On the northern shore of Sicily are still to be seen the magnificent remains¹ of a castle, which formerly² belonged to the noble house of Mazzini. It stands in the centre of a small bay, and upon a gentle acclivity, which, on one side, slopes towards the sea, and on the other rises into an eminence³ crowned by dark woods. The situation is admirably beautiful and picturesque⁴, and the ruins have an air of ancient grandeur⁵, which, contrasted with the present solitude⁶ of the scene, impresses the traveller with awe⁷ and curiosity. During my travels abroad I visited this spot. As I walked over the loose fragments of stone, which lay scattered⁸ through the immense area of the fabrick, and surveyed the sublimity⁹ and grandeur of the ruins, I recurred¹⁰, by a natural association of ideas, to the times when these walls stood proudly in their original splendour, when the halls were the scenes of hospitality and festive¹¹ magnificence, and when they resounded¹² with the voices of those whom death had long since swept from the earth. 'Thus,' said I, 'shall the present generation—he who now sinks in misery—and he who now swims in pleasure, alike pass away and be forgotten.' My heart swelled

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