I do not know if you are tired of Rome, but I know that I am not. Rome is the paradise of artists; it is full of their objects and their recollections; but what most contributes to make the residence in Italy in general, and of Rome in particular, so interesting to us, is the universal sympathy which is accorded to the objects of our pursuit. From the prince to the peasant, the most educated to the most ignorant, all seem to find pleasure in the productions of the fine arts; and it is this sympathy which more than any one thing makes life pass agreeably; the want of it is always distressing. Why have heretics been burnt, but because they wanted sympathy with the people? Or at least the people believing that to be the case, has had no sympathy with them. What is it but the supposed want of sympathy which makes the populace so hostile to bakers and corndealers? It imagines them to rejoice in that dearness of provisions which is a cause of suffering to the poor, and it therefore considers them with aversion. But I have got to moralizing, when I should be giving an account of my journey here. The first steps are to get a passport, and a certificate of health; no questions are asked on demanding the latter, and all you have to do is to pay a few bajocs. It seems that there has been some suspicion of a contagious disease at Naples, and the Roman government has consequently required a certificate of health from all persons coming from Naples. By way of reprisal, the Neapolitan government now requires a similar certificate with all those coming from Rome. The vetturino as usual disappointed me as to the time of departure, but on the 26th of August we left Rome. I cannot boast much of the pleasantness of the party, with a wrongheaded driver, a foolish papa and mamma, and a spoilt child. Some of the scenes between the father and child were so disgusting, that I shall not venture to put them on paper. The former told me that he had educated the boy according to the system of an English author named Baloxello, who taught that a child should never be contradicted. Besides these there was a Frenchman, who was very pleasant and good-humoured; but he had loaded the carriage with a quantity of merchandize, and this was the source of considerable trouble and delay at the customhouses. In the cabriolet were two Englishmen, of whom I saw little.

We slept the first night at Velletri, and were stopt the next morning at Cisterna with the story of a postillion who had been murdered the night before, in crossing the Pontine Marshes. The passenger within the carriage had escaped with the loss of a considerable sum of money, but the poor postillion, perhaps because he had not stopt immediately when ordered, or perhaps without any preceding salutation, had three bullets in his body. The horse on which he rode was also killed. The bystanders recommended us to take a guard, and our vetturino was very eager to persuade us to do so, but we reflected that there could be no danger in broad daylight, when the whole country was alarmed, and when besides, the robbers had plenty of money; and we proceeded without one. The body of the postillion was lying on the road, whence it seems that it could not be moved, till the appointed officer had been to examine it. The traveller had certainly been very imprudent in crossing the marshes without a guard in the dark, especially as he was known to carry money; and perhaps still more so to stop and sup, as he did, at a miserable little inn on the way. We stopt (but in the day) at the same place, and I could not help reflecting that I was perhaps in the very room where the robbery of the night before had been planned, and every thing prepared for its execution. The air across these marshes is delightfully soft and pleasant, but I felt no more disposition to sleep than I always do, when after early rising, I am travelling through a flat country. The Frenchman however, was determined we should not sleep, and by the help of talking, and a bottle of vinaigre des quatre voleurs, he gained his point as to those within the carriage, but the Englishmen in the cabriolet slept, and felt no inconvenience. I have met them several times at Naples, and it seems one of them has had something of an ague, but not immediately after the journey. The scenery for the greatest part of the way across these celebrated marshes is very pleasant; it is more like travelling through the New Forest, than across Romney Marsh; and the distant mountains present a feature of beauty which neither of these possesses. A brisk, transparent stream ran sometimes on one side of us, sometimes on the other, and sometimes bounded both sides of the road. The wild vine clambered over the tops of the trees, and hung in graceful festoons from branch to branch. Maize seemed the chief object of cultivation, and the plants looked remarkably strong and healthy. We stopped for the night at Terracina, a very picturesque situation. The inn is on the shore, together with the customhouse, and a few other buildings, while the city is on a hill just by. I ran up to see the remains of a temple, which are now built up in the walls of the cathedral. They consist of two fusts of Corinthian columns, and a portion of wall, with an ornamented fascia; all raised over a high continued basement. The cathedral also exhibits internally some detached columns, and other fragments of antiquity. There are also remains of Cyclopean walls, but nothing of much consequence. On a much higher and bolder eminence are the walls of the ancient Anxur, but this I had no time to visit. About Terracina we first meet with myrtles, and the vegetation assumes a different character, indicative of a warmer climate. This arises partly from the change of soil, from the volcanic deposits of the neighbourhood of Rome, to a limestone rock; and partly perhaps from our proximity to the sea, as well as from the more southern latitude. Our vetturino had engaged to set off at two o’clock in the morning, but as he had fixed the same time the night before, and was not himself ready till past four, I concluded that the same thing would happen again. After we had separated, the Italian sent down a private message that he would not set off before daybreak. The next morning, when at a little after four we were all ready to depart, the vetturino declared that in consequence of this delay, he should be a day later at Naples, and that he would not set off at all, unless we would agree to pay; not only our own expenses, but his and his horses for the additional night. To this the Italian, who had with some difficulty been brought to confess the message, would not agree, and of course none of the other passengers would undertake it. On the contrary, I assured him that far from paying any thing additional, I would not even pay him the remainder of my agreement, unless he would so far fulfil his part, as to take me to Naples in four days at the latest. The terms of our agreement were that he should do it in three days and a half. At last, finding the case hopeless, he put to, but it was past five before we left Terracina. We had another quarrel at the Torre del Epitaffio, where one of the police-officers insisted on putting a great water-melon into the cabriolet, which rolling against the legs of the passengers, would have been no pleasant companion. They expostulated, moderately at first, then angrily, and at last tossed out the melon, which falling on the hard road was broken to pieces. A great storm ensued, but it had no consequences. On our first entering the Neapolitan territory, the road is delightful, coasting the foot of the calcareous mountains of the Volsci. On the right, we have sometimes the sea, sometimes a varied valley, from which the projecting parts of the coast rise in detached points, and appear almost to form a chain of islands. The gardens, filled with large orange-trees, growing in all their native beauty of form, constitute a striking feature in the approach to Fondi. At that city, the Neapolitan custom-house detained us more than two hours. The next place is Itri, a very picturesque town, where there are Cyclopean walls. In approaching to Mola di Gaeta, the Sepulchre of Cicero is pointed out to us; a frustum of a cone of rubble-work rises on a square basement, which has been faced with large squared stones. The original summit has been destroyed, and a circular tower of the middle ages occupies its place; unfortunately, the evidence is not entirely satisfactory as to the purpose of its erection, yet the death of the illustrious Roman must have taken place in the neighbourhood, and may have occurred on this very spot.

We did not get to Mola di Gaeta till nearly four o’clock. Here again was a quarrel, the vetturino declaring that his mules must rest at least three hours, and that since we insisted on going to Naples the next day, we must travel all night. It was in vain to argue, he was much more obstinate than his mules, but fortunately he wanted a little sleep himself, and we stopt for a few hours at Santa Agata de’ Goti. At Capua he found that his mules only required an hour and a half, when I should have been well pleased to have stayed three hours, in which case I might have visited old Capua. In the modern city there is little except a few columns in the cathedral, of granite, cipollino, and bigio antico, which are hardly sufficient to interest a man who has just left Rome. From Capua the country appears covered with a continued grove of small poplars, over which the vines climb luxuriantly; and below, wheat and Indian corn are cultivated. I was on the watch for Vesuvius; the weather was hazy, but I distinguished it a little before our arrival at Capua crested with a slender column of smoke, and as we approached Naples, we caught occasional glimpses of it tipped with red, and shewing now and then a small eruption. We had to stop at three custom-houses, but our vetturino would not take us to our inns, which is the usual practice, but drove directly to his own stopping place, and after all, had the impudence to demand a buona mano. I have engaged a room at an inn called the Speranzella, for three carlines a day, a carline being worth about fourpence halfpenny. The master is a Milanese, and the head waiter a Tuscan, and both thank God that they are not Neapolitans. The Lazzaroni wanted two piastres (or dollars) for carrying my trunk, but were contented with half of one, knowing then that they had been paid twice as much as they ought to have had.

The architecture of the palaces at Naples does not call for any particular remarks. It is true that they have large parts, and frequently exhibit a fine unbroken mass, which always has a magnificent effect; but the proportions are seldom very good, and the details almost always bad. These observations apply to the royal palace as well as to those of individuals. It stands in a square, and presents on the principal floor a continued range of twenty-one windows, on an unbroken front of 520 palms, or about 447 English feet; the height is 110 palms, or 94 feet. In all this the design is perfectly simple, except a little disarrangement in the centre, which is a defect of no great importance. Such an extent must have a noble effect. The architect was Domenico Fontana, and he opened the lower part into an arcade; but “in order to strengthen the building,” says Romanelli, “the alternate arches have since been filled up.” Whatever was the motive, the beauty of the building has suffered greatly.

Attached to the palace is the great Theatre of San Carlo. Some degree of caprice seems allowable in the architecture of a modern theatre, at least it is usually found there, partly perhaps on account of the difficulty of adapting the usual arrangements to such a purpose. The front of the present building consists of an arcade below, and small columns above, with a large pier at each angle, and a very obtusely triangular summit. We may perhaps allow some merit to the general idea, but the faults are so numerous, that if I were to enumerate them, you would be at a loss to conceive how it could have any beauty. The Castello Nuovo was the residence of the kings of Naples, and is now connected with the palace, in order to form a refuge to the sovereign in case of any public disturbance. A triumphal arch within the first line of fortifications is deserving of attention, not so much for its own merit, which however is not contemptible, as for the history of the art. It was built by Pietro Martino, a Milanese, under Alphonsus the First, who died in 1458. I do not find the name of this architect in Milizia, but we may presume him contemporary with L. B. Alberti, who was born in 1398. The design is completely in the style called here cinque cento, and it may be considered as one of the largest and most elaborate productions of that period, as well as one of the earliest. It abounds with sculpture, some of which is very good, but as a piece of architecture, the whole is not pleasing.

The Palace of the Studii is a fine building, and contains a noble collection of statues, inferior only to those of the Capitol and Vatican, and perhaps of the gallery at Florence. In painting, it yields to Rome, Florence, and Bologna; but in bronzes, and Etruscan vases, exceeds every other. These latter form of themselves a very extensive, and very intricate object of study; connected with the mythology, and anecdote-history of the ancients. I have no intention to enter into so difficult a subject, but shall content myself with admiring the beauty of the forms, and the graceful attitudes and actions of the figures. These merits hardly ever fail, though the drawing of particular parts is often defective. Attached to the Studio there is a library, and I believe it is a good one, but not so easy of access as most of the continental libraries, where you merely walk in, and by a simple application to the librarian, obtain any book you may want. A large collection of architectural fragments is exposed in one of the courts, a considerable portion of which came from Pozzuoli. I was desirous of making a few sketches, in order to compare them with what I had met elsewhere, but an attendant was sent to tell me that no drawings could be made there without permission of the director. To him therefore I applied, and his answer was, “If you apply to your minister, and obtain an order from the government, as you did with respect to Pompei, I must give you permission.”

After so long a forbearance I must claim the privilege of taking you a round among the churches, although after enjoying at Rome the splendid display from the time of Constantine to the present day, those of Naples appear rather flat and insipid. To begin with the cathedral. You are told that it was built by Constantine on the ruins of the temple of Apollo; sounding words, not entirely without meaning, since if not true of the main body of the cathedral itself, it may be partly so, with reference to a small church of Santa Restituta, opening into the cathedral, and forming a sort of large side chapel. The body of the present edifice was begun under Charles the First, of Anjou, in 1280, and a building was completed by Charles the Second in 1299. This is said by Vasi to have been ruined by an earthquake in 1456, and restored in the Gothic style by Nicola Pisano, under Alphonsus the First. Now we do not know precisely the date either of the birth, or death of this artist, but we find Giovanni da Pisa, who was probably his son, employed in the Campo Santo at Pisa in 1278, and Nicola was probably at that time either dead, or advanced in years. It is then possible that he was employed at Naples in the original edifice, but not in this restoration. Milizia attributes the front to a pupil of Nicola, named Maglione, but even this can only apply to the primitive erection, and not to any restoration under Alphonso. The front was erected in 1407, (therefore before the earthquake) but restored in 1788. As it is still Gothic, I suppose this restoration to have consisted merely in bungling repairs of the old work. We may consider, therefore, the original design as far as we can trace it, as an example of the architecture of the beginning of the fifteenth century at Naples, a period at which Brunelleschi was flourishing at Florence, and the Gothic forms were already discarded. I conceive it to have offered the sort of arrangement exhibited in the following sketch, with a large gable in the middle, perhaps formed on an equilateral triangle, and a smaller and more acute one on each side.

The upper gable is now truncated, and the spaces between the smaller ones and the building, are walled up, forming an uglier front than you can well conceive, out of what really appears to have been a pleasing composition. The cathedral at Mantua seems to have been an edifice of the same style.

The inside is almost all modernized; two or three of the side chapels alone retaining traces of the time of their erection. It is said to contain 110 columns of Egyptian granite and African breccia, belonging to the ancient temple of Apollo; but if so, they must have been very small, less than eighteen inches in diameter, and they are now all covered with stucco. (You see the English churchwardens have authority for what they do.) I rather, however, doubt the fact. On the left hand is the ancient church of Santa Restituta; here are indubitably many ancient shafts. They are all small, but vary both in size, and material. The capitals are in bad condition; one or two may have been good, but in general they are of poor design, and bad workmanship; few of them fit the shafts; large moulded blocks are placed above the capitals to receive the springing of the arches. These are now pointed, but were at first probably semicircular. The Gothic work patched upon the original building has been rococoed,^[21] and the whole is perfectly devoid of architectural effect.

Opposite the church of Santa Restituta is the Chapel of San Gennaro, which has the form of a Greek cross, and is perhaps more splendid than beautiful, although not without some architectural merit. Two elegant columns of verde antico adorn the entrance. The whole is rich, with various marbles, and with several showy altars, and forms in itself a little church. On a feast-day, fifty-three busts of the saints, protectors of Naples, are exhibited to the devotion of the people in this chapel; thirty-five of these are of silver, the remaining eighteen of bronze. Behind the principal altar there is a little cupboard in the wall, closed with doors of silver, where I am told that the skull of St. Januarius is preserved, and the famous blood, which forms the standing miracle of the city. There are in this chapel some admirable productions of Domenichino; and Guido was also engaged to employ here his pencil, but the jealousy of the Neapolitan artists prompted them to poison the former, and the latter was frightened away by their machinations and conspiracies against him. In the treasury behind, you are shewn a multitude of relicks, and rich presents, but nothing which has made much impression on my memory. There are some Gothic tombs in this church, and a fine Gothic pulpit and canopy. In this part of Naples we find several buildings of the renaissance, (I wish I could express this neatly in English), and many little chapels and altars in the churches of that style, which is everywhere very distinctly marked. The relief of the different parts is small, the entablature frequently breaks round the pilaster, which thus becomes a mere decoration; the ornaments are light and elegant, and the execution generally beautiful; the character is rather Greek than Roman, though the plans are such as the purity of Greek taste would not have tolerated. In the edifices of that period there is always something to be admired, yet it must be confessed that it is a mode of art which succeeds better in small compositions than in large structures; and the former, whether from the abundance of talent among the artists, or from some other circumstance with which I am unacquainted, are almost always good: possessing beautiful proportions, and just feeling.

The Church of the Gerolomini is very near the cathedral. The nave is formed by beautiful granite shafts, supporting arches, and above them are an entablature, a second order, and a flat ceiling; the decorations are exceedingly tawdry, but the proportions are good.

At a short distance is the Church of San Paolo, where two fine ancient Corinthian columns, with a portion of the architrave over each, advance from the front of the building, and seem to wonder at their own situation, now perfectly unmeaning. They are the remains of a temple of Castor and Pollux, built by one Julius Tarsus, freedman of Tiberius. The portico was entire so late as the year 1688, when Misson saw it, but it was thrown down by an earthquake towards the end of that year. There are some other traces about, of the walls of this temple, but nothing of any interest. Within the church there is a profusion of gilding and fine marbles. The disposition is bad, with alternate large and small arches, the largest of which are too small for the order employed in them. Yet the dark rich marbles harmonize with the low proportions, and produce a pleasing impression in spite of the faults of the architecture.

There is a little chapel in this neighbourhood belonging to the princes of Sangro, famous for three statues, in which the artist has endeavoured to please by a trick, and the appearance of difficulty overcome. The first is the figure of Modesty, covered with a thin, transparent veil. Disinganno is represented under the figure of a man struggling to liberate himself from a net, which envelops his body, and the third is a dead Christ, also covered with a veil, but less thin and delicate than that which seems half to conceal the figure of Modesty. They are all fine things in their way.

The Church of San Domenico Maggiore is more interesting to the antiquary, than beautiful in the eyes of the architect; indeed, almost the only things which will interest the latter, are two chapels of the cinque cento, (1508 and 1513) which however, are not very fine examples of the style of that period. The stone-work is Gothic. The piers were originally square, with a semicircular shaft on each side, but these shafts have been cut away, in order to make a sort of pilaster of the remainder, and the deficiency of strength is supplied by iron ties. The building is further defaced by modern stucco and whitewash. There are Gothic tombs of 1340, 1357, 1385.

The Church of Santa Chiara is also Gothic externally, and modernized within. The front has not been completed, but as far as we can judge of the intended arrangement, it was good. There were three doors below, a rose window above, and a tower-like buttress at each angle. Internally, it consists of a large simple nave, with low side chapels of little projection on the sides, and a gallery over them. It is a very light and elegant room, too light perhaps for a church. I suspect that it owes much of its cheerful magnificence to the comparative smallness of the lower order, the upper range of arches, in which the windows are placed, thus becoming the principal. Perhaps also the same cause may make it appear larger than it otherwise would, as the smaller arches are easily compared to the human figure. It is certainly a finely proportioned room, and though the details are not good, yet on the whole the parts are well distributed. Here also are four Gothic tombs; two of them bear date 1365 and 1362. The other two are without date, but one of them at least appears earlier than the dated ones. They are all nearly of the same style, and the ancient high altar of the church corresponds with them. Columns, with angels in front, support the soros; above this, under a tent, or pavilion, lies the figure of the deceased, and two angels are holding back the curtains. In one of them a statue of the Virgin is placed over this pavilion. A lofty tower, detached from the church, exhibits the Grecian orders, and as it is said to have been built by the elder Masuccio in 1310, the Neapolitans have claimed the merit of being the first to bring back the Roman architecture. The mistake is, however, sufficiently palpable; the lower part of the structure is indeed of that early date, and in a very fine, bold style of art, but without the least trace of Greek or Roman forms; the upper is adorned with two orders; but it differs from the lower in the character of the workmanship, as well as in the style of design, and is considerably posterior.

The Church of the Trinità Maggiore, or of Gesù Nuovo, is principally remarkable for having the face of each stone in front cut into a pyramidal form. The inside is a mixture of plaster and rich marble, excessively gaudy, and in the worst taste imaginable.

These churches are all in the same part of Naples, and are seen in a walk from the Toledo to the cathedral. The Church of the Annunciation is more distant. It is really a noble edifice, of modern architecture, though the disposition is rather too complicated. There are three chapels on each side of the nave, with doubled columns between them, and a continued unbroken entablature. The plan of the choir is more intricate, and reminded me of Santa Maria in Campitelli, at Rome. I first saw this church on a feast-day, when it was adorned with hangings of white muslin, and blue and crimson satin, forming a sort of lofty tent over the altar, enriched with gold and silver spangles and ornaments, and festoons of flowers. Neapolitan taste here seemed to be quite at home. It was the prettiest thing of the kind I ever saw, for the Roman hangings, though very rich, have a sort of gravity, not to say heaviness about them, producing an effect totally different from the gaiety and splendour of this decoration.

The Church of San Pietro ad Aram is not far from that of the Annunciation; it is large and rich, with eight arches on each side of the nave; this is a frequent number in the Neapolitan churches, while those in Rome seldom have more than three principal divisions, with perhaps a smaller one adjoining the intersection.

The Carmine is also a large and rich church, but inferior in point of architecture. The ex voto offerings are here very numerous. I visited several other churches, in which there is a profusion of architectural ornament, but the general character is that of dull, commonplace extravagance, as devoid of imagination, as it is of graceful proportion and good sense.

You will not suppose that I could reside at Naples, during the time of the liquefaction of the blood of Saint Januarius, or San Gennajo, or Gennaro, as he is called here, without going to witness this celebrated miracle. I was at the cathedral on the 19th, but it did not succeed on that day. The blood is exhibited for eight days successively, and it rarely if ever happens that it melts every day: it would be making the miracle too common. On the 26th I went again. There were many persons in the chapel, but it was by no means full, and they readily admitted me beyond the railing, into the inclosure by the altar. In a few minutes the officer appeared with his keys, and opened the little cupboard behind the altar, in which the blood is kept, and the priest took out the vessel. I looked as attentively as I could, to see if there were any appearance of ice in the cupboard, but I saw nothing. The outer vessel is in the shape of a large circular snuff-box, with a glass top and bottom: on one side is a handle, which appeared to be a hollow tube, open at the bottom, and to have no connexion with the interior of the vessel; opposite to this is a crown, and in the midst of the crown a moveable crucifix, fixed only at the base, which falls about as the vessel is held in different positions, but I do not think that either the crown or the handle had any thing to do with the liquefaction. Within this outer vessel are two vials, one very small, and spotted internally with a dark substance which adheres to the glass, and which may probably have been blood; this suffers no change: the other is a larger vial, in the form of a flattened spheroid, with a short neck, containing a dark looking substance, opake or nearly so, and forming a level line at about two thirds of the height of the vial. After this vessel was taken from its cupboard, it was placed upon a stand, and some old women, who are said to be hired for that purpose, began to squall. The silver bust of Saint Januarius was then produced, dressed in a mitre, and other garments of the priesthood; and a cross suspended to a collar of pearls was hung round his neck. This mitre was soon afterwards changed for another, two nosegays of artificial flowers were stuck in his breast; and thus adorned, he stood on the altar with his face towards the people, during the whole of the ceremony. When this was arranged, the officiating priest (I do not know whether it was the archbishop,) resumed the vessel containing the blood, kissed it, put it to his forehead, and kissed it again, as he had done on taking it out of the cupboard, and began to recite a service. After the regular service on the occasion, other prayers, &c. were added, since the blood shewed yet no inclination of dissolving. Meanwhile the old women became more and more noisy, their voices were elevated to the highest scolding pitch, and one would imagine they were abusing all the saints in heaven, instead of praying for mercy. At last the blood melted, and they began to bless St. Januarius, and to weep for joy. The first indication of fluidity was, that the dark looking mass slipped round, when the vessel was inverted; the external matter then very soon became quite fluid, but there was a lump in the middle which diminished continually, but was not entirely gone when I came away. I was near enough to have touched the officiating priest during any part of the ceremony, and therefore you may depend upon this as an accurate account of what took place that day. All the appearances seem to indicate the effect of increased temperature, affecting, as it naturally would do, first the external part of the mass. The chapel became very hot during the ceremony, from the great number of people and of candles, but it is evident, from the way in which it is kept, that this warmth can penetrate very slowly to the vial of blood. One difficulty seems to arise from the unequal times at which it melts, under circumstances apparently very similar. A morning or two before, Mr. L. saw it performed in ten minutes, and yet there were not many persons present; the morning in which I saw it, it took thirty-five minutes, and sometimes it does not melt at all. The part that became fluid was not merely softened. It ran quite freely, and without adhering to the glass. I should conceive it to be some resinous substance dissolved in spirits of turpentine, and if there were such a mixture which would dissolve at uncertain temperatures, I should be glad to suppose it to be that, because it is unpleasant to charge such a number of persons, as must necessarily partake in it, with so gross an imposture. But I am afraid my condition will be pronounced impossible.

Every Italian city has some peculiarities of custom or language which are amusing to a stranger, though sometimes, it must be confessed, they are rather annoying. Here about daybreak, or a little before, I am awaked by a number of confused sounds, but I go to sleep again in spite of them. My breakfast is usually taken at a coffee-house, and in my way there, I discover in what these voices consisted, at least in some degree; for as the language here is any thing but pure Tuscan, I cannot pretend to understand the whole of it. Perhaps in all countries the criers of goods form something of a dialect of their own, as in London, where a stranger might well be puzzled to find out their meaning. And then there are elisions, which are only explained by the action, or by the goods exposed for sale. One is bawling “quattro grani, quattro grani,” meaning that he has figs to sell, at four grains the rotolo. A Neapolitan rotolo consists of thirty-three ounces, and amounts very nearly to two pounds avoirdupois. The grain is a tenth part of a carline, and that again the twelfth of a piastre, which wants a few grains of a Spanish dollar. A grain is therefore something less than one halfpenny. The coins which represent it may afford some new lessons in arithmetic. Theoretically, two tornesi are equal to one grain. But we have pieces of ten tornesi worth four grains, of eight tornesi equal also to four grains, eight tornesi equal two grains and a half, five tornesi equal two grains: when the coins are very numerous, even these erroneous marks are better than none at all, as they enable us to identify the piece with certainty. What is pleasant enough is, that the copper coins of 1816 have the head of Ferdinand the Fourth, while those of 1817 have, in the legend, Ferdinand the First, his majesty having been graciously pleased in the interval to annihilate three of his ancestors. To return to the figs, they are small, but very good, and neatly piled up in small round baskets, with leaves between them, and flowers stuck among them by way of ornament. Close by, another fellow is calling “tre grani, quattro grani,” as the price of the different sorts of grapes, which are disposed in the same manner, and with the same attention to decoration. This indeed is quite the character of the Neapolitan. “O che bella cosa,” cries his neighbour, and he has cut up a melon into pieces, which he sells for half a grain each. “Quanto è bello,” thunders forth the butcher, who admires with rapture the meat he wishes you to buy.

You find by this time that my way from the inn to the Toledo lies through a sort of market, but it is merely a short street of shops and stalls. “Carità, signore, carità, pell’ amore di Maria santissima.” “Signore, ps, signore,” says the shoeblack, and he points to my shoes, requesting I would permit him to black them. They have just been cleaned; no matter, he is ready to clean them again. “Andiamo,” cries a vetturino, or rather callessiere. I ask where we are to go, and he runs over the names of half a dozen places in the neighbourhood, Portici, Pozzuoli, Baia. I take shelter from all this in a coffee-house, endeavouring to choose one where they are not roasting coffee at the door, or preparing cakes of chocolate within; and where they do not permit the customers to have their boots cleaned in the room. Perhaps after breakfast I wish to go to some place in the neighbourhood, and I have no difficulty in finding a conveyance. “How much,” I ask, “must I give you to take me to Pozzuoli?” “Tre piastre, va bene?” “No,” I reply, “it is too much.” “Well, how much will you give?” “Five carlines,” is my answer. “Oh Sir! five carlines to go seven miles, and stay there all day, and bring you back again?” things, by the by, which he did not at all intend to include in his first bargain. “But I do not want you to stay, or to bring me back, but merely to take me there.” “Una piastra, va bene?” “No.” “Including buona mano and every thing.” I walk on. “Ps Signore, otto carlini?” “No.” “Sette?” “No.” “Sei?” “Well, including the buona mano.” “Oh! you will give me a bottle.” “Not a grain more, six carlines and nothing beside.” “Andiamo.” He brings up his little one-horse chaise, in which two people can just sit. I get in, and he seats himself at the bottom, or perhaps gets up behind, offering me the reins, which I never take, but retaining himself the whip. This he smacks, and we set off at a round trot, or perhaps at a gallop. At the end of the journey, he affects to be very much surprised that you pay him no more than his bargain. The next contest is with the Ciceroni of the place, who are ambitious of the honour of serving you for half a dollar, or for less, if they are rather thin of visitors; and last again with the vetturini in returning. With all this, whether they succeed or fail, they are never uncivil. You have to bargain at the shops almost as much as with the vetturini. “Amongst so many,” said a French gentleman to me, soon after my arrival, “it is not possible that there should not be some honest man; I can only say, that during a residence of eight years, I have not had the good fortune to meet with one.” “It would be very uncharitable to suppose,” observed an English gentleman, who had equal, or superior opportunities of knowing, and the conversation happened on the same day, “that among a population of six millions, there should be no honest man; and it is possible that one or two whom I know may be men of honour, but the exceptions are so few, that it is fair to say, that from the king upon the throne, to the lowest lazzaroni in the streets, they are all knaves.”

Eating and drinking are more expensive here than at Rome, which is said to be owing to heavier duties; but it must be confessed that you are better treated at the trattorie, and better served. There is no bargaining at these places; they have printed lists of their articles, with the prices affixed. If you prefer ordering a dinner altogether, you may have an excellent one for six carlines, or, if you wish to be luxurious, for ten, when you will have eight dishes, besides various little things to excite the appetite, fruit, and wine of a better quality than that commonly drunk.

There cannot be a stronger contrast than between Rome and Naples. In the former city every thing breathes repose; the streets are not deserted, but you meet only with persons going soberly about on their several occasions; and except perhaps, for about an hour in an evening in the Corso, there is no crowd, no bustle. If you pass beyond the walls, you may walk for miles along the silent and open roads of the Campagna, and see only a few shepherds tending their flocks. Here it is one everlasting tumult, every street seems crowded, the whole population is out of doors, and in incessant motion. You look along the Toledo (the principal street in Naples) and see nothing but heads, and here and there a carriage passing among them at a quick pace, while the driver is incessantly calling out “Badi,” to warn the foot passengers to get out of his way. Accidents seem unavoidable, yet they rarely happen, and the punishment is, I understand, very severe. The roads about the city are everywhere full of people, the same incessant motion prevails everywhere. The Neapolitans are very noisy, yet they are fond of answering by signs rather than by words, and in the shops I find them very sparing of their replies and of their trouble. When I have had occasion to ask for anything not quite in common use, one shopkeeper has replied very civilly “No, signore,” a second answers plain “No,” a third thinks he has it, but does not know where it is. If I will call again, perhaps he may find it; a fourth merely screws up his mouth into a semicircle, and a fifth cocks up his chin, both of which are Neapolitan negatives. However you must take care what you are about, for another screw of the mouth means yes, and when they have to give you any direction, they point with the chin. This language of signs and inarticulate sounds is not that of nature, it is just as arbitrary and conventional as that of words.

In an evening I often walk down to the Strada de’ Giganti, to watch the explosions of Vesuvius. In the day time we only see puffs of smoke, but at night there are frequent bursts of red hot cinders, like a great Chinese gerb. They are often so abundant, that for a few seconds after the explosion, the top of the mountain appears red hot. On passing Torre del Greco one night after dark, these explosions appeared very magnificent, and I could distinguish the individual stones, and see them roll down the mountain, and hear the dull heavy noise of their fall like distant thunder.

Other cities have beautiful walks in the neighbourhood, but at Naples we find them within the town itself. It is a short walk from my lodging into the Toledo, a noble street, nearly a mile long, for which the Neapolitans are indebted to their viceroy, Don Pietro di Toledo, and from thence I enter the square, or as it is called here, the Largo del Palazzo, on one side of which is the royal palace, and on the other is to be the new church,^[22] built in consequence of a vow made by his present majesty if he should ever be restored to his Neapolitan dominions.

The Strada de’ Giganti issues from the square on the side opposite the Toledo. On one side of it there are houses, on the other the royal printing-office and the arsenal; which are buildings on a so much lower level, that we overlook them, and command great part of the bay, and particularly mount Vesuvius.

Continuing our walk, after a short interruption of the scenery, which rather enhances than diminishes the pleasure, we arrive at Santa Lucia, whence the whole mountainous, and highly varied promontory of Sorrento is displayed; and passing beyond the point to which is appended the Castel dell’ Uovo, we arrive at the Chiaja, a walk adorned with ilices, sumach, acacia, and other trees; whence we may contemplate the promontory of Pausilippo, and the rugged island of Capri almost closing the bay. I give you the leading and central features only of each scene; each contains something of the adjoining ones, and it would be difficult to tell which is the most beautiful. In the midst of the Chiaja is a fountain, decorated with the celebrated group called the Toro Farnese, which was found in the baths of Caracalla at Rome. It consists of four figures besides the bull, but has required considerable restorations, and seems now to be suffering from the action of the sea air.^[23]

Another walk, hardly beyond the city, will conduct us to Capo di Monte, a royal palace, in a delightful situation, but which I believe has never been finished. A pretty high range of sand hills extends, but in a descending line, from the Camaldoli to this place, and hereabouts it is covered with gardens and vineyards, and exhibits the most delightful views of Vesuvius and the bay of Naples, and as the hill is very much broken in its form, it offers also the advantage of continual variety in the accompaniments and position of the scene. Sometimes we find delightful little recesses in the ravines, home scenes, with little or nothing of the distance, but most inviting retreats from the heat of the day. Cultivation however covers every part so closely, that few of these are admitted, and besides, they are supposed to be unhealthy, and the present luxury would be too dearly paid for in a tertian fever. I was offered a suite of five rooms, opening on to a terrace, and commanding one of the best points of view, for fifty ducats per annum; there was also a kitchen, and one or two other rooms behind.

The sand is in most places, where the hill has been cut into, firm enough to maintain a perpendicular face. It has just that degree of tenacity which is most favourable to the operations of the miner, and accordingly, we here find the extensive catacombs of San Gennaro.

We might include in this walk the immense royal workhouse (Albergo Reale de’ Poveri), intended to contain all the poor of the kingdom of Naples. If completed, the length would have been 2,370 palms, but at present the front is only 1,560, and the number of poor is about 800. They were to be taught everything, and since they were found unequal to the lowest offices in society, an attempt was to be made to fit them in their old age for the higher ones.