or orphaned souls used to steal out at night for a breath of fresh
air, and perhaps to see, as I did one dark evening, Naples with its
lights like a conflagration on the horizon. Upon the tiles of the
parapet are cheerful devices, the crossbones tied with a cord, and the
like. How many heavy-hearted recluses have stood in that secluded nook,
and been tempted by the sweet, lulling sound of the waves below; how
many have paced along this narrow terrace, and felt like prisoners who
wore paths in the stone floor where they trod; and how many stupid louts
have walked there, insensible to all the charm of it!

If I pass into the Tramontano garden, it is not to escape the presence
of history, or to get into the modern world, where travelers are
arriving, and where there is the bustle and proverbial discontent of
those who travel to enjoy themselves. In the pretty garden, which is a
constant surprise of odd nooks and sunny hiding-places, with ruins, and
most luxuriant ivy, is a little cottage where, I am told in confidence,
the young king of Bavaria slept three nights not very long ago. I hope
he slept well. But more important than the sleep, or even death, of a
king, is the birth of a poet, I take it; and within this inclosure, on
the eleventh day of March, 1541, Torquato Tasso, most melancholy of men,
first saw the light; and here was born his noble sister Cornelia, the
descendants of whose union with the cavalier Spasiano still live here,
and in a manner keep the memory of the poet green with the present
generation. I am indebted to a gentleman who is of this lineage for many
favors, and for precise information as to the position in the house that
stood here of the very room in which Tasso was born. It is also minutely
given in a memoir of Tasso and his family, by Bartolommeo Capasso,
whose careful researches have disproved the slipshod statements of the
guidebooks, that the poet was born in a house which is still standing,
farther to the west, and that the room has fallen into the sea. The
descendant of the sister pointed out to me the spot on the terrace of
the Tramontano where the room itself was, when the house still stood;
and, of course, seeing is believing. The sun shone full upon it, as we
stood there; and the air was full of the scent of tropical fruit and
just-coming blossoms. One could not desire a more tranquil scene of
advent into life; and the wandering, broken-hearted author of "Jerusalem
Delivered" never found