*

just by, are the miracles of some Madonna, some one among thousands; the music, the poetry, and the pictures are very odd, but very well adapted to each other, and to the people to whom they are directed. Here and there you see various curious groupes; as, for instance, in one place a celebrated operator, surrounded by four or five fellows, from whose jackets or coats he is cleaning the grease and other impurities by means of a marvellous composition which is contained in little phials ;-venders of maccaroni, polpetti, stufato, &c., some of whom possess a shop in a cellar, but the greater part display their kitchen in the street, and cook over their charcoal fires the precious morsels of life: they ladle out their maccaroni, and their customers seize and dispatch it in a moment; they make no account of the modern luxuries of plates and spoons, or knives and forks; they catch up a handful, lift the long slippery strings up in the air, open their capacious mouths, and adroitly introducing them, let them slide down their throats; and when all is over, with a deep sigh, partly from satisfaction, and partly from regret that the good things are so soon gone, they walk off, looking round as they go, with an air of superiority, upon the poor rogues standing by who have not four grains to do the like, and then each with a grain or two that is still left him, directs his steps to a cantina just at hand, where two or three share a carafa of wine between them, of course, without the use of glasses; and if they are particularly expert, their method is to reverse the bottle in the air, and catch the red stream in their mouths as it descends; this they do almost without spilling a drop, and by some means, instantly stop the current when they have drunk their

share.

By the doors of these cantini, one hears at nearly all hours vehement cries of quattro, nove! cinque! sette! &c. these proceed from Lazraroni playing at La Morra, a primi

tively simple game, but which still is not without its flats and its sharps, its adroit and its maladroit. It is thus performed: two players close their hands, raise them above their heads, and bringing them rapidly down again, open as many of their fingers as they think fit; each guesses at the aggregate number, and both cry out at the same moment, and while their hands are descending. Twelve, sixteen, or twenty is game; the one who guesses right gains a point, of which he keeps account by opening a finger of his left hand, which is always held up in the air. The principal beauty and advantage of the game is, that continual disputes arise between the players about the numbers they have cried, which are frequently difficult to decide, as they both bawl out together and form one voice; or whether one or the other has not opened or closed a finger or so after the numbers were called. These trifling differences of opinion are referred to the by-standers, who sometimes decide according to their partialities, sometimes according to justice, but not infrequently fall by the ears among themselves upon the point in dispute; so that it is very common to see the game end in a general squabble, in which case, faces and arms are clawed and bit, shins kicked, large stones caught up, and spittle and bad words distributed con brio. When the fracas is at its height, some little dirty police officer interposes his authority, the disturbance ends, and in ten minutes after, the fierce combatants may be seen kissing one another, or walking along with the arm of one thrown over the other's neck, in all imaginable amity.

On each side of the street are large tables, covered with aquavitæ, terragli (a sort of biscuit), coarse sweetmeats, rosolio, &c. On each of these tables are placed one or two enormous horns, painted and gilt, as ornaments. The Neapolitans are "vastly fond of the horns;" besides being exhibited on these plebeian tables, they are very often stuck up in the

halls, or even in the gallerie di compagnia of the nobility; they always grace the apothecaries' and barbers' shops; and, in short, there are few houses in Naples destitute of these elegant ornaments.

At short distances there are droll old barbers with a couple of chairs, and the apparatus which they employ in the exercise of their mystery, scraping rough black beards that would turn an edge of adamant: one sees, every now and then, a Lazzarone grinning fiercely through his suds; but as there is something piquant in this operation we must describe it. The patient pays a grain beforehand, takes off a coat or jacket, that is to say if he has one (those gentlemen not being always embarrassed with that encumbrance), which he hangs at the back of the chair, and then sits down; the operator ties a large rough cloth of a variety of tints, black, red, and yellow, round the neck of the sufferer, and puts a tin soap-bason, something like Mambrino's helmet, in his hands; then pouring a little water into it, makes a lather with his fingers, which he daubs over the chin, mouth, nose, and ears of the wight who wants to lose his beard; then grasping his razor, proceeds to the serious part of the work. The operation is enlivened by a variety of complaints and retorts. "Ah, managgio me fui male!" "Ma per San Gennaro hai' n'a barba di ferro! "Nè, chiano, chiano!" "Non dubitate, non dubitate niente." At length the operation is completed, the patient gets up, slides his hand across his chin, and, delighted with its unusual smoothness, goes away chuckling, and resigns his seat to another.

These are the main groupes, but there are many others of less importance, as fellows roasting and boiling chesnuts over charcoal fires, vociferating as they toss the pan or stir the fruit, "O! che galanteria! O! che castagne, caudè, caudè!”†—and Acquajoli, some fixed and some ambulatory. These are persons whose trade it is to sell water made cold with snow; the vagrant tradesman goes

running about from place to place, carrying on his back a barrel of cold water, and in one hand having a bottle of sambuco, in the other a couple of glasses; when he meets a customer, he very actively throws his barrel on one of his knees and fills a glass. The more dignified members of this class have fixed situations; they are furnished with a high counter, whereon are displayed oranges and lemons, bottles, glasses, &c. of various sizes, large coarse lemon squeezers made of iron, and a few other instruments; four columns rise from the corners of the counter, which support a sort of roof, which is made very gay with flags and figures, and the whole of the apparatus is painted, and roughly and gaudily carved and gilded from top to bottom. Between the columns at each end, a barrel is hung upon swivels between columns; these vessels are ever and anon put in motion, in order to dissolve the snow which is in them, or to draw off the water for the thirsty applicants. The Acquajolo stands behind, raised on a little stool; his shirt-sleeves are tucked up to his shoulders, and he has a white cotton night-cap on his head. The price of this water, which is always cold and clear, is half a grain for a large glassfull with a little sambuco or lemon juice in it; but the cunning rogues always ask foreigners the insinuating question, "La volete per un grano?" by which means a double price is generally obtained. The Acquagelata is in Naples almost a necessary of life; the Sorbetti and Gelati may be considered as luxuries; great quantities are consumed in the coffee-houses by the middling and upper classes, and as the low Neapolitans like luxuries as well as their superiors, there is a considerable number of Sorbettari in the streets; they sell a coarse sort of Sorbetto, which is served out in little cups resembling gally-pots, at a grain each; they furnish no spoons, but as the Sorbetto is almost liquid, the purchasers easily gulp it down; the cups are then returned to the vender. Here also "Punch and Judy" exhibit their

tricks; their theatre and personages are just the same as those which used to amuse us in London, nearly the only difference being in the language, which is true Neapolitan.

All this goes on every day, if the weather permits, with little variation, from eight in the morning till five, in the winter, and eight in summer; the grotesque crowd never fails, the broad humour scarcely ever flags; every show, every professor, every individual we have mentioned is encircled by an admiring group. The Molo is, perhaps, still more excellent in its kind; but the Molo is only frequented in the evening, and is never brilliant except on holidays; whereas the Strada Molo is always busy, and always the same. The middle of the street is generally occupied by carriages and carts, and by the Corriboli* and Calessi, which are whirled along with great rapidity by tough little horses, while the drivers, standing behind, crack their whips, joke as they pass their fellows, or show, by signs of their hands, how much they are cheating their customers of.

After making our way through this street we reach the Largo del Castello, a large piazza with a few young trees, and with a great deal of rubbish and filth in the midst: here the chief trade is the sale of old clothes, which are thrown over the wooden rails or spread out upon the ground: at this time there is a large booth on one side, where various scenes are represented by figures in wax, as large as life; the favourite performance at present is the miraculous adventure of San Gennaro in the amphitheatre of Pozzuoli, which is a burlesque imitation of the adventure of the prophet Daniel in the lion's den. In this square also are the two famous minor theatres, San Carlino and La Fenice, of which we shall speak at a future time. From the Largo several streets lead into the celebrated Strada Toledo, which is esteemed and boasted of by the Neapolitans as being the busiest and finest street in the world; and busy it certainly is, but much

The

might be said against its being the finest. It is three quarters of a mile long; and though it would not be considered wide in England, it certainly is wide for a continental street; it is paved with large flags of lava from Vesuvius, and after a day of heavy rain is tolerably clean. first view is striking; the houses or palazzi, for here every house of more than two stories is called a palazzo, are very high,-four, five, six, or even seven stories, each of which is lofty; nearly all the windows open upon balconies, and nearly all the roofs are terraced. Not one of the buildings is fine in an architectural point of view; and the ground floor of every palace, whoever may be its inmates, is turned into shops and coffee-houses, very few of either of which are at all respectable. The street is filled at all hours with a most motley and incongruous crowd, and is ever echoing with a thousand discordant voices.

You do not see here mountebanks, or Punch, or Polcinello; but Acquajoli are stationed at the corner of every street, and stalls of fruit, bread, fish, flowers, and perfumery, and the counters of moneychangers, disfigure both sides of the way and almost the whole length of the boasted Toledo. In the evening the number of stalls is greatly increased, and at that season the street, seen from a little above the Largo della Carità, presents a very singular vista; there is a long succession of stall-lights, more frequent and brighter than the lamps of the street; some are placed on the ground, some a little higher, and some above-head suspended to the Acquajoli; a thick dark line of carriages is continually rushing up and down, and on either side there is a waving crowd also in quick motion.

Toledo is certainly a very singular street, perhaps the most remarkable one in Europe; the superior part of the crowds that frequent it are generally better dressed and more all' Inglese than the same class in any other city in Italy; the Signori take great

pleasure in exhibiting themselves regularly in carriages, on horse-back, and on foot in Toledo: but the poor rogues are also very fond of Toledo, and generally contrive to come in for a very good share of it; the vulgar pursue their various avocations in this resort of the fashionable and the gay; cavalieri on horseback are jostled by jackasses loaded with great panniers of dung; carriages grate against carri drawn by huge oxen, and filled with similar materials; and Signori and Lazzaroni hustle and elbow one another on foot. The crowd, which is always much the same, is spread over the whole street from side to side, and from end to end; coaches and corriboli dash on, their drivers shouting out "avantè;" the crowd gives way for a moment and then closes immediately. Strangers, unused to this street, in endeavouring to escape from horses and carriages, usually run to the sides, and get in among maccaroni and fish-stalls, egg-baskets, and money-changers, and find

themselves unawares at a dinnerparty of dirty rogues, amidst all the odours of fish-broth, garlic, grease, and God knows what besides.

We are told, and we believe it, that Naples was very much improved in appearance during the residence of the French; those who knew Naples before the memorable epoch of ninety-nine, say it can hardly be recognised, it is so much more civilized; but Lazzaroni are still found in every corner, and particularly in every place which, from its locality, its grandeur, or its size, is likely to be the resort of the better classes. In the Largo before the royal palace there is a large supply of every species of vagabond, from the porter with his basket and red sash, to the beggar, half naked, and filthy, and diseased; in fact, several of the trades hold, as it were, a general house of call; and not only the mendicants, but the understrappers in the cause of nearly every vice, volunteer their services at the same spot.