now dead; and those who still live, and for whom we retain the first impression of affection, are at such a distance, as renders the hopes of seeing them again very uncertain. No wonder, therefore, when in a contemplative mood, that our steps are often directed to a spot so well calculated to create and cherish sentiments congenial with the state of our mind. But then comes an antiquarian, who, with his odious doubts, disturbs the pleasing source of our enjoyment; and from the fair and delightful fields of fancy, conveys us in a moment to a dark, barren, and comfort-* less desert;—he doubts, whether this be the real place where the ashes of Virgil were deposited; and tells us an unsatisfactory story about the other side of the bay, and that he is rather inclined to believe that the Poet was buried somewhere there, without fixing on any particular spot. |