we write at the open window will be read over
the hob; that the silent toast that we drink
in iced Capri is returned to us in scalding
punch? While the sun is shining upon us
in this unaccountable manner, and reminding
us of Hyde Park in the middle of June, we
are not easily persuaded that the tip of the
beloved Amelia's nose is at this moment
slightly tinged with blue; or that dear George
is standing before the mantelpiece with
uplifted coat-tails, and keeping the fire from
his shivering wife.

Here we are on the Santa Lucia, skirting
the blue sea. Not that it looks quite so
vividly blue as in the pictures, though; but
how incomparably beautiful, as it glides
towards us, calm and untroubled, past the
American frigate lying in the bay! There is
none of that marine smell peculiar to sea-side
places; but, on the other hand, from the side
of the land, one's olfactory nerves are regaled
to an unusual extent. The fact is, that the
expression " bella Napoli " must be taken with
some slight limitation. Look up at the
houses, and down at the pavement, and
round at the people, and you will see at once
what I mean. The sky, the sea, Vesuvius,
the islands in the bay, are the only objects
which do not at once recall soap and water
to the mind as refreshing images. To the
patriotic painter who would wish to represent
his native city under an emblematical form,
I would venture to suggest a perfect Venus
with a dirty—a very dirty face.

At what a rate the rascal is whirling us
on! His whip sounds like a detonating ball.
Past the King's palace, with its swarthy
sentinels pacing in the sun; past the
magnificent theatre of San Carlos; past the
Ministry of State; past the Castel Nuovo,
with its frowning battlements; down to the
sea again, and right through the crowds of
lazy lazzaroni and fishermen. We are among
the habitations of the lower orders; and
what a motley group is this which passes and
repasses before us! Marvellously constructed
little chaises, slung high up in the air, full
to overflowing inside, and with half-a-dozen
ragged fellows clinging on behind, the whole
apparatus drawn along by a solitary lean
horse; the carts of the peasantry, with an
ox and an ass, or an ox and a mule, or an
ox and a horse yoked together; the carriages
of the rich, with the chasseur in full
uniform, and with his sword by his side,
twirling his mustachios on the box; the
dusty diligence crawling along like a mail
of the reign of Queen Anne. On the
pavement beggars of every degree of misery
and raggedness, eyeless, noseless, armless,
without legs, some absolutely without faces,
whining piteously for grani. Priests of every
order, military priests with their jack-boots,
priests in lilac, priests in white, priests in
brown, priests with crosses on their breasts;
friars, with bare feet and waist encircled by a
rope; portly nuns, with rosary and crucifix.
Sellers of fruit, sellers of maccaroni, sellers of
fish. A clacking of whips, a rolling of wheels,
a shrieking of voices, a Pandemonium of
strange oaths, interspersed with snatches of
street music. Thank Heavens! we are getting
out of the town, and into the suburb of
Portici.

See, our driver stops, and takes off his hat.
What is this procession advancing towards
us? What are these torch-bearing figures
clad in white, with round holes for their eyes,
reminding us of the pictures of an auto-da-fé?
It is a funeral. Borne with uncovered face
on a magnificent gilt bier is the corpse of a
woman. So calm, so placid are her features,
one would think she is asleep. Behind is
carried the modest wooden coffin in which
her remains will be committed to the earth.
There are no relatives following; only a couple
of priests, looking staid and solemn under
their three-cornered hats. I don't think I
quite like the figures of those auto-da-fé
fellows, but I know that I like the
undertakers' men still less; and, perhaps, it is not
the custom of the mourners here to drink at
the public-houses on their way back, or to sit
unsteadily on the hearse, with their legs
dangling in the air. More dirty villages,
more swarthy faces, and into the open country.
Now we are driving between two high walls,
ornamented every here and there with a
crucifix, or a rude daub of the Virgin. Now
we are clattering along the open road, looking
at the broad undivided fields on each side of
us. No smiling garden, no neat villa, no
well-trimmed lawn; no Hampstead, no Highgate,
no Camberwell. Everything looking as
if it were about to tumble down; nothing
beautiful but nature; no one at work but the
glorious sun above us. I am a cockney, and
I begin to feel proud of it. We are at the
gates of Pompeii. Who is this ragged fellow,
with holes in every part of his attire,
advancing to greet us ? I should have taken
him for a beggar, if he had not announced
himself as the guide; he conducts us up a
lane, and through the archway of a building
that we see before us. What is it, I wonder?
There is no need of an answer, when we have
cast a glance around us—the Amphitheatre!

The Amphitheatre! Look about you, and
own that it is a spectacle worth coming all
this distance to behold. Here, in this oval
arena, and perhaps on the very spot where
we now stand, the gladiator has died for the
amusement of an audience, with no more
ceremony than a man will now-a-days skip
on a tight-rope. The enclosed benches nearest
to us are the seats of the privileged classes.
What a capital view they had of the fun!
Only think, if you were a very great man,
you might almost be sprinkled with the
blood of the victim! Higher up sat the bulk
of the audience, or that portion of the
spectators who may be said to have corresponded
to our modern pit; and, at the top of all, are
the covered boxes, not for the " gods," but I