.^^ ^ V ^ .\<' -^ V ^ ,^^ : ^^<^ - ^>'^V-^ ^^.^1M^^\ ^^^r.'^ '^0 ^>^ ^' -^^li^M^r^. ^^^ rSr oV^^^^^Pl"- ^^ .^ ^^-°^-^o / . '^. cA'' -r^fm^'* ^. A^ /^"^^A- ''V^. c> ^-^s'^' .>^^^^ V ^^^ . ' . • s ^ ',0'' %> ^o.o'^ ^^"f- r V* *-* '* > CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING (Dolce Far Niente) Familiar Letters of Flittings ^ Round NAPLES CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING BY AN AMERICAN GIRL V\o.'\ke.'<-V*\e "P \^yr\tiV Ui NEW YORK THE ALICE HARRIMAN COIVIPANY ^ \> (5^^ <^ Copyright, 1912 THE ALICE HARRIMAN COMPANY gCI.A31/J53l 3(al|n, (Unrhxnnl STatbn tifia book i0 affwlionatflg l»r&trateJi CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING (Dolce Far Niente) Oh, for a heaher full of the warm South.** — Keats. TO M. S. S November, 19 — MARVELOUS sunset to-night ! Rose and violet and gold — proof that we near hell* Italia where sunsets are meeting ground for all rainbows of the world. Indeed all sunsets have miysteriously taken on added magic and splendor since moment we touched these Mediterranean waters. Sea itself so serene and wonderfully blue one longs to be a mermaid. Foretaste of the Tyrrhenian we shall know at Naples — already a vast pool of liquid lapis-lazuli, shading darkly purple, with the purple of Old World irises, when mysteries hidden in these waters are stirred as we sail swiftly toward the Siren's port of Parthenope. Sky too is of Napoli, like some wonderful Cathedral haldacchino of Our Lady. Ever blue, blue! — shades unnameable, inde- scribable! In truth did I tell you symphony of a thousand blues, 'tis no fantastic rhapsody. For there is the cobalt of before the dawn and the delicate turquoise when once day has scattered his first gold across the heavens. And ultramarine and deepest sapphire glow at those splendid hours when the sun, like the very Host in wonderful monstrance of precious gold, hung high above us. And shades of deep indigo of mystery as night fell and the eyes of God, as these Italians sweetly call the stars, shone through with the magic of their pellucid light to light us on to Napoli. Land where for each of us perhaps, proph- ecies are to be fulfilled just as long ago prophecy of his Goddess- Mother was to the Pious ^neas at last fulfilled on those same fabled shores. And as one nears Naples, that wondrous land of god and goddesses, one understands why down below in steerage hundreds and hundreds of the picturesque people of that poetic land to- ward which we hasten, are herded together, smiling even in mal 4 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING de mer and meeting a thousand discomforts with glad shouts of song. Glad Neapolitan boating songs and chants mysterious are wafted to these upper decks all hours of day. Though I love best of all that strange music made each night, once the bold chants of Funicoli Funicola are hushed, by a Franciscan friar — of those sweet vows; of Poverty, Chastity and Obedience you know — and a serious young fellow with Dante's dark eyes, who with much bepuffed cheeks plays on a queer pipe. Pipe, such as some shepherd of Theocritus might have piped, though no doubt 'tis more like those very instruments Shakespeare (Bacon or someone mysterious!) refers to in Othello — " Why masters have your instruments been in Naples that they speak i' the nose thus ? " To-night the weird music wafts o'er the water above which the golden sickle of moon is mirrored mysteriously, in hymns to Our Lady, Star of the Sea, sung by the humble son of St. Fran- cis who no doubt counts the world well lost. But early to-mor- row — so early that I shall still be dreaming of the sirens who once sported in these magic waters — bold love songs as bold as the sun itself, will be chorused across the scintillating sea so loud that for surety ears of some dark-eyed girls of Naples must burn as they wait for these sun-scorched men who have left little of their Southern romance in America — and little of their garlic too, perhaps ! And if need be when Spring re- turns they once again migrate to America in search of gold. But not as emigrants. For to these sons of Napoli there is no gold of world to compare with that gold of their own Partheno- pian sunshine. Already we ourselves seem to catch glimpse of that myoucal golden beauty waiting somewhere across these sapphire seas and feel the subtle fascination of the land stealing over us. Is it true, I wonder, that once under spell of her presence one is never again free from the witchery of this Italy .»* And does Par- thenope, the divine Siren, fling her spell even yet over those who enter her smiling city of dolce far niente? Chi sa? — who knows ? , Hear then, oh, hear the sea-maid's airy shell; Listen, oh, listen! 'tis the siren sings, — The spirit of the deep, — Parthenope, — She who did once i' the dreamy days of old Sport on these golden sands beneath the moon. Or poured the ravishing music of her song Over the silent waters, and bequeathed To all these sunny capes and dazzling shores Her own immortal beauty and her name." — Anna Jameson 4? * TO M. Last Day at Sea. HEAVENS of aqua-marine and sea of cerulean blue again to-day as we skim through the sapphire on way to find that j ewel box of the world called Italy,- — skimming through the water like some great sea-bird impatient to gain land. All morning the steeragers have been cheering and shouting and singing — faces toward the magic East. One feels the mystery of Italy in the very sun-satiate air — some subtle mysterious sense of a world of sun and warm vibrating color. And with Italia all but in sight it is surely entirely too prosaic to think of going down into a salon for dinner to-night. We must have it served here on deck — some Italian dolci and one of those grace- ful, long-necked, straw-covered flasks of Chianti. Steeragers are sending glad shout after shout, out over the shimmering, scintillating waters in greeting to the beckoning Napoli and everyone on ship — yes, even Tenente B. with the coming duel never very far from his thoughts — is gay and happy knowing that within few hours more we shall enter door of bell' Italia, sweet Land of Yesterday, land of romance, and song, and dolce far niente! " The cloudless moon Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver; The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps; And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts His plume of smoke. How beautiful it is! ** — Longfellow, " Michael Angelo '* * 4* TO M. S. S Naples — November — HAS any city in the world half the sublime loveliness of this Napoli? But no — it were impossible, that! Sleep too, is impossible for wondering over her beauty — her maj estic glory — this Old World Naples of mystery and enchantment. And who knows what secrets are hid in her tortuous little streets climb- ing up from the bay ? Ah, this enrapturing, entrancing, enchant- ing city ! — surely one might say with all ardor — *' Vedi Na- poli e poi muori! "* One begins to realize something of the passion and adoration which caused Lord Byron to cry *' Italia! oh, Italia! thou who hast the fatal gift of beauty." Che hellezza! Ah, this never-to-be-forgotten night as we steamed slowly into port! Surely there can be no other way to enter Italy but through Bay of Napoli, yielding oneself up at once to call of the Siren of Naples, who having founded her city, now lives in the sapphire of the bay, flinging her subtle spell over people of all nations. Surely Paradise itself can have no more beautiful portals than God has given Naples. On either hand an island, guardian angel of the city. Capri, " an isle 'twixt heaven, air, earth and sea," and Ischia, home of the adored Vittoria Colonna. Ahead towered the mighty Vesuvius — " peak of hell rising from Para- dise," so Goethe said. And so it seemed as it towered with its crown of red fire o'er this city to-night, for Naples is surely the paradise of Italy — even as Italy is paradise of the world. No pen can depict the marvelous, matchless beauty of the scene as our vessel turned and we faced the city — Naples ris- CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 7 ing from the water, a glorious amphitheatre bedecked with her thousand lights. Over all silver sheen of ethereal light from the Italian moon. Marvelous beauty! Earth was " crammed with heaven " as Elizabeth Browning somewhepe said. I think, there were tears in Tenente B.'s eyes as well as in our own — so wonderful the loveliness of this Napoli. Or is it not the beauty so much as a spell which has been flung over us — Spell of the Siren which broods over this city of Parthenope.'* Chi sa? As we drew nearer, I remembered those lines of Virgil — the only ones I could ever quote — " And ' Italy ' tings first Achates' voice, and Italy with shouts of joy my comrades greet! " I myself, was Achates — the steeragers and other Italians stand- ing in dark groups on the lower decks and sending up shout after shout, might well be comrades of ^neas. Here and there stood a dark, gloomy fortress, brooding perhaps over its past splendor, and somber palazzi picked out here and there by a lit window. Around us swarms of little rowboats alive with loudly calling, gesticulating men and boys — sailing vessels, tugs, and East India merchantmen — here a great transatlantic liner like our own — there a man-of-war looming stealthily, yet of massive strength. And thus we drew nearer and nearer. In one of the small boats men and women with guitar and mandolin were singing the Neapolitan boating songs and the beautiful Dolcezza which the prima donna has so ofteni sung for us during these two weeks at sea — " Tutta al mondo e vano Ne I'amore agni dolcezza.** " All is vain under the sun — in love lies every happiness ! " It may be truth — yet just now it seems every happiness may lie in the adorable Italy itself, rather than in love ! We stood there all taken with the beauty of the city, when presto! a well known voice and pair of broad shoulders making their way towards us takes the form of — F ! Of all happy sur- prises ! We thought he had gone to Paris and London weeks ago. A letter reached him yesterday in Rome saying that we were 8 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING on this steamer and he declares he left in very* crisis of a million- dollar coup — much to astonishment of the dignified Italians ! — caught the train for Naples and has been haunting the steam- ship office all day for the latest reports. He had been circling around our vessel in little rowboat as we slipped slowly into port, and the moment steps were lowered, rushed up with such speed he thinks he knocked an astonished sailor into the water. But what of that when he was seeking me? he asked with the debonair charm of the F. of old. He had hoped we would reach Naples earlier so that we might go to the opera — F. is like all Italians and music-mad. But though it was too late for the theater and we had given up spending the night at the Hotel F. and Tenente B. both insisted we go ashore for a drive around the city and up to the Hotel to see the rooms. So we were soon in street gowns and making our way down the ship's ladder. I, quite happy at seeing F., jumped into the rowboat at the foot of the ladder, with spirito so contrary to Italian adagio, that I all but upset the small craft and called forth, very likely, maledictions of two boatmen on Americans in general and on frivolous American girls in par- ticular. A short row and at last — Italian terra firma. Felice notte! Through the custom house — past some sleepy officials and out into a broad piazza where dozens of cabmen met us with vociferous welcome to Naples in volley of Neapolitan patois, French jargon, and broken English, combined with great crack- ing of whips and jingling of bells with which Neapolitan horses are bravely bedecked. We took carriage with a debonair young jehu and away we dashed, for though Neapolitan horses may be small they are full of spirit and speed — all those who vow nothing ever dashes in Italy except mountain torrents should but try our cocchiere of to-night. First to cable Father — Mamma is ever punctilious you know, on that point, the first thing we are landed and had F., Lieutenant B. and several others running through a large handsome galleria until they finally dragged a sad-eyed man out of a neighboring cafe who could send the message. Ma che! but it was unusual his services were required at that hour of night, he apologized with profuse gesticulation. Still more CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 9 unusual length of message the helV signora wished to send! Though it was past eleven there were people everywhere — 'tis said Italians never sleep. In the cafes many playing at cards and slowly sipping coffee or Vermouth, and on the streets throngs of picturesque brown-eyed Neapolitans of the lower class as well as many of the better classes which alas ! are so much alike all over the world. But here this class too seemed made picturesque by dashing soldiers in rakish, green cock-feath- ered hats, and here and there officers magnificent in clanging scabbards and light gray-blue uniform — the cape thrown back to show the scarlet facing. Que j'aime les militaires! Tenente B. suggested coffee — that he might prove to us all Italians did not make it after manner of this Italian steamer on which we have crossed! F. knew a little cafe not far away where he said he often went and as we drove up " American Cocktails/' emblazoned on the window, caught our eye with its bold English — perhaps this explains why F. goes there often ! Several of the officers in the gray and scarlet and gold lace were in here — all saluting Tenente B. with deference, for though he is so young and boyish, he wears the Honor Legion ribbon. A tiny thing, yet a ribbon that can never be purchased, except with bravery under fire. Tenente B. won his in Africa while but a boy. To-night was the first time he had donned his uniform since leaving New York and he himself was quite splendid, even though the Royal Navy uniforms are not the gray and scarlet which makes one lose their heart to cavalry officers. F. sug- gested that one of the gray and scarlet capes wouldn't look half badly on me, an idea which struck Tenente B. as quite the thing. He has a brother, a cavalry officer and wants to get me one of the capes — if madame, my mother, will permit. I pray she will, though F. looked rather dark at having his suggestion so quickly picked up by another. From the cafe, to the hotel in Parco Margherita, Our suite is charming with glorious view of the bay and all points. Yet mamma made sure of steam heat before she looked for the views, though a scaldino burning charcoal would seem far more in keep- ing with this Old World Naples — surely more picturesque than radiators. From here we drove and drove and they pointed out this and 10 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING that of which I can't remember half — but ah, how I love Na- ples ! Little I realized she could be so marvelously beautiful. We did the drive along the sea several times — an elegant ave- nue and fashionable promenade. F. bought me a large mass of pink roses and Lieutenant B. carnations for mamma — these Ital- ians you know have a charming way of never neglecting madame la mere. In fact vnth them a girl really takes secondary place — at least I seem to have found it so.v Perhaps because mam- mina mia is so very unlike the formidable Italian dowager which novels paint. During the crossing Tenente B. has mentioned the Neapoli- tan ice-cream — said to be the mother of all ice-cream, you know. So before we came back on board we went to another cafe, Gambrinus, for supper with the true gelato napolitano. Truly delicious, and though Naples gave her knowledge of ice- cream to the world some five hundred years ago, she must have retained through these centuries, the choicest of all receipts for herself. F. thinks they use honey in it, and that perhaps is the secret, since the honey in this land of a million flowers must be ambrosial itself — at least this gelato is fit for the gods, and sirens, too. F. is returning to Rome early this morning — promising to be back Sunday. We insisted on leaving him at his hotel since two o'clock is quite late enough for one who must catch an early express — 'tis said that although this is the land of adagio, trains mysteriously manage somehow to leave and arrive on time. We rowed back to the steamer with a little Neapolitan fellow for boatman whoi said with air of one giving tremendous compli- ment, " Veery nice America ladies! Shiddoo! " Lieutenant B. apologized for his young countryman's manners — said the ra- gazzini pick up words from tourists, never knowing what they mean and use them on all occasions ! But what will you } We are in Naples — Naples where life is one continual glad, gay festa and one talks simply for sheer love of making noise. Just as those forestieri come and write their books from sheer love of| her beauty, even though they know full well words can in no smallestj measure give idea of this adorable Napoli — this bewitching City of the Siren, full of enchanting secrets and wondrous mysteries. " I had not been there since 186Jf., hut when I woke up the morning after my arrival, and heard the chickens cackling in the Castel dell' Ovo, and the donkeys braying, and the cab-driv- ers quarreling, and the cries of the street vendors, and the dogs harking, and the children wailing, and their mothers scolding, and the clatter of wheels and hoofs and feet, and all that mighty harmony of the joyful Neapolitan noises, it seemed to me that it Was the first morning after my first arrival and I was still only twenty-seven years old.'* — W. D. HowELLs (1908) * •*• ^ TO M. Napoli, Saturday, November — AH, the magic of this mysterious old city of the Siren! Mysterious charm of the land that holds you fast — like a siren's embrace, no doubt ! How can I write you in sensible comprehensible English when very thought of gold sun, or blue sky, or pellucid air is enough to send one into rhapsodies? Yet I must entreat my pen to remember you are far away in that ochre-tinted America and will believe me quite gone mad do I send the rhapsodical pages my brain sings. There's something in the very air here that makes judgment drunk, you know, and one goes so beauty-mad 'tis said there is cure only in rushing off to Rome and doing three galleries and ten churches in a morn- ing. But no Rome for us for many a week and in this glad, gay City of Sweet-Do-Nothing, Vivete Lieti (live joyously) shall be our motto just as it was motto of that most charming Beatrice d'Este who grew up under these Neapolitan skies you know, and later carried Southern sunshine and joyous spell of these siren shores to Lodovico Sforza's somber northern court when she became bride of II Mora. But this, you will cry, is still rhap- sody ! But what can I say } For we are in Italy I entreat you to remember ! IX 12 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING I was up early^ spite the fact that bells were already ring- ing for Lauds at break of day when my pen last ceased scrib- bling rhapsodies over first Italian night to you. Yet who could sleep the first morning in glad, golden N'apoli? with their steamer riding the sapphire of the bay, her decks o'erlooking the great bustling port of Parthenope where dark-eyed, sun- scorched people were long ago engaged in thousand mysterious pursuits. The noise of Naples alone would wake one. Tin- tinnabulations incessant ! Cries and calls mysterious ! For the great, loudly murmuring Naples of five hundred thousand — and who knows how many more } — sun-scorched souls has noth- ing to-day in common with those dilapidated little cities of long ago which slumber peacefully on these same Tyrrhenian shores, dreaming of the days when they furnished men and gold for the Crusades and had navies second to none on earth. Naples sits by the sea, still a Queen. Great white city, yet never glar- ing, for the white has borrowed gold from the sun and a thou- sand shades of blue from the sky and sea, and warm tones from the roses which run riot over her garden walls. There are shades of purple, too — purple of deep mysteries which lurk behind old palazzi courtyards and in the steep gradients which lead up from the port somewhere into the blue heavens above. Shadowy stair-streets in which Camorra whispers its dark se- crets, though safe to say cammorristi have never yet reached Heaven by climbing these stairways of Napoli! Tenente B. and I — chatting of last night ashore, but mostly of the coming duel — had our atrocious coffee together for last time while, indifferent to sapphire sky and sea, mamma still slept — dreaming no doubt of sirens and tritons who once dwelt here — appearing long after the hour we had ordered our jehu of last night to come for us. And to say addio to a man, who, before we should see him again, must play a serious duel, is a something so difficult even the glad joy which Napoli held out, could not make easy — at least not when the man is as charm- ing as Tenente B ! But of the duel, more to you another time. For certainty I intend no further rhapsody and omit bravely all details of the mad dash through the picturesque old streets to our hotel, together with our arrival and the gold laced portier who made profound obeisances at our each step. Least of all CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING IS would I dare mention the adorable maid Benedetta, with the laugh like a silver bell, whom they gave us to unpack our bags and boxes, lest you yourself be winging your way into these siren waters, I skip it all and tell you rather of something quite prosaic — a mere man! He having appeared upon the scene while we were at lunch bearing with him a hurried note of introduction from F. At first glance we thought he must be French — not so prosaic after all you see ! But as he crossed the room to meet us we recognized at once that charming indefinite something which is peculiar, in all the world, only to you American men. He proves to be very much of an American — a friend of F.'s at Princeton. An artist and now at work at Capri — that is, he says, when F. is not coaxing him over to Napoli or up to Rome. He wanted to do anything to be of service and said F. suggested his taking us to the theater to-night to hear a new opera which Neapolitans have gone quite mad over. We had so many letters to write for the next fast Cherbourg mail that we foolishly refused Mr. T.'s invitation for the after- noon corso. But after he had left, the sound of gay life out- side and tempting cabstand in front the Hotel proved too much. The very idea that anyone would prefer for moment to remain at home and write letters, the first day under Italian skies, struck us as decidedly silly. We were not long in having a cab called and dashed off at breakneck speed with a little bare- footed, devil-may-care, ragazzo, running alongside turning hand- springs almost under the wheels. I tossed him some soldi, calling " benissimo! '* in my best Italian. Quick as a flash he was joined in his dare-devil pursuit of our carriage by some half-dozen or more, equally as ragged and picturesque little gamins, — each with face as round and bronzed as their own olives and all performing wonderful stunts of agility until we reached the crowded shopping district where the streets are so narrow that there is little more than room for the two streams of carriages. The crooked, crowded old street with quaint, picturesque bridge crossing it, is the Chiaia, and here the sidewalk falls off in places into the street and pedestrians must, like the smiling, debonair flower-vendors, dart among the carriages and 14 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING make their way as best they can. From there we turned into the famous Via Toledo — black with people and its two un- broken lines of equipages. 'Tis said no city in the world of proportionate size has so many carriages as Naples and one might well believe it from the thousands we saw this afternoon. The sedately moving columns of the corso, served as perfect background for the vociferating, fascinating life of the street with its tiny shops and street vendors selling everything under the sun — from flowers to suspenders, oranges to amulets against the Evil Eye. Color and picturesque life everywhere! Tiny cross streets, some barely six feet in width, cut like threads through the tall many-balconied buildings, giving wonderful glimpses of the poorer people — always so much more interest- ing and picturesque than the better classes. Even officers in clanging swords and magnificent uniforms fail completely in effect when compared to debonair flower vendors, or lazzaroni, — the picturesque Neapolitans who live with Buon Dio*s turquoise sky for their roof, basking in kind warm sunshine, dreaming their dreams. We drove, making the corso on the Toledo, back and forth twice — 'tis called the Broadway of Napoli. But no Broadway could be so full of vivid life and color and noise — a great midway ! Gay crowds everywhere — Confusion ! Clamor ! Shouts! Song! Vociferation! Pandempnium! Where else could one be in all the wide world except in Naples? For just as there is no city which holds so much silence as Venice, so to the contrary this Napoli — teeming to very brim with irrepres- sible gay life. And deep mysteries too. For in these narrow by-ways of this ruddy old city, there are hidden mysteries of ancient cen- turies — Old World mysteries, unfathomable forever. An air of subtle mystery broods somehow over all the city, behind the front of each old palazzo with its many green shuttered win- dows and haphazardly placed balconies; and off in the near distance, Vesuvius, omnipresent, dominating all Napoli, broods over the whole city as well as over little coast villages which lie like mysterious white fleets anchored on the sapphire sea. The whole land seems full of mystery — but ready I fancy to laugh in your face should you attempt fathoming too deep. CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 15 Yet in spite all the picturesque life and mystery^ the shops managed to capture us with their windows — some full of nothing but gloves^ others with nothing but coral. Coral and gloves ! gloves and coral^ everywhere ! But even in the shops there are mysterious rites of bargaining to be gone through with, since, as Mark Twain says, one must never pay the price first asked in Italy, lest the shop-keeper have remorse until his dying day of not asking more! I bought a long pair of gloves for only six francs — quite as cheap as one could in Paris. At first the smiling god of a shop-keeper asked ten, but I, plunging immediately into the mysterious spirit of bargaining, offered five, with all sangfroid of a Neapolitan born. " Ah, but signorina! " he murmured with injured mien and gestures wonderful. I offered five again! He fell to nine! I made motion to leave the shop. He fell to eight and a half! Then to eight! Although la signorina, if she took the gloves at that price would be, ^vithout doubt, cause of his losing his position — alas, he was but a clerk ! I really did not know what gloves of sixteen buttons were worth here, so after this last dire statement I came up to six francs with gracious magnanimity. At which he beat his breast tragically! I, heartless American, laughed outright and gave eloquent Italian shrug. At which he quickly fell to seven though with gesture far more expressively eloquent than mine. I, however, boldly refused to be won and with eyes on the coral shop just across the street, again turned toward the door. Yet I had gone but a step before he was wrapping up the gloves and smiling in manner which said plainly they were mine for six francs and neither was he heartbroken over his profit. He brought them out to the cab, presented his card to mamma with more smiles and gesticulation, begging we would favor him with all our trade — perhaps after all, I had not been so clever a bar- gainer ! Still if only we had not stopped to buy, or rather to bargain for those gloves, we might have seen Tenente B. again. We found a note from him when we reached home, saying he had found the steamer on which he intended sailing early in the day to be so slow a vessel he decided to leave this evening by rail and had come up to the hotel hoping to find us in and 16 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING take us out for tea. He waited some time it seems and has had a basket of exquisite roses sent in to me with charming wishes that my Italian days may be as b^^autiful as Italian flowers. He is full of remorse that I should have learned of his duel — fears that it has made a dark beginning for these my first Italian days. Is it, I wonder, because of this duel which must be fought, that Naples seems to me so full of mystery — so brooding with secrets. * And the joy which only Italy can give was strong within my soul/' i — Margaret Symonds 4* * TO M. Naples, Sunday, November — WE'VE just finished coffee up here in our sitting-room with the long windows leading out to the little balconies thrown wide open to let in this glorious gold of Neapolitan sun- shine in which all the city lies basking this Sunday morning — sparkling like some exquisite bibelot in jewel case lined with sapphire blue. The view from our rooms is superb — ravissantel eboulis- sante! In the distance somber Vesuvius, and the already snow- tipped Apennines and little coast villages where the houses gleam like rare marble in the sunlight. And ahead, serene in azure amplitude, the splendor of the shimmering sea, the sap- phire water scintillating under million golden sunflashes and curving great arms as though to embrace all travelers who enter Italy by Southern route — an embrace which, siren-like, 'tis said, she never relinquishes ! At our very feet lies Naples, the great sun-scorched old city, rising against the blue sky, buried in terraced gardens of orange trees and gardens .of a million fiowers. Gardens and gardens — but gardens truly ! In the convent garden just below two frati walk in deep meditation. But one has left now to ring the great bell, — adding still another t6 the hundred and more already pealing and throbbing over the city. Bells seem to have throbbed incessantly since we reached here, for Naples is all bells you know. Bells and bells — convent bells and church bells. How silent must the great city be when on Holy Thursday all have gone to Rome, where in cupola of St. Paul's all bells of the world meet together. We had a delightful evening at Teatro Mercadante last night. There were two operas given — the first, " A ve Maria " is quite 17 18 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 1 new. The tenor, I thought as handsome as his voice was splendid, otherwise the actors seemed rather crude — especially the chorus which here in Italy is always chosen from the peas- antry. Yet everyone on the stage had good voice — more than can often be said in America even though Mr. Hammerstein does coax over all the best Italian artists with American gold. The new opera evidently pleases the Neapolitans well — shouts of hrava and bravissima filling the theater. Applause so vehement that not only the actors were obliged to come out, but director of the orchestra; and still not satisfied, the music- mad people insisted on seeing the writer herself — a young girl, Emilia Gubitosi. She was bella as well as giovane and much embarrassed at the loud cries of '' Bis! Bis! '* from the men. The women here never clap nor allow themselves to show approval. I, however, applauded her valiantly — all things being permissible you know, under plea '' c*est une jeune file dmericane! " We had a box near the stage in second tier — mysteriously more desirable here than lower tier box. The house was well filled since the Mercandante is used for the best opera till San Carlos opens on festa of Santo Stefano — December 26th, traditional date for opening all theaters throughout Italy. After the opera we went to Gambrinus again for supper, — with some more of this delicious gelato napolitano and Lacrimae Christi (Tears of Christ) wine — made in the famous old vine- yards on side of Vesuvius. Mr. T. says almost each Italian city has its Cafe Gambrinus — the name supposed to be derived from Jan 1st or primus, a mythical Flemish King, the reputed inventor of beer. This being a beverage with which all these Italian cafes must be well stocked, if they are able to supply all these rotund German tourists whom one sees at every turn. Their season of wander- jarh seems to have begun earlier than ever this year — or is there no special season for those Germans with Goethe's " Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blUh'nf '* ringing in their ears? Probably not; for there are hundreds here already — just at the very time when we supposed Naples would be least overrun with foreigners. German men with CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 19 time to commit all sorts of gastronomic feats in spite their mad rush and florid actions. German women of hemispherical waist lines with the omnipresent carpet bag and the equally omni- present skirts which can on a moment's notice be made long or short by some means mysterious. Ah_, these terrible Tedesci! I understand already why Italians hate Wagner. Oh, Italy, how beautiful thou art! " — Rogers * * TO M. Napoli, Monday, November — WE are here on one of our balconies — content, like Naples herself, to simply bask in radiance of this glad gold sun, and under these limpid blue heavens. Spread out before us is this majestic panorama which no pen nor brush has ever been able to portray. Beauty and loveliness exalted to the nth power! Smiling land. Laughing sky. Was it Mrs. Browning who wrote of Italy — " Woman-country, wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male lands." ^ 'Tis said Americans should never have first sight of Italy but in summer — that one who has not seen this Italia in her summer glory has not seen the half of her beauty. But it seems quite incredible to us that this Naples be more perfect than we have found her in these first few days. As full of overwhelming beauty, as a Neapolitan tavern of wine. We spent a charming afternoon yesterday. F. came down from Rome on the morning express and with Mr. T. drove up soon after lunch in his new machine — a splendid Renault. And as Dumas advised for Sicily — " in heaven's name take a speronara! '* so F. advises a motor car for Italy. He himself has had no end of pleasure with each of the cars he has had over here though 'tis said in this land of dolce far niente, when- ever there are urgent repairs to be made it is sure to be festa on which no one will lift finger for love or lire! — a state of affairs maddening to energetic Americans. But F. has a happy spirit which is seldom ruffled and gets along famously with these people — is molto simpatico I can readily understand. We went down to the Villa Nazionale first, where hundreds 20 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 21 of Neapolitans had gathered to promenade in the enchantingly beautiful gardens laid out along the sea. The situation is divine both for Villa and the splendid Via Caracciolo, the drive which flanks gardens on the water side — named, so Lieutenant B. said Friday night, for the brave Admiral Caracciolo who was so atrociously treated by Nelson and condemned to be hanged from spar of a Neapolitan vessel. On the road to Posilipo the picturesque old Palazzo di Donn' Anna seemed a more noble old ruin by daylight of yesterday than in moonlight as we passed Friday — due you would say, to the fact I was much more interested in the Marine Hospital nearby where Tenente B. was once ill for a long time. To-day though, the old palace seemed wonderfully impressive. A crumbly, wave-washed, ghost-haunted looking old place — one where you can almost see a ghost peering out a window in the daytime. We found it hard to believe it is now used as a Hotel-Pensione and frequented by tourists from here and there who would rather live in picturesque, old-world atmosphere of a deserted palace, climb long flights of stairs and warm their fingers over a scaldino, than put up at a modern hotel with steam heat and a lift. Mr. T. has an artist friend from Paris with charming suite and wonderful studio in one of the wings and is to take us down to tea some afternoon. F. says we must be sure and choose some stormy day when the waves are dashing madly against the walls, since then with the wind sweeping through the corridors, such ghostly moans and such stealthy footsteps will be heard that even if one does not come face to face with Donn' Anna herself, one has such poignant fear, such blood-curdling fright, one would readily vow they had seen her. Indeed they say that the fisher-folk who live around there, have seen her ghost countless times as she steals back to revisit her palace which — unhappy woman ! — she did not live to inhabit. The villas along the water front all the way out to Posilipo are full of charm and exquisitely situated. Little cafes, scat- tered here and there, must be enticing places in the warmer weather when sea-bathing is popular and all Napoli, that is not gone on villeggiatura, flocks out there to be fanned by sea breezes and linger over an ice. 22 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING From Posilipo we swung around to Pozzuoli — a superb drive with a lovely view of Ischia^ — " Summer Isle of Eden^ lying in dark purple spheres of sea — " And Procida — island of pretty women and good wine — so F. says. We mean to visit both some time soon. If we can tear ourselves away long enough from this alluring Napoli! Pozzuoli is a very ancient place. Indeed we only had glimpses of it as the streets, so old and narrow and cobble- stoned, seemed taxed to their utmost capacity to hold all the! pigs and chickens which ran about wild and all the pictur- esquely dirty bimhi who spied us and begged with pathetic brown eyes for soldi. To drive a great machine through the streets without murdering a strutting cock or cunning black- eyed, gold ear-ringed infant, was feat of engineering which even F. declared impossible. So we contented ourselves with a sort of circuitous tour and plans for coming again en venture or a pied. Besides it would surely have been almost a sacri- lege to have run anything so modern as a motor over the remains of the famous old Appian way — the very road which was once traveled over by St. Paul on way to Rome. Here at Pozzuoli the Grecians first gained footing in Italy and it was here too, that the Roman aristocracy built palatial villas, causing Cicero to call the place a " miniature Rome," though the most famous places it seems were situated at Posilipo or Baia, since Pozzuoli was not a resort but most important city of all Italy. What contrast with Pozzuoli of to-day! A drive along thq sea shore brought us to Baia — that ancient watering place so famous in old Roman days and still retaining wonderful ruins full of material for archaeologists. But shades of Tiberius, Caligula, Nero and other old Romans who once had splendid villas here have long ago faded away and weather-beaten fishermen, without fear of inviting some Em- peror's displeasure, cast their nets and hoist their sails — idyls of Theocritus being lived again in this twentieth century. The Bay of Baia is wonderfully lovely. Yet even though Horace declares it unsurpassed and Baedeker, more cautiously, writes " perhaps without rival," I, myself, have no intention of rele- gating this Bay of Parthenope to second place in my heart. CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 23 For to me no bay with mariners of Theocritus could ever com- pare with this where vessels of all kinds and all nations steal swiftly into its liquid turquoise^ drawn seemingly inside its great curving arms by some subtle lure of the divine Parthenope. At Baia it is said, not even the pastoral fishermen now hear the call of the sirens among the rocky coves. Parthenope of Naples alone remains. Though true it is that even Parthenope the divine, once had powerful rival in that marvelous sibyl of Cumae, just beyond Baia. But her vision no doubt was long ago dimmed with much gazing into the future, her voice worn out in pronouncing her sibylline oracles. We drove inside the Villa when we reached the city — j ust in time to hear part of Verdi's glorious '^ Trovatore '* given by the large military band. The Villa — no one ever stops to say Villa Nazionale — was teeming with Italian vivacity. All Napoli seemed to be there enjoying the splendid, sunshiny Sunday. Most of the aristocrats en voiture and other classes strolling here and there. Debonair young counts, " without a penny to count," very likely ! but brave in boutonnieresj girls, who although evidently belonged to the bourgeois, were care- fully tagged by duenna; lots of small children, dressed ex- quisitely in wonderful lace and fine needle-work and accom- panied by picturesque nurse-maids in gay costume with queer elaborate head-dress; soldiers in preposterous cock- feathered hats; officers with clanging swords which seemed likely to trip them up; priests and friars sprinkled in here and there in black gowns and brown; vendors with gorgeous flowers and vendors with amulets against the Evil Eye — infinite picturesque ! Yet we did not stop long in the Villa, enchanting though it is, but joined the long stream of carriages which made the corso along the sea drive, a sedately moving column of splendid turnouts. The nohili come here every pleasant afternoon, es- pecially on Sundays, to drive back and forth from two or three o'clock during winter, till when all the rainbows meet together at hour called sunset here in Italy — everyone vanishes as if by magic. F.'s machine, a perfect beauty, drew many glances in our direction, but we ourselves, were so taken with the marvelous beauty of the great fifteen-mile indented bay with its long curving arms of shore, that we had little thought or eyes for even Neapolitan nohili. The ladies though, seemed to 24 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING be quite as handsome as the men. Extremely well gowned too. F. says Italian women dress with infinite more hon gout, in his eyes^ than Frenchwomen and always very simply for the street. F. admires these Italian women immensely — says they are clever in a thousand ways, yet ever wise enough to seem not clever — a trick we Americans seldom manage. We waited for the sunset when everyone broke rank as it were, and in a few moments the entire corso had disbanded. We vanished for tea at Bertolini's — a charming Hotel hung high in the air like our own Aspinwall of Lenox. When we came in to dinner I found a note from Tenente B. — mailed at Rome. And during the evening while mamma and Mr. T. were in deep discussion of the Louvre, I asked F. of duels here in Italy, telling him of Tenente B.'s affair — knowing well F. can keep a secret as well as you. To my surprise he had already surmised what brought Tenente B. home ahead of his vessel. Of course F. does not want me to think there is danger and made light of the whole duel ques- tion — but admitted there were sometimes dangerous duels played between ofScers of the army or navy — affaires d' honneur no power on earth can stop. Still he thinks we need fear little for Tenente B. for while in Washington F. heard something of his skill and says he is probably a second Spicca — only younger and much better looking! I had never heard of Spicca, so F. promised to send this duelist's biography in three volumes, and this morning the gargon has brought up with our coffee, three of Marion Crawford's novels — " Saracinesca" " SanVIlario," and " Don Orsino." Spicca, it seems, is a prominent character in these books. I must see if I ' think he might be compared to one so altogether charming as Tenente B. Marion Crawford has a beautiful villa out at Sorrento and I must read some of his many books this winter. He deals with Italian life in very good style 'tis said; though one of his novels, story of a nun who broke her vows, received much criti- cism it seems from his Italian friends and all Catholics in general. Our laced and gold-laced portier at this moment an- nounces a certain French madame whom Mr. T. recommends as she once taught a cousin of his in Paris. Heaven prevent that she entirely eclipse me in beauty and gowns, for French lessons and duenna I must have and without delay ! Beauty is an all-pervading presence." — Channing 4, 4. TO G. Napoli, December — YESTERDAY we " did " the National Museum, where are the wonderful excavated treasures which, with the splen- did Farnese collection make this Museum one of the finest in the world. Such wealth of art is there, that it is impossible to give you. in a letter but little idea of this priceless aggrega- tion of masterpieces. Elegant sarcophagi; exquisite mosaics, and superb collection of ancient frescoes from Pompeii, Her- culaneum and other buried cities. The Farnese Flora; the wonderful group of the Farnese Bull, and the mighty Farnese Hercules — all three famous pieces from the Baths of Cara- calla in Rome; the Diana of the Ephesians, against whose wor- ship St. Paul preached; and thousands of other splendid works of art, of which we have, to-day, but caught a glimpse, — so vast this Museum. Indeed the wealth of art here simply ap- palls, just as the wealth of history of these shores appalls. 'Tis not to be wondered at that Peter Paul Rubens so es- pecially admired this magnificent Farnese Hercules which was then in Rome. Yet one wishes he had not admired it to such extent as to paint the Christ, in his " Crucifixion " of the Ant- werp Cathedral, with the muscles of a Herculean athlete caus- ing the picture to lose so much of its spiritual beauty. Strange to say, Mr. T. does not admire this world-famous masterpiece so universally loved by artists, and thinks it too tense and strained a pose for even a giant at perfect rest, as here in- tended. The collection of small bronzes is finest of its kind in exist- ence, and exceedingly interesting, embracing hundreds of the household articles found at Pompeii and other buried cities. Handsome money chests, braziers taken from the baths, dining 25 26 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING couches and tables, as well as smaller objects, such as keys, inkstands, bells, scales, dice, and large collection of dishes and toilet articles. 'Tis said the complete life of inhabitants of these buried cities might be learned by a few hours' study of this collection of Piccoli Bronzi. Even at a glance one realizes what love of art entered into each phase of life of the ancient Italians, and little wonders that Italians of to-day are such an art loving people and ever fond of lingering in our galleries in America. In another room is wonderful collection of the carbonized food — meat, olives, fruits, nuts, bread. The same food which we eat here in Napoli to-day. Even the oil is shown, which was found in the jars just as it was left in the homes and shops that awful day so many centuries ago. The exquisite Venus of Capua which although a masterpiece in itself, is but a copy of a still greater chef d'ceuvre of the fourth century B. C, I thought quite as lovely as Venus of Milo in the Louvre (though of course I would confess to no one but you that my artistic sense is so deplorably at fault!). Among the mosaics, that which held us longest perhaps, was the superb representation of Battle of Alexander — found in the handsome House of the Faun of which I wrote you after our trip to Pompeii. The Dancing Faun marking time by snapping his fingers, which was likewise taken from this sumptu- ous residence, giving the house its name, is also here — one of j the most admired of the many statuettes. I went into ecstasies over the ancient j ewelry — wonderful gold bracelets, necklaces, rings, ear-rings, chains of all sizes and lengths. I fancy even most masculine of Pompeiian suf-^j fragettes could not resist appeal of these exquisitely wrought ornaments. Pompeiian suffragettes ! you exclaim. But surely — yes ! For while there, did we not see among the political posters, discovered on the walls of the buildings, recommending some certain candidate for the coming election, one signed boldly by two women ! 1 1 There is a fine armed statue of tyrant Caligula, found in*' bed of the Liris. Statues of Caligula are very rare you know, since they were practically all destroyed after his death — so intense the hatred for this Emperor. I CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 27 And among the noble old Greeks was head of Socrates, par- ticularly interesting with the inscription from Plato — "I am and always have been one of those natures which must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be, which upon reflection, appears to me to be best." He, in spite stony stare, looks quite as wise as his inscription and apparently not at all concerned in the tourists who rush past him. To the contrary of some of the old Roman Emperors who seem to be vitally interested in each person who files past — trait of life no doubt which they still retain. You would dearly love to linger in these immense halls so filled with their treasures of antiquity. I dare say this old Museum and the Naples Aquarium, considered finest of the whole world, would see much more of you, were you only here, than these streets of Napoli which to us are so attractive with their crowds of vivacious people and alluring coral shops. Marvelous splashes of coral at every turn! We bought some lovely pieces to send away for Christmas yesterday. I greatly admired a splendid set in one the aristocratic Toledo shops — necklace, ear-rings, bracelet, and ring, wrought in gold of Etruscan design and embellished with corals of exquisite love- liness — a set which, were you only here, might perhaps be mine And by the way, do you know, I wonder, that the song, " Yankee Doodle Dandy " is taken in part from an old Neapol- itan song, sung by those debonair young merchants who brought coral into Naples from the little Vesuvian coast villages — rid- ing on Campanian ponies and sticking a feather in their cap which they gayly called macaroni ! Every Spring from the swarm- ing, sun-scorched coast towns lying beyond Naples, large fleets of boats leave for the coral-fisheries off coast of Sicily and Africa, returning in late fall when the coral is sorted and sold to Neapolitan merchants — thus the Yankees have their song. Coral however, was not our greatest extravagance yesterday afternoon. The morning spent among so much art made us wild to possess for ourselves, so with Mr. T. to advise and F. to bar- gain, we bought bronze copies of two favorite masterpieces of the Museum — a Mercury Reposing, '* si jeune, si naif** and the so-called Narcissus, 28 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING " Who gazed into the stream's deep recess And died of his own dear loveliness." There is a fine large library and gallery in the Museum also — the latter, however, now being rearranged and not open to the public. But Mr. T. thinks he will be able to obtain permesso for us to go in some day soon. There are wonderful pictures by Botticelli, Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Reni and others equally as famous and while of course the gallery is not to be compared in the same breath with those of Rome and Florence, still with the work of such masters as these, it is cer- tainly worth the trouble of asking permesso, even though one has to go through yards and yards of red tape — must even give their maternal grandmother's maiden name before matters be arranged ! Gabriele Rossetti, father of Christina whose poems you so admire, once held, by the way, appointment in this Naples Museum, coming here from his Abruzzi mountains and plung- ing into the gay life of Napoli — improvising with skill which captivated even these critical Neapolitans. On our return from the Museum yesterday we had breakfast in the old Cafe d'ltalia where Rossetti, though in the government employ, burst out in his famous improvisation, " Sire, che attendi piu? " with such splendid power that the sonnet was never forgotten — nor forgiven by the Bourbons. 'Twas not long after that his arrest was ordered and he was hidden by friends and hurried out of the port to Malta. Then later he arrived at the cold, foggy English shores — never to see again his beloved Abruzzi moun- tains or this sunny Napoli. Nor indeed any glimpse of Italy or Italian sky. We, reveling in this marvelous gold of Neapol- itan sunshine do not wonder in the least that he spoke of Lon- don — " che notte hruna, brunaj senza stella, e senza lume!" and as the years sped on, and he grew old, still so far from home, cried, " Salve, del d'ltalia hella! " This Neapolitan sunshine is of tremendous warmth and fire — sufficient one might imagine, to make an ardent improvisatore of even a rotund German! The sun, the sky, the moon, even the very stars have wonderful power and brilliancy in this warm South. You remember even Hawthorne confessed the I CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 29 Italian sky to be bluer and brighter than our own, graciously admitted it was " more than mere daylight — the magic of moonlight is somehow mixed with it." And so it truly seems — daylight borrows of the magic of Italian moonlight and night borrows brilliancy of the sun for her stars. Nights here are marvels of divine loveliness. But after all, 'tis the dashing, indomitable sunlight which pleases me the more, and like the picturesque poor I would be always out-doors. Here in this smiling, sunny land 'tis the out-door life which is so full of picturesque and interest. Everything happens out of doors you know. Infinite picturesque everywhere! Pic- turesque lurking at every turn! Picturesque little by-ways where for only a few moments at mid-day the sunlight descends to shot the shadows — so narrow are they. Picturesque old gar- dens with weather-beaten marbles and orange and lemon trees embalming air. Picturesque old convents with large, resonant bells pealing out all hours of day and night. Ragged himbi — awfully dirty, yet all the more picturesque! Picturesque envelops the whole city. An|d beauty, like the picturesque, is everywhere. Dost know the land of lemon- flowers, Of dusky gold'-fleched orange bowers'? The breath of the azure sky scarce heaves The myrtle and high laurel leaves. Dost know it well? Oh, there, 'tis there Together, dear one, we must fare.** " MiGNON *' — Goethe TO M. Naples^ December — LAST night we were at Teatro Fiorentini, the oldest play- house in Napoli, situated in one of the many little laby- rinthine by-ways off Via Toledo — so old and narrow that those going to the theater on foot must crowd close to the wall or dart in doorways when carriages or cabs pass. Since of course there is no room for sidewalks in the tiny, tortuous old streets of Naples. Here on even the sunniest of days, one still finds all the dampness and darkness of long centuries, and going to the theater through these tiny Neapolitan streets, where the greatest light comes from the flickering oil lamp burning before Our Lady, is like fantastic overture to the very play. Teatro Fiorentini itself, however, is quite modern in interior — five tier of elaborate boxes and decorations handsome. So modern in fact, that they even have the horrid custom of displaying lurid advertisements on the outer stage curtain — a I'americane. But here, unlike our custom in America, when leading lady or hero, is called out by applause, they still retain the character, tragic or otherwise, played when curtain fell, never acknowl- edging plaudits in a natural manner. And really this Italian custom seems decidedly clever. Here if the curtain is rung down on a death, no matter how vehement or prolonged the ap- plause may be, the actor never appears again. He is dead, so how could he? .30 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 31 After the play of four acts there was comedy of one act. They generally give two plays or two operas here in Italy you know — the first rather heavy and tragic while the second is usually lighter, sending the people out in a happy mood. Last night was the first night of Teresa Mariani's appear- ance here in " Le Primi Armi " and the boxes were filled with handsome toilettes and splendid jewels; these Italian women have lovely jewels and wear them regally. Between each act men in the boxes, and particularly the men and officers who sit in the pit, stand up and with glasses carefully adjusted take survey of all women in the house! But they do it so frankly one never thinks of rudeness. Women, by the way, who sit in the pit do not remove their hats — certainly a great improvement over our American cus- tom. Though coming out from the theater we met a Mrs. W. and two daughters — some very clever English people of our hotel, who to our surprise wore only light scarfs over their hair. In Italy only the lower class goes without hats and there is nothing which makes a woman more conspicuous here in Naples than appearing in public hatless. Mrs. W. has spent two win- ters in this city, speaks Italian and doubtless knows all about Italian customs — especially this to which they attach unusual importance. But 'tis said that to the Americans all things are permitted and no doubt Mrs. W. thinks same rule should apply tc> the English. There are no end of strict rules here, each duty having it seems, its prescribed formula, and we Americans are constantly making mistakes and errors both shocking and amusing to these Neapolitans. But we bold Americans have so overrun Europe, even most ceremonial of Neapolitans are doubtless becoming accustomed to our dare-devil ways, and I fancy, if truth were told, find them rather fascinating! since there is absolutely no question but that the Italians do like the Americans. Much better, it seems, than they do the English. Let the English disdain Italian customs and etiquette and they are at once called 'pazzi — quite madl Later. F. and Mr. T. interrupted this disquisition on Italian cus- toms, mad Englishmen, and dare-devil Americans, by coming in 32 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING and coaxing us up to San Martino — a beautiful suppressed Monastery famous for its magnificent views. We went up by cable car from Parco Margherita, — so much like our own Lookout Mountain incline that for moment we were horribly homesick. But no one in this dolce Napoli can long be sad — the whole city seems bubbling over with exuberant spirits. Even the brown^ bare-footed, blaek-eyed street gamins who tell you they are without food for two days, are convulsed with laughter as they tell you and dart off to turn the most agile cart-wheels with rapidity bespeaking anything but an unhappy famished condition. The old Monastery, desecrated by this ruthless Young Italy, is now used in connection with the National Museum and holds much of interest — pictures, copies of frescoes, mosaics and a thousand things of history and beauty. Near the entrance is a splendidly decorated barge, presented by the city of Naples to Charles III when he took possession of the kingdom. This is really an elegant thing with two charming mermaids at prow and two equally charming at stern. With its twenty-four rowers what dazzling spectacle it must have cut as it skimmed through the blue waters of the Bay — a jewel box of gold afloat on a sea of sapphire velvet! In another room was a sumptuous 17th century State coach, not less like a splendid jewel box than the boat and elaborately decorated with alle- gories — entirely too elaborately one might think to suit the Garibaldi who, in this very coach, made his entrance into Naples in 1860. In another part of the old Monastery-Museum was a won- derful presepio — representation, you know, of the stable hold- ing the Infant Jesu and His Mother. This in San Martino, is marvelously elaborate with Magi, angels, shepherds, animals and dozens and dozens of people (in picturesque Neapolitan costume!) — each a perfect little piece in itself and made by artists most skilled in this work. 'Tis most wonderful treasure of the entire Museum in the eyes of Neapolitans, for though they are never so elaborate in detail as this, each Neapolitan church, however humble, as well as many of the homes, has its presepio at the Christmas season. Already the Toledo booths are selling little images of Madonna, tiny wooden mangers hold- CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 33 ing miniature image of El Gran Piccolino Gesu cradled in straw^ cattle too, which kneel in reverence. Magi in magnificent robes, shepherds with their pipes looking very much like these same dark-eyed Abruzzesi shepherds who come into Naples to- day with their pipes such as the shepherds of Theocritus piped, to play during the holy season of Advent before the many shrines of Our Lady. In another Museum chamber was a life-like figure of Padre Rocco, the famous Domenican by whose efforts Naples first had street- lights. How dark they must have been — those tortuous little streets and lanes ! The figure was gowned in the black Domenican robe and looked so real as it sat reading that for moment I was completely deceived. A cell of one of the Car- thusians remained the same as in the days of old when they with breviaries passed through the long corridors on way to Matins or Vespers in lieu of tourists with odious red guide books hastening to the Belvedere. For it is the Belvedere which draws the people to-day, rather than the noble old San Martino Church in which now there is no office said, — no odor of incense, no candles burning, no Sacred Host. Here at the chamber called the Belvedere there are the balconies all tourists seek, commanding superb views of city and surroundings. The great beautiful Naples seething like a Titan's caldron — chaos of many-balconied palaszi, narrow, tortuous streets, fragrant gardens, winding stairways and churches with domes and campanili stretching up to God. The sky of wonderful robin's egg blue, making perfect background for all the splendid pad boldly proclaiming the Faith of Naples. Little white villages scattered along the great curving arms of shore lie like flocks of snow-white geese bathing their feet in the azure waters of the bay. The bay itself — a great sap- phire stone gleaming in the sunlight as huge jewel with a mil- lion facets. " And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits. Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates." Towering over all reigns Vesuvius, silent, somber and stern, 34 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING indomitable, overpowering, waving his plume of smoke as menacing scepter. Overhead, the marvelous blue cielo — a great dome bending down to earth, powerless, no doubt, to re- sist this smiling land where beauty and grandeur and overwhelm- ing loveliness are all met together. Mr. T. who, by the way, is a poet himself, quoted as we stood there on the Belvedere, gazing down on the great sun-scorched city, those exquisite lines from Shelly — " Naples ! thou heart of man which ever pantest Naked beneath the lidless eye of Heaven! Elysian city, whidh to calm enchantest The mutinous air and sea, — they round thee, even As sleep round Love, are driven ! Metropolis of a ruined paradise Long lost, late won, and yet but half regained ! " What did Shelly mean I wonder.^ The words hold a thou- sand meanings — just as this great Naples has a thousand sides. But from the Belvedere there is only one Naples — only one meaning to Shelly's words. Marvelous beauty — Elysian city ! How the eremitical Carthusians, bound to perpetual solitude, must have loved this old Belvedere ! Or did they find all beauty in contemplation and religion, so that this matchless panorama made no appeal to their ascetic hearts.'* Perhaps, though, some sweet boyish monk, by the world forgot, sometimes stole out there to look with wistful eyes down on the smiling world he had forsworn — chi sa? We went into the Church later — just at hour when the con- vent bell used to ring for Sext. True, the old Church no longer holds its Host and no more Hours are fervently chanted day by day, yet the place seems shrouded in hallowed memories, — just as Time has shrouded its old paintings in soft hues. I fancy not even the staunchest of Protestant tourists would fail to be touched by this time-darkened, suppressed Carthusian Church slumbering in peace up there on the heights overlooking this great teeming city. 'Tis rich in treasures too, as well as in memories. Splendid marbles and frescoes and paintings so wonderfully beautiful one mightl think the artists had, like Fra Angelico, never touched CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING S5 brush until they had first knelt in prayer. The Choir held Guido Reni's unfinished " Nativity " — his last picture. " Christ Giving the Holy Eucharist to the Apostles/' by that great master Ribera, or Spangnoletto as he is so often called here^ is there in the Choir also. Wonderful picture. Though not so perfect perhaps as his " Descent from the Cross/' which is placed as altar-piece in the Tesoro, and very appropriately_, since it was here the most precious treasures were kept. And Ribera's " Descent from the Cross " is one of the most precious of all San Martino treasures. On the ceiling of this Tesoro are the famous frescoes^ painted, it is said, by Luca Giordano in his seventy-second year in but forty-eight hours ! Indeed, some declare it was in but twenty-four hours that this magnificent piece of work was done. No wonder they called him " Fa Presto! " But the wood carvings in the twenty-five stalls of the Choir of the laic brothers would doubtless have greater interest for you than forty-eight, or even twenty-four hour frescoes. These are of walnut wood — the splendid work of hands which were oft folded in prayer. Mamma wished you might show them to your little fellows in the wood-carving class at the Mission. I feel certain that serious-eyed little Italian with whom I spoke the day you took us there, will show his talent in something truly artistic before he has many lessons this winter. He already looks like some tiny, solemn, laic brother, — don't you think so ? — as though, even now, he might be deep in mysteries of his novitiate. You may have successfully beguiled him into your East side mission, but I fear you can never make a Churchman of that solemn and wise piccolo. He will accept all your lessons in wood-carving, all your gifts of Bibles and Prayer Books you choose to bestow, but you will surely find him some day, over on 115th Street, serving before the altar in that gray stone Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Yes, really I feel quite sure; and all these clever tricks of wood- carving you are teaching, will be applied to adorn some sweet altar to Madonna Mary. All the carvings of San Martino were done by the laic brothers and artistic fellows they surely were for their exquisite work is everywhere. Most treasured of all, is the High Altar — in 36 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING wood, and a beautiful thing. And here too at the High Altar is a precious carved Tabernacle with little door of marvelous lapis-lazuli — open forever now, as on Good Friday. A large desk in the Choir is another splendid piece by one of the laic brothers, Bonaventura Presti, who also laid the beautiful marbles of the pavement in the Church. And by the way, the floor of this Choir has a great hollow space underneath it, built so that the voices of the choristers might ring clearer and longer — the choral offices used by the Carthusians being of both excessive length and great beauty. The band stand in the Villa is built this way too, and the music there is thrown out for great distance. One notices the differ- ence in sound even in walking across the Certosa Choir floor. How beautifully the solemn service of Matins must have rung out up there each night! The great Cloisters too seem full of memories of the white- robed, ascetic Carthusians. The sixty-four columns of white marble are splendid and 'tis doubtless true that an American, — even a Vermonter — has no real conception of the beauty and elegance of marbles until he has seen these of Italy. Tourists were few up at San Martino this morning and we did not find it difficult to picture the Carthusians, pacing with silent solemn tread around the old Cloister, rosaries in hand; and lay brothers, equally silent, working among the graves, where on the balus- trades enclosing the ground, grim, hideous skulls of weather- beaten marble were placed to remind the Carthusians that Death was ever near. The old suppressed Monastery had a sweet, peaceful charm, — so different from this great bustling, overflowing Naples, that full of the charm of its Past and Peace my pen has run on and on. Doubtless you're frightfully out of breath when you finish all this, and you might refresh yourself with glass of the delicious amber-colored Chartreuse such as we had in a pictur- esque little wine shop across from the Monastery. Truly the Carthusian fathers, though wine and liqueur were forbidden in their own coarse fare, knew how to make nectar fit for the gods ! This of to-day seemed far superior to any of the Chartreuse we buy in America. Was it perhaps, only because our host was debonair and dark of eyes, his osteria quite picturesque CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 37 with bare ground for floor and chickens strutting boldly through the rooms^ and a view spread out before him which to admire alone was worth a king's ransom? It was nearly fifteen o'clock^ as our time runs here in this Old World Italy, when we reached the city. We had lingered much longer than we intended, wandering about the solemn old Charter-House which though suppressed and desecrated, still holds the ghosts of frati busy with their carvings, and patres, solemn with the great mysteries of cloister life, filing into the time-darkened, slumbering Church holding its precious treas- ures. And so fascinated am I with the place that I have per- suaded them to go again to-morrow and climb the hill just back of the Certosa on which stands an imposing old Castle, St. Elmo, now harboring within its huge walls some of the most noted members of the Camorra — that portentious word which is ever whispered here in Napoli. Here on the ramparts of this impregnable old fortress is the great gun fired over the city daily each noon — jarring the whole San Martino Certosa with terrible force. How different from the sound of the old Char- ter-House bell which, rich and deep, used to peal out each noon with its Angelic Salutation. We breakfasted when we reached town in the handsome Gal- leria Umherto — nowhere else does one find such artichokes fried in oil ! This Galleria, by the way, is a most elegant structure, costing 'tis said, about four million dollars — fabulous sum to these Neapolitans ! It has form of a gigantic cross with immense dome in the center — covered, of course, so that the Galleria is always a place of shelter for homeless street gamins as well as dashing young nobili and splendidly uniformed of- ficers. In here are cafes and alluring shops filled with every- thing to tempt tourists — beautiful water-colors of Naples and her picturesque people, exquisite corals of a thousand and one shades, antique jewelry which once adorned some dark-eyed Neapolitan princess, laces of fairy loveliness, wonderful em- broideries from Geneva and shops of Parisian creations more enticing than we saw even in Paris. There is also a Singer Sewing machine shop ! wearing forlorn, deserted air since in land noted for its exquisite needlework such a prosaic article could hardly expect tp be very popular. The entire Galleria 38 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING is filled with throngs morning, noon and night, for although not in center of the city 'tis the very heart of Neapolitan life. All the cafes spill themselves out into midst of this teem- ing place with little tables where one may dine if they please quite in midst of vivacious crowds, or at least take their coffee or an ice while listening to the music. We have gone down with F. several evenings to the Cafe- Chant ant. Underneath the Gallena is a small theater, Salone Margher- ita, where F. says they have zarzulla — vaudeville. Of course we Americans see nothing shocking in good vaudeville, yet one day as madame and I were going through the Galleria, I hap- pened to ask if she ever went there and so horrified her at the very suggestion, I have been quite wild to go ever since. While at lunch this afternoon, I told F. of madame's astonishing views on vaudeville and suggested he take us down to-night, since he declares that though the Italians have an idea Salone Mar- gherita is decidedly terrible, Americans generally find it decid- edly tame. I will leave tliis open so I can tell you how we like the place, feeling quite sure it can be not very wicked since it bears the name of the beautiful Queen Mother whom all Neapolitans adore. December — Salone Margherita is altogether fascinating with charm- ing arrangement in the orchestra of small tables, where one may have their coffee, an ice, — anything in fact, while watching the performance. A man near us had an elaborate din- ner served quite cleverly. There were but few women — Italian women of! the better class never attend vaudeville or cafes-chant- ants. And F. says perhaps I had better not mention having been there to madame lest she refuse to teach and duenna for jeune file so wicked as to have found delight within portals of Salone Margherita — establishment on which it seems all good Italians and Parisians look seriously askance ! But why — chi sa? The whole world steeped in golden sunshine again to-day — so bold and brilliant one might think its purple heat would almost warm those icy cold marbles up afc San Martino. We are driving there directly after breakfast. I wish you might be with us for nowhere else does the Past and Peace meet as in II CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 39 this wonderful old cloister^ slumbering in quiescence, filled even yet with fervent prayers and shadowy white-robed Carthusians. So beautiful and peaceful it is there, that as Shelley said of the spot where Keats and Severn are buried in Rome, " It might make one in love with Death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place/' — so too, might San Martino make one in love with cloistered life. Yet for me — I think I would rather be Friar of earth-brown robe, free to wander over these sweet Italian roads where the gold sunshine fills men with song to-day, even as in days of the blessed Poverello. *' There is a charm A certain something in the atmosphere, That all men feel, and no man can describe." — Longfellow, " Michael Angelo * 4? TO J. Naples^ December — YOU ask if I like these Italian people — could one help it if they would? I quite love them all from Duca di G., he of the wonderful dark eyes and much simpatia, down to this old beggar woman^ who in large tinkling ear-rings, sits near the hotel under immense umbrella and takes our soldi each time we pass, but with such winning manner one could not ignore her without feeling the basest of criminals. If you might only hear the blessings she calls down upon us from all heaven, I am sure, even you, would love her too. Blessings, you know, can be purchased for soldi here in Naples. And though you, O learned one ! may question their value, still surely you will admit beggars must have grateful hearts to invoke blessings in such great plenty. Truly J., there's a certain subtle something in the atmos- phere here in this wonderful, mysterious old Napoli making me so in love with everything Neapolitan and Italian that I simply adore these black-eyed, ragged, street gamins who drove you wild in Rome, and find your " rascally " cabmen charming as sun-browned gods ! How strange this spell, was not cast over you when you were studying in Florence ! But alas, you were forever poring over the mysteries of the divine Dante and browsing in the Laurenziana so you had little time for the greater joys of prowling through humble streets and lingering among dark-eyed, smiling people. Then too, one must remem- ber that Florence, the city of Lilies, is not Napoli, the city of Divine Parthenope. Surtout, you are a New Englander — a I 40 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 41 race with hearts 'tis said which even this potent spell of Italy can seldom fathom. Yet F. thinks that attitude known as " certain condescension in foreigners " as little seen or felt here in Italy as anywhere in the world. Italy ^ — dear^ smiling Italy ! so exuberant with spirit of loveliness and beauty, casts such spell of enthusiasm over all who come that they are quite powerless but to love her and her people. Yet, I too, before I reached here, had some sort of vague idea I was not to like these people. We read Hawthorne's Italian Notes on the steamer coming over — if anything could place a damper on Italian enthusiasm, surely it is those New England prim and proper Notes ! " Their eyes do not win me " — he wrote, you know, or something to that effect, and I too, said the same. But how was I to know these Neapolitans of Naples had dark soulful eyes which would win over marble statue } — were full of grace, simpatia, and beauty. Ah, I know you are going to sit down tout de suite and pen me a long lecture — I feel quite sure you will never let pass such splendid opportunity to admonish, yes, even severely scold, your so very improper cousin! And by the way, please write in Italian since you know the Tuscan so beautifully. I am wildly anxious to learn to speak this tongue. A few weeks ago and I was all enthusiastic over the French; but even that sounds much too harsh and quite imlovely beside this euphonious Italian which is as charming and soft as the Spanish we once studied together. " Italian has a musical charm. Only in the midst of the Arts and beneath a beauteous sky could a language so melodious and highly colored have had birth " — thus you remember, wrote your clever Mad- ame de Stdel. You adore her and love the Italian language so you can find nothing to quarrel with me in this. And please appreciate, caro, with what immense tact I turn the subject from dangerous topic of Italian people to your favorite theme lan- guages ! Madame, my French teacher, who is wonderfully skillful in Italian as well, now gives me the two, so you see with this, my art, and my studies at the Scuola for noble young ladies, where, grasie a Dio, I now have only two classes^ I am busy each 42 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING moment. So pray do not complain if I tell you little of sight- seeing for I am pondering over subtle rules of lei and voi and whether, at some recitation at the noble school, I shall astound the entire class of noble young ladies and our solemn, mourn- ful-eyed noble little professor, by boldly declaring San Fran- cisco is not the same distance from Nuova York as Florence from this adorable Napoli. Madame is duenna also you know for this city is quite as strict on the chaperone question as though it were in Moham- medan country. Unmarried women do* not and may not, accord- ing to the mysterious rules of Naples, go out alone even if they are well over thirty — or forty either I suppose. But unmar- ried women are never over thirty, are they ? I can think of no one forty, but I do know of one well over thirty — at least madame so declared and chere madame, you must know, is wonderfully wise. The Princess S. of one of the very old Neapolitan families. Madame often accompanies her, as she never goes out alone, strange as it may seem to us in woman of her age, and moreover is rather plain compared to most of these handsome dark women. Only the other morning madame was playing as usual, her role of chaperone, while I shopped along the Toledo and Princess S. drove up asking if I would permit that she walk with us. Of course I was quite willing and we made promenade a pied with madame ever vig- ilantly bringing up the rear. Princess S. kept her eyes well on the ground, and madame had amusing frankness to say she thought I myself looked de tons cotes, entirely too much! I see you smile. Princess S., by the way, has been very lovely to me and speaks such pretty English. 'Tis quite surprising how many of these Neapolitans we meet speaking more or less English. Some one has said you know, English among the Italians is prized as one of the first virtues. And the Italians themselves may really think this one of their first virtues, but they've a thousand far more adorable than speaking English (which alongside of this soft tongue spoken in Naples, seems quite too harsh and kin to the German to be at all pleasing), and I'm truly grieved that you have such wrong idea of these people. I feel sure if you but knew these CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 43 Neapolitans with their kindly ways and ever smiling, yet ever pathetic brown eyes you would soon change your mind. For just as Italy is land of unsuspected treasures, so are these Neapolitans full of unsuspected charms. Do they cheat you 'tis with such winning grace, you gladly return on the morrow to bei cheated once again ! You call them great flatterers, but you are quite mistaken, carina! Marion Crawford, who from study and long residence here, should know these people well, has said, you remember, that aim of Italians is to make life agreeable, whereas chief aim of the Teutonic races is to make life profit- able. Thus, of course, the Italian easily excels in art of pleas- ing, and being quite charmingly agreeable. " It is with no premeditated plan, but in mere eagerness to please that they lavish expression of affection " — those are Madame de StdeVs very words on this subtle art of Italian flat- tery. I've spent some ten minutes in looking them up for you, angelo mia, trusting you will accept her words even if not mine. Only do not misunderstand " expressions of affection " and imagine these Neapolitans are making love to me ! I find them quite as sensible as American men. Were you other than American yourself I might even say I find these Italian rather mo7'e sensible of the two — yet as it is how would I dare so offend you.'' Later. I left your letter for the simple reason that after that last bold utterance, I dared not continue ! You would be sure to dedicate your new novel to M. rather than me — would never take me yachting again — in truth I pictured such horrible sequences of my rash pen that I called Maria, our pretty new maid, and made her go for a walk, much to her inward dis- pleasure I'm sure, since she sat on the balcony sewing and just across the road two splendid blonde carabinieri were gaz- ing up admiringly. I happen to know Maria has strong pen- chant for blondes and since my conscience troubled me, I very cleverly (and of course quite carelessly) halted along the para- pet short distance above the Hotel and as they strolled past, bid Maria ask them what weather-beaten old palazzo with win- dows and balconies placed in haphazard fashion, it might be that stood on the corner. So Maria having elegantly beg-par- 44 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING doned and formally addressed the splendid fellows with, ** The illustrious signorina americana would to know/' et cetera, was soon deep in informal chatter of heaven knoweth what not, while I, affecting to gaze off over the blue water and down on the dazzling white city at my feet, was in reality deep in solving the problem of whether to rewrite my letter to you, or send it as it stands ! But before I came to conclusion it suddenly dawned upon me I might be running risk of losing this most divine of maids, Maria, did she converse longer with such magnificent uniforms so I hastened off up the Corso towards where they are building a wonderful new villa in which she and I take rapturous interest. She, since the new villa is to be the home of the son of the Duke for whose Duchess Maria's friend, with the charming name of Antonietta, is maid, while I affect inter- est in the mysterious building process itself — so entirely un- like our own prosaic American methods. But in truth m,y greatest interest lies in the debonair young mason who has form of a god and voice of Caruso. Happily Neapolitan build- ing methods are worked out on leisurely scale which gives ample time for venting forth in song between laying of each stone. Each stone being brought up, one by one, and since it takes three times as many minutes for the piccolo to fetch them up the ladder as it does for mason to lay them, we, lounging in the sunshine on the parapet just across, are thrilled with bursts of grand opera worthy San Carlos. Yet in midst of sublime snatch from '' La Traviata '* this morning, I spied the two carahinieri approaching very slowly, very decorously, very nonchalantly — nevertheless headed straight for Maria. Matters seemed progressing entirely too rapid and I regretted having ever had her inquire about the old palazzo with its balconies and green shuttered windows set on here and there in such jumbled style. But happily, just as I was debating whether to move forward or retreat, F. rounded the corner in his car, and the day, grazie h Dio, was saved. I hurried Maria into the tonneau and we speeded by those two debonair blonde Reali Carahinieri at dare-devil rate, for I am not at all afraid . of the most infamous member of Camorra, but these Carahinieri are entirely too handsome, with CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 45 their well-waxed mustaches, and stunning, in their scarlet faced capes and captivating three cornered hats, to be at all safe when one has an Italian maid who is as irresistibly charm- ing as she is simpatica. Having deposited her safely in the Hotel, F. and I set out to follow the road, driving out through the old gate Capuana — one of the finest Renaissance gateways of Europe and flanked by two watch towers — and driving on and on across that part of the country so fertile as to be called, the kitchen garden of Naples. Marvelously tended, since love of the Neapolitan for the soil is wonderful. The day has been warm as Spring — one might think Per- sephone had been returned to the world here in December, did the wise Neapolitans not tell us that Pluto will surely not allow the beautiful maiden to return for at least two months yet. In the meantime Ceres but rarely brings her grief down into this smiling land of Napoli. Doubtless she has the good sense to know her tears for poor Proserpina would be completely wasted under this bold Neapolitan sunshine. All the peasants were out to-day — some few belated ones hurrying in gay frocks and shawls into Naples since this is a gala market-day there; others out working in the wonderful gardens, for here in this paradise there is one crop after another all the year around. There are beautiful vineyards too, as well as fertile gardens, and great olive groves, — majestic and glistening in the sunshine. Surely the old olives of Tuscany can be no more splendid than these of Campania — olive groves seemingly as old as this enchanting land itself over which Persephone has traveled for who knows how many thousand Printemps? Hundreds of birds were singing boisterously in fields and along the roadside, as though already welcoming the lovely Persephone. Lots of larks, escaped, from the nets spread by Englishmen and the French, into this land where the people have the heart and bon gout to be more fond of dainty snails and slugs and pickled earth-worms than of harmless larks who shout their glad songs along the wayside as did the Divine Minstrels in the days of St. Francis. It was the Poverello wasn't it.^* who loved the crested lark best of all his many sisters, the birds; for she, like the Minstrels, 46 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING is clad in earth-brown robe, and her crest is like the hood of Religiosij like them, she is humble too, finding her food by the wayside, living far from towns, and ever singing the divine praises of God. You may doubt it, caro mio, if you will, but F. and I each distinctly heard a lark singing, as she soared up to- ward the sun, that verse of St. Francis' great glorious Canticle of Creation, in praise of the Sun, our Brother. You know it, of course, or are you so spoiled by having written the " best- seller " that chants in praise of creation seem of little impor- tance.'* The verse to the sun appeals especially here, for if the sweet St. Francis wrote with sun of Umbria and Tuscany in mind, how much more do his words apply to this wonderful sun of Naples ! " Praise be to Thee, O Lord, with! all Thy creatures ; But especially to my Lord the Sun, our brother, Who gives us day, and through whom Thou sbinest ! For he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor. He is the symbol of Thee, O most Highest ! " How splendidly it must have sounded sung by the Friars, of earth-colored robes and naked feet, as they journeyed in the sunshine over the sweet Italian roads. And again in the winter when the Umbrian and Tuscan suns are dim, and snow and ice covered the mountains, and wind and wolves howled, still they marched ever chanting joyously, indifferent to bitter cold and suffering since for them smile of Madonna made winter warmer and brighter than any mid-summer sun. Are the sons of St. Francis whom we see to-day as ready to sing the mystic love and glory of their sweet Lady Poverty as those Divine Min- strels of St. Francis — one wonders. Surely the sunshine is just as bright, though 'tis said Italian roads have lost much their charm and the humble friar who travels by the wayside must look lively lest a twentieth century motor bear down upon him in his earth-brown robe. We lunched at Maddaloni at the Trattoria del Leone — no such pretentious hostelry, to be sure, as our dear old Lion Inn of Stockbridge, though never at the Red Lion would one find such divine fare and such fat flask of flashing Chianti, weighing two litres when we sat down but mysteriously vanished into some CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 47 infinitesimal small weight when we settled our bill. But for that, F. must be held to account, not me. For it was the mushrooms and " blessed little fowl," as our hostess referred to the chicken, which delighted me far more than Chianti. As usual my pen has run on and on, though when I started this morning, it was with firm intention of writing no more than one cinque soldi stamp would carry. Alas, for all good intention! I foresee cinque times cinque necessary and you in sheer desperation laying aside the new novel for which all America is waiting breathless, and turning all your thoughts towards the invention of some sort of fountain-pen which will have the grace to halt at the end of a regulation letter instead of running on and on and on after the manner of one of these three hundred and sixty-five day clocks ! Of course you are declaring that I'm quite bewitched by this adorable dolce Napoli — chi sa? 'Tis said^ you know, that even a day here under these limpid southern skies will so intoxicate, that one of your staid and proper college professors who came to write a book on the archaeology of this section, refused even to glance at Pompeii or Herculaneum, but sat basking in the amber radiance of this Neapolitan sunshine in the Villa, writing mad poetry day after day ! True the sunshine hasn't yet beguiled me into improvising, but all the same, it may be some one has cast malocchio on me, having this deplorable result of making me quite lose my head over this idyllic land and adorable brown-eyed people. What think you, Eccellenza? > 'Absence from thee is such as men endure Betrveen the glad betrothal and the bride; ** " To Italy "' — Robert Underwood Johnson ^ * TO D. Naples, December 21st. WE too, wish we might bring home one of these Italian ar- tist cooks — one as dark and debonair of eyes and as clever as your adorable Giovanni, for we, as you, have already come to the conclusion there is nothing much better in cuisine than this of Italy. Garlic is no longer the bete-noire we fancied. No doubt since hotels must cater to English and German, French and Russian (by the way we have an elegant Russian Princess and suite here for the winter) — all these, as well as our own American palates, the proprietors tell their chefs to go slow with the garlic and all those queer, fancy herbs we see drying in long chains and decorating so many tiny balconies at every turn. Of course there's a sameness all over the Con- tinent in the table d'hote, still we think the dishes here of greater variety, and far more attractively served than in the hotels and cafes in other countries. In fact, you know, 'tis said that range of dishes in Italian cuisine is much greater than with the French who are supposed to be such criterions on culinary arts and hold the world's championship. And by the way, does Giovanni still make the delectable dish of pasta con pomidoro? You may tell him we have tried it at all of the best cafes of Naples, but none seem able to use garlic so it gives just that suggestion of supreme delicacy such as has his. But then, we must remember that Giovanni is a true artist a! We haven't engaged a chef, but we have something even bet- ter, at least far more necessary just at present — an Italian maid. For in spite all ethereal loveliness of this poetic land, 48 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 49 buttons and hooks were prosaic enough to fall off^ seemingly with diabolic persistence to take one's time from something of beauty or infinite picturesque. We had begun to think we made a great mistake in not bringing Tucker with us again this year, when Mr. T. turned into a fairy godfather and found this girl — a perfect jewel. Mr. T. has her brother with him over at Capri — a splendid, swarthy^ broad-shouldered fellow as devoted to Mr. T., F. de- clares, as was Giuseppe Marchi to Sir Joshua Reynolds. They are Tuscans, which is preferable, as I must avoid for the present falling into this Neapolitan dialect — complete language in it- self. Maria's Tuscan is quite exquisite. She was raised in a convent and is really well educated, so you see it's no wonder we call her a precious bijou, especially as she does beautiful needlework and is altogether simpaiica, I've been going to early Mass with her every morning this week. There is a dear, weather-beaten, old Church down the Rione dei Mille, not far from here, and it makes these Italian days all the sweeter to slip in there along with these dark-eyed people who come there morning after morning. Very humble people, most of them, but so devout in their devotions that for this alone, they would be quite lovable. Swarthy cabmen and debonair street vendors ; women, heads covered with gay yellow and blue handkerchiefs, who later in the day you will find chat- tering away in the most humble side-streets; young girls so richly poor that pay of twenty cents a day for bending late over embroidery or artificial flower-making seems a veritable fortune, and other girls who linger, long after the others have gone out into the sunsliine, to confide to Madonna their secrets — and sorrows too perhaps. Poor madame has been ill for a whole week and mamma so often engaged playing bridge with some of these English bridge fiends who have entirely taken possession of the winter-garden, that even Neapolitan sunshine and skies cannot always coax her out, so Maria is pressed into service as duenna as well as maid. And a very strict, stern, chaperone she is, for madame has had experience with American jeunes filles before, but Maria seemingly has idea I'm just from the convent and thinks it quite shocking do I dare address the cocher! 'Tis her em- 50 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING phatic statement each time we start out^ " Have no fear, cara signora, — I guard the signorina like a Bambino Gesu! '* She always wears a small black lace veil whenever out with me — says that it is the proper thing for a maid over here. But I can't fancy it — she looks as though she was forever starting to see His Holiness. So this morning on our way down to Cook's I stopped in a little modista shop of Piazza Martiri and bought a black sailor. When she had it on, she looked so elegant I was almost j ealous — could you but see her you wouldn't wonder! She has glorious purple-black hair and immense brown eyes — you know my weakness for bro^vn eyes ! Her features are all good and with her splendid figure in! a black coat-suit she looks a thousand times better than these German tourists rushing around Naples in antiquated chapeaux and skirts looped up to tops of their boots or sweeping pave- ments. Maria carries herself, like all Italians unless they are cripples, with that wonderful regal air and is always much stared at by these Neapolitan connoisseurs of beauty. Indeed this morning she was almost too frankly admired once she had on a hat placing her on a, lady's footing, una vera signorina — you know what great importance they attach to the cappello here in Italy. This little modista at Piazza Martiri — I wonder if you ever went there when you were here in Naples? She is another bijou, is so eager to please, speaks French, Spanish and a little English and things come from her deft fingers with a good Frenchy air. Last week she accomplished a coup de main ir- resistible in form of a lace muff covered with roses and a darling chapeau to match — so sweet I am saving it for the gala opening of San Carlos. But you would be much amused could you see the dinky little muffs so many of these Neapolitan women carry, even on the street — concocted by some magic art of a flower or two, a piece of ribbon, a bit of lace and a speck of fur, forming a tout ensemble half large enough for even one hand ! My muffs this winter are perfectly immense and attract no end of attention. Often on the street as one walks along, one hears murmurs of *' Manicotte grande! " accompanied by looks of positive amaze- ment that one signorina should need so large a piece of fur to CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHIXG 51 warm two hands. "Ma che! but how it is big! — like the rugs in the Palazzo Reale,'* the old fellow said this morning who sold us hot roasted chestnuts down by the Villa. Speaking of these funny little muffs so many of the women here are carryings reminds one of the lorgnettes they all use — perhaps that explains why they cling to the tiny manicotti, since, after all, they have only one hand to keep warm! One, you know, must be forever free to use a lorgnette. Always a lorgnette or more being leveled at one. You doubtless noticed it while you were here though you came in season to miss the muffs. Even mamma has caught the habit and invested in a stunning gold pair though we all know she hasn't slightest need of them. F. declares he had just as soon one would level a pistol at him as a lorgnette here in Naples — why he particular- izes this adorable Xapoli, I'm sure I don't understand, unless he thinks these languorous, dark-eyed women of Xaples use lorgnettes with an air quite too gracefully charming to be safe for him. Indeed F. admires these women tremendously — says they know how to laugh and how to walk and a multitude of other items we have never learned in America ! Now what do you think of that? F. came in last night and surprised us just as I was engaged in giving you his view on the lorgnette question — surely there is something in " Speak of angels and they appear," for F. is sans doute, an angel, no matter what you, his cousin, may say to contrary ! He has been in Rome for the last few days and we have missed him fort. You could never guess who came down with him — S. and M. ! They've already become so tired of the Embassy that they ran off to Paris and then S. thought of something she wanted to see in Rome and F. met them at tea one afternoon at Madam G.'s. He brought them down in his car along with an officer stationed at Caserta (who it seems is much devoted to M.). S. was nearly dead after the long jaunt and we dined here in our rooms. They each look splendidly well and have some Paris gowns truly stunning. M. has become a perfect polyglot in these three years over here — I'm horribly jealous of her French. I have consolation 52 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING though in. knowing I've never yet asked a cabman " £tes-vous affiance "? You have heard F. laugh over it — no doubt since he came up just in time to hear the jehu answering with no end of pathos in his voice, " Malheur sement, Mademoiselle! J'ai une femme et six enfants! " Yet worse by far was the French of that Englishman who in excitement of being ushered into the Holy Father's presence turned the Saint Pere with which he had been coached to ad- dress His Holiness into fervent exclamation of Sacre Pere! Well — tutu gli Inglesi sono pazzi, you know ! We are planning a picnic somewhere out in the country for to-morrow — taking several Italians with us. (S. and M. each have a weakness, you know, for these dark, soulful-ey^d men). We intend treating the Italians of the party to a true American picnic and F. and Mr. T. are making elaborate preparations for the dinner. How we wish you were to be one of the party and with us through Noel! You would find Napoli just as full of charm at this season as when you were here. For Napoli you know, is not dependent on Primavera or any midsummer golden dazzle of heat for her beauty and picturesque. All is warmth and color. Even on days when Sirocco blows and gray rain clouds hide azure sky, there is still warmth and vivid color. Warmth in churches, pic- turesque in streets, color in this queer old Neapolitan patois. Surely there is no place in whole world comparable with this Naples — no place which can give so much of interest, so much picturesque, and at the same time so much beauty! I am quite happy we are to spend Christmas here instead of at Rome as first planned. Each morning we are awakened, even before daylight, by Zampognari from the Abruzzi playing on bagpipes before shrines of Madonna — anticipation of the birth of El Gran Piccolino Gesu. They play on pipes similar to those of the Scottish Highlanders — the music strange and weird as it steals out in the early morning air. Yet who knows but that to Madonna Mary and El Magno Gesulino, salutations of these humble Zampognari be very sweet? The booths which line the Toledo are full of interest — quite as picturesque no doubt as the summer fruits stalls you saw sheltered by gay striped awnings and embowered in green foil- CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 53 age. The cries of the different venditori make cacophony truly deafening. And yet^ it isn't cacophony after all, since it all goes towards making this mysterious city of dolce Napoli. But this must off at once for the fast mail. Mammina and Mr. T. are already at lunch as they are going out to look at water colors this afternoon. Much wisest to buy whatever one can now before the stock is not as yet picked over and) the great hordes of January tourists not arrived to completely demoralize prices. Shopping strikes F. and me as altogether too prosaic for such a day as this and we intend motoring out around Posilipo, with tea, perhaps, at the little ristorante you used to love — Promessi Sposi. He has promised I may be dea ex machind — the roads round Posilipo are so superb for motoring. Per Diana! — what a blot. And no doubt the bronze Nar- cissus standing here on my desk has caused it with his own most Evil Eye, for of course, despite the fact that in America we supposed poor Narcissus to have died from gazing at his own charming loveliness, every wise Neapolitan, well knows he cast an Evil Eye upon himself by looking into the stream and so brought to pass his own sad fate. Forsooth I must turn him to the wall before I attempt writing further for assuredly I can not well manage pen and make horns at the same moment ! Non e vero? This region, surely, is not of earth, Was it not dropt from heaven? ** — Rogers TO G. December 29th. TO-DAY has been like a May day with sun scattering golden dust over the city and bay in a million glinting, dancing rays. F. came soon after we had had our coffee and insisted to Mammina that on such divine day I be allowed to cut my lecture in Art History at the Noble School — espe- cially when he heard that our soulful little professore was to talk on Bernini's pernicious influence on Art. F. adores that " delightful, dashdng " Bernini as he always refers to him — thinks him so full of ingenuity and grace that under no con- sideration would he allow that I hear him derided ! I myself am inclined to think Bernini quite as grotesque, as graceful, but the sunshine and call of the road, — or rather F.'s motor horn, — were too great to be resisted for lecture in chilly palazzo, so we set off for Posilipo driving by way of the splendid Via Tasso. Then later circled around to Vomero, a new but very aristocratic part of Naples with beautiful stately palazzi, charming villas with equally adorable gardens, captiv- ating ristoranti with extensive views, and splendid roads for motoring. We had a delightful morning, stopping at Casa C. to see Conte C.'s exquisite gardens. And then again at San Martina Certosa which, though suppressed, is still a holy place, if tourists but knew — full of prayers and phantoms of long- forgotten Carthusian fathers. Mamma is wonderfully in love with the old slumbering Monastery and insisted that we leave her there to wander about the Cloisters and bask in the sun- shine while F. and I went to climb the steep hill at the back of Castle St. Elmo. A marvelous view from there — one can 54, CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 55 almost look to where, " Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps arise." We came home by different route -. — a thread of a street which climbed down to the city over house-tops and gardens and so narrow and tortuous that F.'s car and our escort of bare-footed, brown-eyed piccoli turning hand-springs for our amusement (and incidently our soldi!) quite filled the way. Had a tram come and met us face to face, to pass would havd been quite out of the question, and we should have had to politely request that it reverse and start back to the city. Happily we had no cause to create consternation by any such unusual demand and at last reached the Toledo. There too, though, one can but move at snail's pace, so black the street with people and 'buses and car- riages of all descriptions. Hundreds of vendors shouting their wares of everything under this shining sun and water-sellers with acqud fredda — chilled heaven knoweth how, for I have seen not an inch of ice since I arrived ! — and sun-colored orange juice and the rose-pink anisette, beloved of Neapolitans. F. had dejeuner with us and we were but finished when Due. G. came in. We had our coffee out in the garden where the olean- ders are still brave in jars which might have once concealed the Forty Thieves, And were not long in agreeing such a day as this was but for living in the sunshine. Mamma's proposal for a tramp out in the country wasj hailed with delight, though we had difficulty in selecting what part of the country we should choose — Naples has the most enticing surroundings of any city in the world I verily believe ! But we finally decided the question by each drawing a rose from the j arl on the table — the one drawing the longest stem having privilege of saying east, west, or north. I, having been the lucky one, at once declared for Posilipo — Virgil's enchanting Posilipo which is as full of beauty and loveli- ness as is Naples of deep mysteries' and old traditions. F.'s chauffeur drove us out to the end of the Strada Nuova which runs from the Villa along the edge of the sea nearly all the way to Posilipo, where at top of the hill, near the lovely Villa Sans-souci, we gaily set forth a pied. The roads all around Posi- lipo are glorious for tramps, and do not tire one's feet as do so many of these streets of Naples with their rough lava block paving. I say for ** tramps," but really it would be impossible 56 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING to truly tramp, in the English meaning of the word, anywhere around this adorable Napoli. Saunter is best one can ever do, for either a glorious view appears or something of beauty or pic- turesque to stop one. Even a road running between high garden walls has orange tree overhanging, laden with golden fruit, or a climbing rose in full bloom — there is certain to be something to make one linger along the way. All around Posilipo one is thrilled with the old, old beauty, the same as when St. Paul, during his stay at Pozzuoli came here to visit Virgil's tomb — so the legend runs, you know. And then as one saunters on and on, past the charming Ristorante della Rotonda, of a sudden the marvelously beautiful Bay of Baia lies with the island of Nisida, almost at one's feet. Indescribable, yet unforgettable loveliness ! One who has seen this part of Posi- lipo can well understand why the place was so beloved by Virgil. Wei sat down by the wayside — quite spell-bound by the scene stretched out before us, for though we have come over this same road many times in motor and in carriage, its charm has never been so powerful as to-day when we sauntered along the road quite like simple peasants out on a festa. " No language, nor any art of the pencil can give an idea of the scene when God expressed Himself in the landscape of Italy." Even Hawthorne, so chary of his praise to this adorable land, spoke thus of her matchless glory, so you see it is quite out of question that I, in this prosaic English, attempt to tell you of the mighty, marvel- ous beauty which lies in wait for you here on this sunny west slope of Posilipo. Nor does the enchanting scene have beauty alone — thrilling associations are connected with it all. Especially at Baia, that most magnificent watering-place of the wealthy old Romans, such as St. Paul found it with its gorgeous ville giving it name of the Golden Shore. Even the little island of Nisida had its memories. For here plans for Caesar's murder were first laid, and here Brutus took refuge after the deed was done and was visited by Cicero. Here too, it was that Brutus spoke the beau- tiful farewell to Portia which Shakespeare (or Bacon or some- one !) has made immortal, and here also Portia, on learning of her husband's death, committed suicide by swallowing coals of fire. F. suggested that if burning coals were as scarce then as they CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 57 seem to be in this land now, Portia was certainly wildly extrava- gant and might easily have chosen some less expensive means of death — incidentally rather more pleasant also, I should say ! We might have sat there gazing off over the enchanting Bay of Baia till night fell, had not a carriage with four wilted tour- ists armed with flaming guide-books, come dashing down the hill, awakening us to the fact we had come for a " tramp," but had been suddenly little less than hypnotized by the marvelous beauty stretched out at our feet. Not far from there is entrance leading to the Grotto of Se- janus — a noble piece of old Roman work built before time of Christ, so Due G. said, and we must see it. Che fortuna that he was with us ! Posilipo is all of volcanic formation, and this long, perfectly straight passage has been chiseled through the hillside for over a half mile in length — built to furnish some great villa which once stood at the further end, with a shorter route to Poz- zuoli and Baia. It seems much longer than half a mile since there are no turns to break the distance and as one walks farther and farther, the entrance, when one turns round to look, appears but mere speck — like some lighthouse seen on a dark night when miles and miles out from land. We were wonderfully impressed by the simple grandeur of the old Grotto through which the cruel Vedius Pollio often passed with retinue of slaves, — whose flesh perhaps, was soon to furnish delicate morsels for Pollio's pet lampreys. And once home I hunted up this Grotto in Baedeker, but to my disappointment and surprise he barely mentions it, merely saying — "uninteresting. Fee one franc." This in his general guide to Italy and then in Southern Italy he gives a few details in very fine print with a forward in large print that the fee is one franc; and the " inspec- tion occupies about one half -hour not very profitably ! " As a tourist would no sooner venture out without his Baedeker, than would Neapolitan without amulet against Evil Eye, it is not to be wondered at that the old custodian at the entrance and our piccolo guide each solemnly declared visitors; to the old Grotto to be as rare as bags of gold. But at dinner to-night we were speaking of our afternoon to a Mrs. A. who was with us and she at once thought she had a book by Norway describing at length this very same Grotto. Since 58 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING then she has sent the book in to us and we are quite happy to find that someone else has appreciated this noble piece of old work which we four so admired — even though the mighty Bae- deker so disdains. Just see w^hat he says — "The torch flashed now on Roman brick work^ now on arches of massive stone built to increase the strength of the vault, and fit it the better for those great processions of chariots and horse- men which came and went to the Villa at the further end, return- ing from a hunting party with dogs which had wearied out the game on the hills of Astroni, or escorting the gladiators landed at Pozzuolo for some combat in the theater which now lies so waste and desolate amid the vineyards. How this passage must have rung with shouts and laughter in old Roman days ! " — so the book runs. How full of interest this Norway found it ! And we not less so. Our guide, though only a small ragazzo, was well-versed in all legends pertaining to the ancient place and had us peering at this and that by flickering light of his torches. There was great fascination about sight-seeing in the silent, tomb-like old Grotto. The party who had awakened us so rudely as we sat along the wayside bewitched by the beauty of Baia Bay, had, of course, been loyal to Herr Baedeker and not stopped for moment to give valuable time to exploring an uninteresting Grotto, and we were quite alone. An opening broken through the great thickness of the walls on the right hand gave tempting glimpses of the shimmering blue sea, so we all climbed through and out to where the water dashed madly against the rocks many feet below. There was fairy-land enchantment in the scene with the stretch of Tyrrhenian, so won- derfully, so heavenly blue, lying out beyond, through whose azure waters a great transatlantic liner came riding, hastening to gain port, — urged on, no doubt, by call of the divine Parthenope. The cove at our feet seemed fit home for sirens — who knows but that they were often there in the ancient days, luring men against the treacherous rocks. Our little guide enhanced our speculation by telling us in solemn confidence, that underneath where we were sitting was a cave filled with gold and precious stones. We pressed him to tell us more — had anyone visited the cave.'* His Neapolitan shrug, solemn big eyes and mysterious CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 59 " Chi lo saf " sent us into peals of laughter which echoed among the great rocks of the cove with weird effect. Had fisherman passed just then they would surely have sworn sirens had returned and hastened to the village to spread the news. Duca G. proposed to F. that they toss the piccolo down into the water below^ that he might swim and find entrance to this mysterious treasure-cave. Having found it, he might bring out some gold or pocketful of precious stones as proof and swim with it over to Nisida where we would follow with a boat and di- vide the spoils. Our piccolo was quite game — evidently so elated that the great Neapolitan signer Duca should delegate him for so important a mission, that he would not have hesitated for a mo- ment in being actually " tossed " down into the swirling waters at our feet. Very likely it would not have injured him in the slightest since these sun-bronzed young gods round Naples must have at least nine lives to, escape death as they do in their dare- devil feats under horses' feet and carriage wheels. We had taken a half dozen cakes of chocolate before we left the city and must have sat there on the rocks just outside the great walls of the ancient Sejanus Grotto for fully an hour; far, far out of the path of tourists, eating our chocolate (a Turino de- light which might have pleased fastidious Vedius Pollio himself) and speculating on the possible truth of there really being treas- ures hidden for safety in caves underneath the cliffs — as our youthful guide had so soleronly vowed. If so, the secret lies buried along with Vedius Pollio and other wealthy old Romans who so long ago had their ville here along the enchanting Posi- lipo shores. The idea is now regarded as only idle tale of the fisher folk. But as our piccolo said, " Chi sa? " At end of the long passage the boy unlocked a door and we were on the ground where, as Norway says in his delightful book, once stood a great villa and " theater, ringing with shouts and applause and by it all the other buildings of a noble mansion." Yet however noble may have been the theater or villa, I am sure nothing was more admirable than this long dignified passage through which we made our way this afternoon. Our piccolo left with many gallant compliments to the beau- tiful ladies and invitations to the signori for speedy return — visitors to the Grotto, he repeated solemnly, were as rare as 60 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING bags of gold! He was a handsome ragazsino with wonderful eyes, and we gave him generous hiiona mano of soldi and the remaining cake of chocolate which he said he would take to his brothers and sisters — he had only thirteen ! How that cake of chocolate was to be divided among thirteen, heaven only knoweth ! At least it was problem no one but a Neapolitan would attempt. We found ourselves quite in the country, only one house in sight, perched on a small knoll — possibly the very site of some famous old villa. A woman was washing clothes — 'tis ever wash day in this country judging from the clothes one sees forever flapping on the lines, though perhaps, after all, one does see more on Sundays than on any other days ! We were thirsty and begged some water which she graciously brought from some mysterious source, icy cold and pure — an old copper pail full, with a quaint two-handled copper dipper. It was wonderfully picturesque, tho' rather difficult to manage — a fact our smiling hostess evidently appreciated as she apologized elab- orately because she had no glasses for us, nor any wine to offer. But Duca G. politely explained that americani liked mere water molto bene and as fact dawned on her that we were really Amer- icans — Santo Dio! but Americans! — her joy was pathetic. She caught our hands, showering kisses on them, and calling her small daughter (a child with wonderful red hair, if you please!), pointed us out as people coming from that land where the hus- band and father had gone a year ago. The child eyed us as though we might be angels suddenly dropped down from the blue cielo, though her attention seemed rather more taken with the two men than with us — especially with F. who, evidently feeling alarm for fear he too might come in for some of the af- fectionate demonstration, had backed off to examine the dogs who lay basking in the sunshine. Had we come bringing special tidings from her husband, she could have been no more delighted to see us. The thought that we were from America — were really truly Americans ! was all- sufficient. She begged us to be seated, to stop and admire the views, and in a moment the ragazza came bearing a dish of freshly gathered mandarins nestling among their own leaves in charming fashion, and the woman herself followed with piece of cheese on a plate likewise adorned with the green. Ah, CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 61 these artistic Neapolitans — they are all born adorable artists! And there we sat taking in her views^ eating her frutta and fromaggio, listening to tales of her caro Pietro in Nuova York and admiring the two letters which she brought out to show with the United States stamp and New York post-office mark — all^ just as though Pietro were our own well-beloved servant^ and we had known the whole family for years ! Si, si! Pietro was good — but good ! He had sent home five dollars two different times during the year he had been in Nuova York. " Si, si, Signore! it is much money/' she proudly replied when F. gra- ciously declared Pietro extremely kind to send all ten dollars — ^ fifty lire! She kept fishermen boarders — grazie a Dio, the sea had taken none of them now for the two whole years. She raised her own insalata — grazie a Dio, also-, her garden flourished to-day just as when Pietro had looked after it. And^ grazie a Dio, thirdly, there was good vintage each year from the tiny vineyard — the wine so clear that it was well liked by the merchants from Na- ples. And so on and so on. In a few moments we knew the whole family history; just how many litres of wine had been pressed last fall — pressed, no doubt, by the sun-browned, bare feet of our own gracious hostess and the small girl with Titian hair; how Pietro would return in a year or two with much gold and they would make a big dowry — Madonna mia, but big ! — for the pretty shy ragazza, whom I could see at a glance was already losing her heart to F. The dowry provided for, our hostess and the caro Pietro would live like princes all the rest of their lives — that, you understand, means nothing more seri- ous than they could afford to eat macaroni on all feast days. Already they had view any prince might well envy — superb site for glorious villa. Secretly I vowed that after my own dowry was provided I would return and try to coax our hostess and her caro Pietro to vacate in my favor. I hinted as much to F., but he seemed to think that even a honeymoon might not be quite ideal here did Pollio's ghost return some night to feed his lampreys ! When we came to go our hostess refused all pay for our re- freshments — we had been her guests ! The holy saints who sent the weather had sent us to her door to ask for water that 62 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING she might see with her own eyes what Americans might be like. Would we come again sometime before we left Napoli? If we would send her word she would have flask of wine and polenta con fromaggio ready for us. Polenta, you know, is a sort of baked meal pudding and for extra occasions it has covering of grated cheese, though this is immense extravagance — but yes ! Mamma pressed a small bill into the sun-bronzed palm of the little ragazza who was to have the big dowry some day, and thanks from our hostess were quite overwhelming — so foreign to our own American people of the same class who, in such an instance, would have endeavored- to appear quite indifferent. We were like beautiful angels — might all the blessed saints and Holy Mary ]\Iadonna go with us ! Thus we said a rivederci. Oh, these lovable people who have their own warm Neapolitan sunshine somehow stored up in their hearts — they are truly adorable with their gracious ways and smiling brown eyes. We are surely going to see them again sometime and I sug- gested we take a book with views of New York City such as I saw here in the English book-store the other day. But F. said that would never, never do! If she saw her caro Pietro was in city where buildings were twenty, thirty, yes, even forty stories in height ! she would be so sure he was recklessly endangering his precious life, that she would have him return at once. To call Pietro home before he had saved up enough for the dowry, that the pretty ragazza might wed at least a debonair young jehu, would surely be very serious matter. Certainly I must not think of giving anything like that! Was there ever such a wonderful philosopher as F.? Coming home we saw much of the yellow broom, Leopardi's pathetic lover of sad solitudes, and bushels and bushels of roses growing as bravely here in December as though it were June. We had a lovely walk back to the high road of Posilipo between high garden walls above which in the dark firmaments of leaves The orange lifts its golden moons," as Lowell has somewhere charmingly said. Two carrozelle brought us home since there were no voitures to be found. F. and mammina engaged in talking over an af- CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 63 fair which F. hopes to close in Roniie to-morrow night, thought- lessly appropriated one of the cabs, forgetting that Duca G. and myself without duenna! must take the other. Arrangement which doubtless shocked our dignified old cocker, especially as night was almost upon us and the lights of Napoli — superb necklace of diamonds skirting the long curving shore line — al- ready twinkling in the distance. Che bella giornata! "Ell, well! I am in Italy, — the land of shrugs and laugh- ing/* — Hewlett •I? * TO M. Napoli^ December 30th. FWENT up to Rome this morning where he is to celebrate • the year-end by closing a large deal. But far too prosaic it seems even to hint at stocks and bonds in this idyllic land where Present and Future are quite lost sight of in thoughts of the splen- did Past. Sunshine and sapphire sea seem far more fitting sub- j ects here for contemplation than securities and stocks ! But alas^ F. is too American to see the matter in this light and took himself away from this adorable Naples this morning as though all world depended on consummation of his odious deal. May Sirocco overtake him in Rome ! For Sirocco, you must know, is grandiosely powerful enough to call a halt on even a five million lire deal — no wise man attempts business while Sirocco blows. We went down to the Stazione to see him off and incidentally the depot, for with F.'s car always at command we have been able completely to ignore the prosaic chemin de fer. Tho' very likely the chemin de fer itself is not the same common-place af- fair here of other lands, but holds, like everything of this sun- scorched, splendid, old South, something of beauty — something of mystery inside as well as out. Though forsooth, inside, the beauty and mystery would much more likely be found in third class compartments in which travel the picturesque poor, rather than in the first or even second which this morning seemed hold- ing only loud-voiced Germans and their carpet bags — real car- pet bags, caro mio, with great yellow and mauve roses nodding boldly on scarlet back-ground ! And staid British spinsters in stout-soled boots, armed with Baedeker and tea-baskets. And of course some American girls, of whom, by the way, a stately Neapolitan dowager confided to madame a few days ago, " Elles 64 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 65 sont tou jours un peu sauvages! " Wasn't that naive? But sav- age or not^ — as you will, there's at least no more solemn mys- tery in an American tourist than in one of these ruddy-faced Tedesci. Though, grazie a Dio, sometimes a little more beauty. At least there were three charming American girls in the sta- tion this morning at whom some debonair young officers in clang- ing swords gazed admiringly, to the consternation of their chap- erone who was frantically endeavoring to buy tickets, see to the weighing of her baggage and keep an eye on the three jeunes files at same moment — ■ having heard no doubt that these Italian men who stand so thoughtfully twirling mustaches are really dangerous creatures ! The Stazione, by the way, is a handsomely pompous build- ing on Via Garibaldi, one of the broad new streets elegantly laid out in oldest part of the town — each Italian city now has its Via Garibaldi you know. F. showed us around before his train left. One of course buys whichever class ticket he wishes (I, myself, intend always buying third here, since seeing the loud- voiced Germans, staid British spinsters and savage Americans who travel in first and second!) and has baggage weighed in Italy quite the same as in other European countries. But here however, they allow not one pound for free transportation on your ticket and consequently everyone was rushing madly aroxmd, trying to keep an eye on their half-dozen suit cases, crazy Ger- man carpet-bags and other countless pieces of hand luggage of all shapes and sizes under this golden sun which may be stored away in the compartment free of charge. Three Tedesci had, I am quite ready to swear, no less than twenty pieces of hand luggage between them — a great tea or lunch basket, of veri- table hamper-like proportions, brilliant carpet bags with flowers putting these of Naples to shame and various strapped bundles rolled in black oil cloth, looking very much like those shiny articles Italian emigrants arriving in America so often carry ! Where they were all to be stowed away, heaven knoweth! Altogether it seemed quite the proper thing to travel with from five to twenty articles of hand luggage, but with our al- lowance all spent on corals and bronzes, mamma and I have come to conclusion we ourselves shall have to remain in Naples for some time. Yet that, you may imagine, would be no great 66 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING hardship. Indeed we ask no more charming prospect than that of staying here till summer, basking in the true blue and genuine gold of the bold sun until it has scorched us as brown and as swarthy as these very Neapolitans. We drove to the post-office after Mass as I had notice in the morning's post I had a package there. Letters you know, are delivered on Sundays as faithfully as on week days here in this Old World Naples. But to-day being festa, we found the de- partment where packages are held was closed after twelve and though a debonair attendant of Mephistophelean countenance and angelic manners flew around wildly in my behalf, it turned out the one man who held both the authority and the key had gone to the country to spend his holiday. Che cattiva fortuna! You know no doubt that everything from bon-bons to auto- mobiles may be sent in the parcel-post through Europe in lieu of express as with us, and last summer F. actually met a young American fellow — one with more money than brains evidently — who at the last moment found himself in a great tangle. He himself ready to sail, but his car in which he had been touring, in another part of Europe; so he had it sent by mail, that it might arrive in time to go with him. You'll perhaps begin to think from my haste to gain entrance into the parcel-post department on a festa that my package must be nothing less than an auto also! so I'll confess right now it is only a box of bon-bons which Tenente B. wrote he had ordered his confectioner at Turin to send me with New Year's greetings. But Turino chocolates, carino mio, are a something which anyone knowing their great perfection, will not allow to long lie un- claimed. The chocolate here is wonderfully delicious — much better than ours or the French, and the little shops selling noth- ing but chocolate in some form or conception are, next to coral shops, most enticing places in the world. The Turino is spe- cially fine — so no wonder I hurried off to the post-office and in- tend sending Maria again early in the morning. The post-office here is the handsome palace Gravina, built in the fifteenth century and held to be the most splendid of all old palazzi in Naples — the only one, I believe it has been said, that has any real architectural beauty. I myself, however, admire them all, — am always wondering what mystery lies j ust beyond CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 67 their green shutters and what mysteriously romantic Italian women once hung over the little iron-work balconies. I'm afraid I've no interest whatever in true Ruskinque beauty, but F. votes Ruskin a great bore and declares no one but he or one of the stupid followers of his cult would have it in his heart to criticise even a palace in this happy smiling land. One may censure in England, F. says, and in Germany, — yes, even in lovable France. But in Italy — ah, that is quite another thing! So enthused all who come here with the charms of this paradisical sunshiny Napoli that they would have noth- ing changed. For who would find it possible in this adorable land to bemoan lack of sky-scrapers, or disdain old-fashioned 'buses which rush one along at the startling speed of mile an hour and wish in their place an elevated road dashing on a level with the mysteriously shuttered piano nobile of old palaszi, down the famous Via Toledo! Or who is there who ever comes into this dolce far niente Napoli, in such mad rushi as to rebel if the elec- tric trams will carry but a certain number and that here, unlike America, there is not ever room for one more ? For these trams of Naples, you must know, are decidedly unique, being divided into first, and second class compartments like the chemin de fer. For the soldo more which one pays in first class, one sits on a cushion and generally feels secure the person next him will not be saturated with garlic as must often happen in this garlic-loving country among the second class. And, en passant, does this not strike you as rather clever idea? I'm sure you would quickly agree did I tell you of how M. and I left Williamstown for Lenox one day last Spring on that Bennington-Barrington electric line. It was before parlor cars were on and just in front of us was a woman with large basket of odorous new onions of which she herself had had liberal dish at lunch judging from the onion odors which pervaded our end of the car — with the same recklessness garlic often pervades some of these tiny by-ways of Naples. But santo cielo! what difference between onions in a prosaic New England tram and garlic in one of these mysterious, picturesque Neapolitan side streets, where odors of garlic are always suffused somehow by subtle odor of incense from some nearby Church, odor of golden oranges piled high on gesticulating street vendor's cart and 68 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING odor of glad gardens which; spill their perfume of carnations' and violets over high garden walls. Our car was crowded at that time of day^ I remember, and when we saw our woman buying ticket through to Pittsfield, we at once decided to stop over a car in South Adams and left at first stop that onion-pervaded tram made, which proved to be at that butter-colored Polish Church — you know the one. To use our half hour we went inside — wonderfully struck, I remem- ber too, at finding such magnificent Polish building. But n'importe! Soon after we came out one of our friends from among the Williams' students came serenely motoring into view and offered to drive us to Lenox in his car — ■ highly amused at finding us sitting dejectedly on church steps into which all the Poles of South Adams were hastening for their Saturday con- fessions. He promised us nothing worse than a faint odor of gaso- line and of course we quickly accepted the invitation, quite happy over our rescue. Everything was lovely — until just before we reached Cheshire when that provoking auto absolutely refused to auto as an auto ought to. It turned out that our gallant rescuer was out alone with his new Thomas for first time ! Whereupon M. and I bravely attempted to make use of our precious knowledge of motors, but alas, the dainty little motor in M.'s runabout and the great humming motor in a sixty horse-power Thomas have few points in common and it ended in our walking over the country roads and ruining a pair of boots to catch an electric car, after P., our gallant, had coaxed some farmers with three horses to pull the machine into shelter. By the time we reached the Wend all House we were all quite famished. Dinner finished, we found with dismay that we had missed car after car and even by motoring couldn't reach I.'s in time for her dance ! All because of a woman with a basket of onions ! You remember you always wondered why we didn't come as we promised. Were we Neapolitans we might have boldly declared that the poor woman had managed somehow to cast evil eye on us, but as it was, our leaving the car seemed so awfully ridiculous we swore P. to secrecy and have never told soul of that day's ad- venture. I'm recounting the foolish affair to you, at risk of CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 69 your laughing at us^ simply that you may appreciate the great wisdom of modeling our trams in America on this same clever Neapolitan plan of first and second class compartments. Per- haps you'll be good enough after hearing of all our trouble, to suggest the idea to some of your friends who build street cars down in Pennsylvania. Compartment trams in which you are given receipt for your fare as you pay would be far more sensi- ble I'm sure than those pay-as-you-enter cars where if you haven't a nickle you have to change a quarter or a dime and while hunting frantically for that among powder puffs, hairpins and shopping lists, someone stands on your toes or pushes your hat quite over your eyes. Decidedly these two class trams would be quite clever for America — don't you agree } For had we traveled in one from Williamstown to Lenox that fateful day, our woman with the onions would probably have been in one and we in the other. Or perchance unkind fates threw us to- gether, we might very easily have moved to other class and so placed door between us. i That is, we might have moved into other compartment had there been vacant seats — most certainly wd would not have been allowed to stand ! For this, you must understand, caro mio, is but another queer feature of these Neapolitan trams — a fea- ture quite as sensible no doubt as the two compartment plan, but so very unlike our American trams with always room for one more, that it strikes one as quite absurd. Positively no one may stand inside the car, and only five persons, allowed on rear platform with conductor — no more or that tram will not move an inch ! We had a most amusing time a week or so ago. A friend here at the Hotel was ill and had asked if while down in the city, we would not go to the White Star office and book her passage. It was rather late when we reached the office and by time we had secured a cabin and gone through with all the red tape, we came out to find it quite dark — night falls quickly here once the bold sun has dived into depths of the indigo Tyrrhenian. For once no cabmen were hovering around, but Rione Amedeo tram of our part of Naples was standing near and in a moment we were aboard. No seats vacant in either first or second class compartments and platform well filled. But we, not in least 70 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING daunted by this^ bravely took stand in the aisle^ expecting every moment some dark gallants would of course give us their seats. But alas^ a man may not give up his seat to a woman here, when tram platform is already full, unless he be willing to leave the car and walk! How you American men would enjoy these Nea- politan trams ! I soon saw looks of astonishment on the faces of passengers and as polite whispers in regard to the eccentricities of forestieri became rife throughout the compartment, I remembered hearing F. once say no one was ever allowed to stand in the aisle of a Neapolitan tram. But mamma never dreamed but what we were doing the correct thing and looked rather disdainfully on the men who had now mysteriously lost all sense of gallantry. Bravely serene in the knowledge that all things are permitted the dare-devil Americans, I supposed it matter of small moment to play ignorant of mysterious Neapolitan tram-laws and pa- tiently waited arrival of the conductor who had run in a tobacco shop after cigarettes. But with his arrival trouble began. Seeing us and the uncon- cealed astonishment the two standing* women were causing to the whole first class compartment, he shook his head vigorously, ex- claiming tragically, " Niuna posta, Excellenz'l " No seats. Did he wish the fare? I drew out some soldi, — the whole com- partment waiting with bated breath as I calmly extracted cop- pers from the secret depths of my big purse. But these the now thoroughly excited conduttore eloquently refused to touch, pulling out a great alarm-clock-like watch and noting with soul- ful eyes the tragic truth that it was full time for departure from that noble Piazza della Borsa. Again he gesticulated with classic brown fingers, exclaiming " Niuna posta, Excellenz'!** with superlative talent and soulful eyes growing quite tragic. But how could we, forestiere from America, understand his volu- ble Neapolitan? The second class passengers had pushed open the dividing door by this time and loudly demanded cause of the delay. Ex- cited expostulations followed. Santo Dio! how could tram move with two signore standing in the very aisle? More expostula- tions. And a Frenchman passenger was dramatically consulted and advanced to beg in suave tones if mesdames would not have CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 71 the exceeding great kindness to take some other tram since there were no seats in this ? I rewarded him with a plaintive ges- ture and inquiring expression. Ah, mon Dieu! but we were cer- tainly most obtuse people, he whispered tragically. A big, bearded, blonde German next tried his luck. But that was in truth really useless and sweetly I murmured " Engleesh/' feeling quite certain there were no British or Americans within ten rods. Of course mammina had soon seen with dismay we were for some mysterious reason not desirable passengers, and was for making a hasty exit, but you know how spoiled I am — I want what I want when I want it, as our own xA.merican tram advertise- ments run ! But for once I over-estimated rights and favors conceded Americans ! The motorman clanged his bell, waiting impatiently for the " go-ahead " toot of the conductor's horn. A crowd gathered around tram outside. First class passengers showed their polite amusement, at the same time endeavoring to think of some way in which to explain the awful situation to the forestiere. The second class conversed loudly, gesticulating wildly. The soulful-eyed little conductor beat his breast, call- ing on Buon Dio and all Saints in cielo to assist him in persuading the two foreigners off his car. He probably made sign of the horns behind his back also, lest we have an eWl eye and cause even greater calamity. But Heaven forbid we ever cause greater calamity here in Naples than that night ! Yet in spite of tragic-charged atmosphere we each wore look as innocent as Raphael's divine cherubs in the Dresden Gallery and mamma calmly looking at her little bracelet watch, inquired of me rrhy the car did not start ! Ah, fatal question ! Spell was broken. The saints rushed at that moment to rescue of the poor conductor. Who but police- man appeared with a dapper Archangel-faced little fellow by his side — a hastily summoned interpreter if you please ! For looking us straight in the eye. yet not forgetting even in this most appalling crisis his Neapolitan gallantry which demanded that he first beg million pardons for his intrusion, he said with great effort and all in one breath, " You-must-to-get-off ! Surely no American could have made situation plainer ! Still had mammina not been there I would, I'm sure, refused again to understand and been tempted to hold that tram there in 72 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING that noble old Piazza della Borsa until all the tongues of this cosmopolitan Napoli were exhausted. That we, two petites femmes, standing in center of a broad tram aisle could cause such disturbance was too amusing. But as it was we of course made our exit gracefully, regretted exceedingly of having made the trouble, et cetera! — all which was translated at great length by the Archangel-faced young man who had summoned up courage and sufficient English to make us comprehend the dire situation and who, on account of his wonderful linguistic accomplishments, now become lion of the affair. The policeman (alas, that he was not one of the elegantly uniformed Royal Carabineers!) gallantly escorted us through the excited crowd, apologizing profusely in eloquent Neapolitan interpersed with French, for having given the noble ladies so much inconvenience and was albout to assist us aboard another Rione Amedeo tram — one of the dozen or more cars waiting to move. But the noble ladies firmly declined to invade any more trams that evening and took rather one of the many cabs which had driven to the scene to see what the great disturbance might be and why people were excitedly talking about the signore americane. We had, it seemed, for almost ten minutes, held up ten or more trams, and the eccentricities of mad Ameri- cans who persist in traveling dare-devil fashion over the world, mithout even French at command, was doubtless subject of de- tailed talk that night in at least ten palazzi! It was really all most amusing, but we are quite satisfied that these Neapolitan cabmen who have such world-famous reputa- tion as rascals are far more manageable than soulful-eyed tram conductors. The alarming dash and recklessness of these cab- men who round corners, heaven alone knoweth how! who crack their whips madly yet seldom touch the cavallo (though of course you know a horse is not a Christian and one may beat him with- out mercy if he please) — in a word these debonair, rascally, yet irresistible jehus, are in our estimation a thousand times preferable to the immovable tram conductors with their leather bags slung over their shoulder in which to carry the tons of soldi they gather from passengers who are never, never allowed the great joy of standing in a tram aisle! Verily the ways of this mysterious Naples are unfathomable! CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 73 Later. Mamma had gone off to hear that most adorable '^ Madame Butterfly '* at San Carlos with some English friends now here in Naples, and I had planned to send you, for once, letter without interruptions; but just as I finished telling you of tram conductors and debonair cockers, Piet^ro, our jehu who is ever waiting our pleasure in the cab-stand just below, caught sight of me on the balcony and sent up to know if the Excellenza wouldn't go for a drive. You know I told you these dark-eyed, swarthy cabnxen are quite irresistible, so what to do but leave your letter, dispatch a hasty note to madame, and go.f* Pietro is prince of all Neapolitan jehus, as debonair and irre- sistible one moment as Naples itself, and as beautifully pensive and sad as Antinous the next. So mysteriously complex a Neapolitan ! Madame — cette charmante madame, as F. always refers to her — loves this bold, dashing sunshine almost as well as I and we made splendid trottata back and forth the long Corso Vit- torio Emanuel. Called the " corso, " heaven knows why, for the corso is never made there, — splendid drive though it is, looking down on the great murmuring city of sun-scorched, white piazzej churches, full of incense and prayers, towering with their blessed Crosses straight into the blue heavens; stately weather-beaten palazzi with gardens of sweet odors and softly splashing fountains; and narrow streets with tiny shops and sweet shrines to Our Lady of Many Sorrows who meek and patient awaits here in these humble by-ways prayers of the poor — sweeter by far no doubt, than costliest gems and robes bestowed by nobili. And bipyond the great murmuring city with its mysteries and legends lying at one's feet, there is ever the great broad bay, glinting this afternoon with a million phosphorescent flashes of golden sunlight which danced over the deep indigo blue — blue as deep as the dark mysteries hidden in its depths. Far down the coast fairy-like little vil- lages seem to beckon to those on the Corso and promise days of enchantment — can one but tear themselves away from this dominating spell of Napoli. In the mystic distance there are ever the solemn, rolling Apennines and nearer at hand, brood- ing over tiny coast village and this great Naples with equal 74 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING disdain for each, Vesuve lifts its snow-crowned head boldly into blue of the sky and looks down upon us — mysteriously inso- lently, to-day it seemled. Though perhaps after all, that was but my imagination which F. declares has developed to such alarming degree in this Old World Naples that I see mys- tery lurking round every corner, scent subtle secrets just be- yond the entrance of most prosaic of palazzi! But what will you here in Napoli? The pure gold, the deep unfath- omable blue, simply intoxicate one — make one quite irrespon- sible ! One of the old palazzi of the Corso, with walls at least seven feet in thickness and subtle air of romance shadowing the whole, proved as great a fiasco this very afternoon as did an opera written by a mad Englishman and given at Mercadante a few nights ago. I happened to mention it to madame as we drove by and she at once cruelly scattered all mystery and romance to winds by calmly saying it was occupied by sisters who keep there a sort of modest pensione for Catholic governesses ! She herself once lived there and often went in now for tea on Sun- day afternoons. Would I care to go in perhaps as we came back and see the presepio the sisters had arranged in their chapel? I was sorely disappointed in having all my romance dashed to pieces so ruthlessly, yet who knew what secrets of the splendid past might not still lurk within the massive walls? Soi I agreed to stop. And straightway forgot all about romance and mystery once I had met the sweet sisters. One thought rather of how they, to become the Brides of Christ, had buried all secrets of the past and lived shrouded not in any romantic mystery, but in divine. They were quite happy to show their little Chapel with its sweet presepio to the American. Each Church or Chapel, as well as many of the homes, has its presepio during this Christ- mas season you know, — each telling the story of the Holy Nativity and Incarnation. I think F. said the " Little Church Around the Corner " in your own New York has this sweet custom with its scene of the Nativity each Christmas, just as of course most of the Roman churches in America have. Per- haps you may even have one in your own parish. Though I'm afraid the youthful americani, whom the holy scene in the CITY OF SWEET-DO-XOTHIXG 75 stable is especially intended to impress^ seldom know the re- ligious spirit of the season as these little black-eved Neapoli- tans. Pouring rain though it was on Xoel, when Maria and I went to early Mass, there were already dozens and dozens of shining-eyed little Neapolitans reciting their hymns and pray- ers and surrounding the Gesu in the manger in infant adora- tion. It was glimpse of Neapolitan life one could never for- get — one which I suggested Mr. T. try to catch for his Salon picture. And it is not only the little children here who love the Christ- mas presepii. But all Naples; for the grown men and women of the poor here are but big children, you know, and worship as devoutly before a twentieth century presepio as did the humble peasants before those first representations of the Nativity St. Francis erected in early part of thirteenth century. One Christmas season it was in a grotto while journeying from Rome to Rieti that the blessed Saint erected an altar and at its base a little manger with figure of the Bambino, carved by devout fingers from olive wood, nestling in the hay. And to this humble representation all the peasants came to worship, and shepherds also, bagpipes in hand, just as shepherds came to Bethlehem and just as Ahruzzesi shepherds come into Napoli each year when festival of Xatale is approaching, to play the beautiful " Pastorale " and other antique tunes before shrines to Madonna, — music so weird and mysterious. But oh, so beautiful, as one wakes and hears it stealing out in the still early morning air while all the world lies asleep — all. except these humble dark shepherds who devoutly move from shrine to shrine and the Brides of Christ and the holy fathers who rise to sing their office of Matins and Lauds. And then at another Christmas season, in the village of Greccio in the valley of Rieti. St. Francis again revived the night of Bethlehem, preparing in the humble little church, humble as the stable in which Gesii was born into the world, a presepio most marvelous. In the manger lay a real bambino borrowed from the peasants, smiling up into the faces of the worshipers. By his side, an ass and an ox gazing with large solemn eyes down upon the tiny child who had been chosen for this great honor of representing the Infant Gesulino to 76 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING the people. And here to this presepio which the Poverello had prepared, came hundreds and hundreds of peasants and coun- try folks and Friars, — those men of earth-brown robes and naked feet — and townspeople too, even of the greatest, most noble families. In truth as the chroniclers of the Divine Min- strels say, devout people from all parts of Umbria, traveling like the Magi and shepherds of old to the manger where Christ was born. Snow and ice covered the Umbrian mountains, cutting winds howled — wolves too, so that it was necessary for the men to carry great fire brands to put them to flight. But still they marched on towards the presepio, chanting their hymns of praises, indifferent to cold and suffering, Sjfor at Greccio they were to worship El Gran Gesulino even as did the shepherds at Bethlehem. And so, thanks to holy St. Francis, the presepii are found to-day in each Church throughout length of Italy — in the Church of Ara Coeli, Rome, where lies that most blessed image of Bambino, carved it is whispered by an angel; and in the humblest little church of Naples where the poor come before a presepio fashioned of papier mache to kneel and worship as devoutly as did those peasants who gathered round the first presepio of the Poverello. But I wonder now that my Italian-mad pen has run on and on, if this disquisition on presepii will have any great interest for you. Though I'm sure it would could you only see themi in the churches here and understand what they mean to these humble people. One of the men who helps in the kitchens of the sisters' pensione was kneeling before the presepio in their little chapel while we were there this afternoon — so wrapt in his devotions that one almost marveled. When he rose to leave, he carefully extracted a lira from a shabby old purse — leaving it for candles to burn before the tiny manger. One of the sisters who saw the gift was deeply touched — the fellow was so poor, had a large family and a lira represented an entire day's work. In the large salon of the old palace where we had our tea, everything was in gay holiday attire — quite like America. Even a splendidly decorated Christmias tree on which the New Year's gifts will be hung, for New Year's and Epiphany are CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 77 the season when gifts are made here in Italy you know. Natale is strictly a religious festa in which churches are center of all celebrations. But though there are few gifts, there are wonderful delicacies eaten on this day, each festa having its own peculiar dainties. The Christmas capon takes place of our turkey or goose in homes able to afford such a luxury, while eels form the great dinner delicacy of the poor. And of course all Napoli, rich and poor alike, eats the famous schiacciata, pastry confection baked throughout Italy for festa of Natale alone. The New Year's here is the season for family reunions, gift-making and all the gayety which comes with our Christ- mas in America. You know they have an old saying in Italy, " Christmas where you will. New Year with your family." I met several girls whom other governesses and duennas had brought in for tea as madame had me. There were several priests also. I had a little chat with one elderly padre who had many questions to ask about America, it being quite evi- dent a real, live americana did not cross his Old World path every day. Alas, I could not tell him that I had heard of the fame of a certain priest named Benedetti, a boyhood friend of his who now has a parish in Nuova York, — the only Benedetti of whom I had ever heard being Jacopone who gave us the " Stahat Mater." And having explained at length that my days in New York were always numbered and my home not in that wonderful city of buildings that scrape the sky, but in the Southern States, he wanted to know whether I lived in Chili or Peru! Were the Spaniards there good Catholics? Did we not find it very warm? Still more lengthy explanations were necessary to make him understand I spoke only of southern part of the United States and perhaps his idea of where that mysterious land may lie which is neither Nuova York nor yet Chili or Peru, is even yet rather vague — not, you understand, carino, because of any fault of his, but simply because my French and Italian tongue is not yet coached in making very lucid geographical explanations. While we were talking I noticed part of the great salon being cleared and in a moment madarae came up to say they were going to have a little music and dance — would I like to try the Italian steps before I left? Do you think it very 78 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING wrong, caro, to dance on Sunday? I think it was my first Sun- day dance, but it seemed very innocent amusement with the sweet sisters smiling their approval that I'americana could do the Italian steps so cleverly, while at further end of the salon sat the priests sipping their chocolate and looking on, appar- ently glad that we jeunes filles were happy. I found mammina had her friends here for dinner and I had to dress in a short three minutes — something I never could manage very cle\^rly, you know, even with the best of maids, but which now with this most adorable Maria is no trick what- ever! She is more of an angel each day. We begin to fear lest, instead of losing her heart as we once thought, to one of these splendid carahinieri who pace up and down by the hotel, casting their eyes ever in her direction, that she may be secretly contemplating a cloister. I suspect her of being in the midst of novena for F. at this very present. She thinks him quite perfection — a signor, vero gentiluomo — yet at same time has some grave doubts as to state of his soul. She confided to me the other day of how Pasquale, her brother, once made novena for Mr. T., his padrone, and of how Mr. T., a protestante — but a protestante e vero! — had very soon afterwards given a priest of one of the Capri churches a beautiful piece of em- broidery from Constantinople for the baldachino of Our Lady. Maria's great solemn ecstatic eyes would make you quite wild — make your heart beat as madly perhaps as I am sure the heart under the scarlet-faced military cape of one of these debonair Royal Carabineers beats each time Maria crosses his path or looks down upon him pacing by, from our balcony eyrie where she often sits to sew in the sunshine. I wish M. might see the lace collar she has just finished — perfectly exquisite. I was quite happy when she hinted Bufana may leave it for me when she comes round to reward all good children on eve of Epiphany. This being the time gifts are given to the children here in Italy — symbolic, of course, of the gold, frankincense and myrrh brought to the Infant King by the wise Melchior, Gasper and Balthasar. Bufana, I might explain, is a sort of Saint Nicholas mas- querading in feminine attire, but unlike the stout, jolly, ruddy- faced little old man who comes to America, is tall^ witchy and CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 79 dark of countenance. In truth the only two points in which Bufana tallies with Saint Nicholas so far as I can learn are in the fact that she, too, comes down the chimney (how that is possible when there are practically no chimneys in all Naples, heaven knoweth). Once arrived she too leaves nice things in the stockings of all good boysand girls or in the little sabots of those too poor to own stockings. But what do you think there is left for the wicked.'' Nothing less than switches or bags of ashes ! So you can readily understand my angelic amiability now that it lacks less than a week of Bufana's arrival. I'm a*fraid this lengthy babble of Neapolitan trams and presepii, lace collars and Bufana, is rather disjointed. The December night is so ethereally lovely, I've been out on the bal- cony between almost every line. The nights here are simply dropped from heaven — what more can one say ? And with Naples lying at one's feet, ethereal, mysterious, starred and spangled by her thousand lights like some splendid queen adorned for court ball, there is beauty entirely beyond descrip- tion in our stiiF Anglican prose. It's a beauty which entirely fills the ardent silence of the night. You remember, perhaps, you and I both wondered a few months ago what queer phenomena that might be which a writer in his novel of Sicily spoke of as an " ardent silence." Here one under- stands it quite perfectly. There is never silence which is not ardent — a subtle something in this Italian atmosphere far too intangible to be defined. So buon* riposo, carissimol December 31st This must leave this afternoon else the New Year's greetings which it holds will be rather mal a propos! Mr. T. is expected from Capri this afternoon and F., too, hopes to be back without fail on the fast train de luxe from Berlin which makes flying trip 'tween Rome and here. For " New Year's with your family," as the saying runs, you know. We are of course to spend New Year's eve at the opera — how I wish you were with us ! Italian music is heavenly no matter where 'tis sung, but here in its native Old World atmosphere it seems to hold dashing sunshine, blue heavens, deep waters and all the mys- 80 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING teries of Naples within its bounds. Have you heard yet Puc- cini's masterpiece, " Madama Butterfly "? die hella, bella cosa! The harmony is as exquisite as these Italian flowers. May all the happiness of the New Year's be yours and may you " vedi Napoli" — but not " e poi muori! " is ever ardent wish of your devoted adorer — '" Our Italy's The darling of the earth, — " — Elizabeth Browning TO G. Napoli, January — i 6 rj^A BEL TEMPO ! " I heard Maria exclaim as I opened A my eyes this morning. And though I was but half awake I murmured " Grazie a JDio/' for as she threw open the long windows, sunlight poured into the room in a million rays and down at my feet, across the house tops and Church domes, lay a calm sapphire bay of rhythmically dancing waves, — a sun and sea saying Sirocco had been put to rout. Yet for final proof I jumped up to see Vesuve. For Vesuve you know is always truthful — strange characteristic to go hand in hand with all his satanic qualities ! and his tulle-like plume of lazy smoke gave certainty this morning of very different winds than these which for two days have been turning the sea upside down, blowing great billows into very center of the Villa and causing all sailors to put into port with haste lest such diabolic fate overtake them as once befell poor ^neas by these same evil winds. All the world, — the sun, the sea, the deep-throated bells of churches, seemed singing a great Gloria this morning and with banishment of evil winds. Spring had seemingly arrived. There was even a swallow flitting around my bedroom balconies, singing boisterously. Though Maria reminded me of the old Italian proverb, '' Una rondellina non fa primavera " — one swallow does not make a Spring — and insisted I wear my furs to Church. For like all good] Neapolitans Maria and I started the Sunday by going to Mass. She has been telling me each morning lately of a new priest who has lately come to the parish from Salerno. "Such a voice! Madonna Santa!'* she has declared 81 82 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING repeatedly. " Signorina mia, it is as if all the sunshine of Italy had been melted in his voice — Proprio! " And with such simile ringing in one's ears, one might very easily be disap- pointed. Yet not to be. Such marvelous spiritual beauty in his voice one might have knelt there on the cold hard pave- ment till A ve Maria rang at night. Molten sunshine ! — how wildly extravagant ! yet how wonderfully expressive. Later we walked as far as Piazza dei Martiri and the Villa. It was the beautiful golden sort of morning for basking in the sunshine — but then it seems always sunshiny and beautiful here in Naples. Thus readily does a morning of dancing, laughing sun make one forgive two days of evil Sirocco and Libeccio ! Coming back towards the hotel, just as we reached the old Chiesa, our priest of the golden voice came down the steps. We said '^ Buon giorno *' and some sudden impulse made me stop. Perhaps it was liis voice which held the molten sun when he stood before the Altar, but I think it was the some- thing in his dark, soul-lit eyes reminding me of dear Father G. Yet assuredly one may not accost a priest for the reason that his voice is divine, nor yet because his eyes remind one of another priest, and I drew out a five lire note — all I had with me alas ! — explaining in my best Italian tongue that it was for his charity. Maria had told me of what an angel he was to the poor and he looked quite pleased at the little gift — thanking me to my surprise in broken English. Per- haps he also is one of the many hundreds of Italians studying our tongue with hope some day of sailing across the sea. Yet I almost hope not. He belongs to this old-world Italy and would be quite out of place in America, though no doubt deeply consecrated Italian priests are sadly needed there for those poveri so often far from both home and family. He spoke French — in this we were each more at home — and confided what difficulty our English gave him — thought it worse than the German or Russian ! I told him of my great longing to speak well the sonorous Italian, but alas, was an American — a race not gifted in divers tongues. " Perhaj>s not in tongues, but in charity, and that is a hundred-fold bet- ter," he answered warmly. Yet told me too I was the first ' CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 83 American who had ever given him money for his poor — that he would not soon forget my kindness. Maria stood back shyly and quite astonished at my chatting with the new priest of the marvelous voice — a liberty no Italian jeune file in the world would have ventured to take. He spoke kindly to her^ and asked that she thank me better than he was able to do. Such gracious gratitude for such little gift ! It should have been five thousand lire at least to have merited the coin of thanks received. " The father does not speak English ? " Maria asked me as we walked home. " Quite half as well as I Italian_, Maria mia, — so that you see is little, little ! " I made answer. " Gesu huono, what a pity ! " I heard her murmur. "Why a pity?" I inquired, since Maria herself declares the English full of discords — a language antipatica. " I was thinking, little signorina, one would like to make their confessions to a father like that ! " she replied slowly. And I, thinking of the voice which held the sunshine and of the kindly dark eyes which held the light of a beautiful soul, envied for the moment my maid. Soon after I came in Mrs. F. sent a note saying she was leaving Naples to-morrow, but must have another look at some of those wonderful treasures in the Museum — would I not go with her? As I think I have told you she is quite the most fascinating Englishwoman I've ever met, and of course I went, even though joy of basking in the sunshine held rather more charm than thought of the vast Museum. Not that it is cold there, for the Museum is like the churches here — full of warmth in winter yet cavernously cool, 'tis said, in summer. Simply another contradiction seemingly of this mysteriously complex Old World Napoli! It was highly interesting to watch the crowd of Sunday visit- ors at the Museum — people of a lower class than those on week days, since on Sundays everything is quite free belonging to the Government. Yet in truth one should not call them the lower class, for they are most certainly not the lower when it comes to appreciation of art. These people can pick out pieces of greatest beauty and study them with infinitely more 84 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING bon gout than those tourists one meets hastening through the Museum as if doing a painful duty which they were in a mad rush to have finished. This morning there were many soldiers in picturesque uni- forms and debonair sun-browned sailors — both soldiers and sailors accompanied by women and girls with gay shawls and small black lace veils thrown carelessly aroiuid the neck. For as inexpensive as hats are here — at least they seem absurdly so to us Americans — these poorer classes are nearly always bareheaded, have only shawls or little lace mantles for their head which is seldom covered, however, except in Church. That they were without chaperone or duenna mattered nothing to the dashing cock-feathered Bersaglieri and their pretty sweethearts, with blue-black hair and soft dark eyes, and they strolled through the great halls of treasures, admiring this and that — and most of all one another ! — as supremely happy as though wealth of the whole Museum were their own. Many laboring men accompanied by their entire families were there too — the father and mother pointing out to the children the magnificence of that masterpiece of Greek sculpture, the Far- nese Bull, or perhaps lingering in Hall of the Great Bronzes where is the richest collection of bronzes to be found in the world. Then there was the usual sprinkling of German tour- ists who tour Europe on three francs a day (so at least the English love to say!) and besiege Galleries and Museums on all free days; and of course a few Britishers and Americans, short of time and rushing around with flaming Baedekers, — doing Naples in two days and giving an hour of their pre- cious time to the Museum, whereas one could go there every day for years and years and never cease to find treasures new and wonderful. Mr. T. says that last year he spent much of his time every morning for two months in the Museum copying some pictures, and that Sunday after Sunday, from ten o'clock until closing hour, the same families were often there — admiring, criticis- ing, never failing to pick out the masterpieces. Where an American would give special notice perhaps to most modern work the Gallery held, the Italians were adoring some chef- d'ceuvre of an old master artist and they, one must remember. CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 85 have no guide books to declare which is a masterpiece. Indeed Mr. T. sometimes says, in these Galleries of Italy and Europe he blushes with shame for his countrymen who, unless they refer constantly to a guide, are almost unable to distinguish work of the cinquecento from that done in 1907! Mrs. F. was flitting here and there to take a fond parting glance at this and that, while I wandered about, far more in- terested in the people themselves this morning than in Greek sculpture or wonderful frescoes, though there are some new mural decorations very lately discovered at Pompeii which at- tracted me immensely. But I soon noticed that I, myself, seemed to be of almost as much interest as anv of the treasures and supposed it only because I was American, jeune fille, and apparently duennaless, when of a sudden I remembered that I was actually carrying my parasol ! So stupid. All such articles must of course be left with the custodians at the en- trance and my coolness in sauntering among priceless treasures of one of world's most famous Museums with a bold Roman stripe parasol tucked serenely under my arm was creating con- sternation on every side. Consternation which swept through the great halls and out to the very entrance, since one of the custodians soon came hurrying up to relieve me — gallantly assuring me that it was all Ms fault in not having seen it as I passed through the wicket. Oh, these Italians ! they've charm irresistible. He spoke some French and we were chatting of that debonair Neapolitan god, Caruso, now \'isiting America and crowned with honors, but once a bare-footed, dare-devil ragazzo in the same village with the custodian himself, when Mrs. F. bore down upon me and insisted on carrying me off to see a prosaic tg^ frame, capable of cooking twenty eggs ! and a cheese grater — articles she had just discovered were in use two thousand years ago. I dare say they had ice tubs and oyster forks as well — those old Pompeiian exquisites ! and I would have much preferred gossip with my gallant cusliodian concerning that divine-voiced Caruso with whom he once played leap-frog and mora, rather than gaze upon kitchen utensils, even though they be twenty centuries old, lined with silver and inlaid with ara- besques. 86 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING We drove home by way of the Toledo, black with people and carriages as always at noontime and especially on a festa when all Napoli seems gathered on this one fascinating old street for promenade. Masses of all classes jumbled together — the whole street quivering with life. Throngs and throngs — heaven knoweth where they all come from ! Black and red uniformed carabineers; friars in coarse robes, rope girdles and naked feet covered only on sole with rude sandal; long files of little priests-of-the future in black cassocks ; a chance con- tadina with stays outside her blouse; an illustrissimo signor wearing the Honor Legion Ribbon; vendors of fruits who carry their whole establishment along with them in scales or basket ■ — as happy as though they owned some great exporting house down near the port; a professor of the University and a genius of the Naples Conservatory of Music; a dark, sinewy Arab- like fellow who knows without doubt no street of Cairo can begin to compare with this Toledo; Royal Navy sailors, rough- ened by gusty winds and toughened by strong burning suns; beggars — superlative actors each one and quite irresistible ; swarthy, shoulder-shrugging lower classes who are as attractive as the wilted tourists are prosaic; groups of debonair young nobili who twirl their canes and splendid officers who twirl their mustaches — both quite simpatici when you come to know them, not in the least soft, suave and smooth as tourists love to imagine! So packed with these and a million others is this mile-long, old Toledo that it seems as though those on foot could make no progress whatever, since even en voiture one can but creep along — the sidewalks have hours ago over- flowed into the street and it is as though one were driving through a veritable sea of humanity with hundreds of men star- ing at one boldly. Yet one need not be in the least annoyed because so many of the men stand and gaze at women here in the streets. Their look is not intended as the slightest rudeness, as so many fool- ish tourists, especially the self-conscious Anglo-Saxon tourists, are so inclined to believe, but is rather a sort of gallant admira- tion which Italian women understand perfectly. F. himself says if American girls who come here will only " make their eyes behave," they need never meet with the rude men of which CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 87 they now complain^ — complain^ yet at the same time_, I'll wager^ are often wildly attracted and find difficulty in not showing it. For these Neapolitans are attractive. While we were halted in a blockade Marquis T. came up, said he had been to the hotel and the portier sent him off to the English Church, where he rushed to meet only mamma and hear that I was at the Museum and after walking home with her, had been strolling up and down the Toledo and ringing up the hotel for an hour — all such strenuous efforts on a festa as he wanted to know if he might not come this afternoon with his sister-in-law and take me to the tea and dance the Tennis Club gives every Sunday at their Casino in the Villa. We were planning a sail with Mr. T. so I could not accept, and also reminded him that americani do not make practice of dancing on Sundays. At which he naively suggested that while in Rome one do as the Romans do ! I promised to go down to- morrow to play tennis — a game very popular with Neapoli- tans. What game would not be with courts laid out down by the dancing sapphire of the bay in the semi-paradise of the Villa? We spent an enchanting afternoon out on the water in Mr. T.'s little yacht, " The Princess." His sails are painted after Venetian fishing boats in rich gold and terra cotta with the crescent, the cross and the stars quite the same as those Tur- ner loves. I fancy though, Mr. T.'s embroidered cushions and splendid rugs picked up here and there in Africa, make fittings which would stagger one of those Venetian fishermen whose sails he has made bold to copy. Not to mention gouter he serves — tamarind jam to-day which would surely have ov^er- joyed that staid Epicurus whose followers long ago sailed over this same idyllic portion of Tyrrhenian sea. We had a Mr. A., an Oxford man, with us — quite charming for a Britisher but sorry substitute for F. who has taken him- self off to France for a fortnight and plunged into Paris gayety — with the same ardor very likely with which Pasquale plunged into the water to rescue mamma's scarf a playful Zephyr tossed off her head. For Zephyr was here to-day, accompanied no doubt by Venus and Cupid both — so serene and lightly danc- ing the blue waters. Strange contrast to waters of two days 88 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING ago, — a great seething inverso mare such as Horace told of, quite purple with old-forgotten mysteries the evil winds had stirred up from its depths. Mr. T. and Pasquale taught me tactics learned from these wise old Neapolitan sailormen. Pasquale himself is prince of sailors. You would find the fellow irresistible — devout as a Religious, dare-devil as a Neapolitan street gamin, doggedly devoted to Mr. T. whose praises and wondrous accomplishments he sings in most extravagant terms. For Pasquale, you must know, can improvise like a god, be it in adoration for Madonna or in love for Mr. T. ; hatred of the Tedesci (who as he says always forget the huona mano!) or in the gallant praise of that most beautiful signora americana — in other words mammina mia to whom Pasquale is as devoted as Maria herself. Mr. T. had dinner with us and then later we all went over to Villa Santa Maria where they are at home each Sunday evening and always have good music. We met Duca G. there who is to sail over to Capri with Mr. T. in the morning — the gods permitting. Mr. T. hopes to finish his picture of the Grotto this week. Lord A. consenting to have it exhibited in Les Petits Georges along with the other studies Mr. T. has lately done here in Italy. Mammina met Mrs. K. at the English Church this morning. They are on their way to Salerno to spend a few weeks before M.'s wedding — and anxious that we go with them to AmaM for a week. But how can we leave this adorable Napoli, hold- ing within her walls mysteries and charms more alluring by far than even that enchanted old place, " Where the waves and mountains meet, Where amid her mulberry trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer sea." The euphonious Italian tongue simpati^sima. Would the better sing of Napoli hellissima! '* — M. P. 4. 4. TO K. Napoli, January — MARIA and I have been out already this mornings even before convent bells had rung for Tierce — delving into mysterious by-ways and climbing long flights of stairs^ along- side a flock of nimble^ impudent goats. She. in quest of a cer- tain friend of Pasquale's_, bearing the Frenchy name of Ber- trando, for whom Pasquale had left an important message — but truly important! I^ in quest the eternal^ yet so elusive mystery lurking in these hidden by-ways along with the deep shadows — shadows like chiaroscuro of Correggio. Oh, the subtle mystery in these little streets ! Smiling mystery lurking behind each pair of brown eyes. Solemn mystery of dark, shadowy shops. Sweet mystery of humble shrines scattered here and there with tiny lamps burning their little wicks flick- eringly, yet faithfully, before Madonna ever waiting there to comfort and receive the prayers of these humble people — people who in spite toil and poverty have kept the Faith in their hearts and a smile in their eyes. While Maria delved into a garlicy little wine shop, I stood watching the woman who had come to refill the lamp at Madonna's shrine just across. She was about to mount her little ladder when I wondered if she would let me help, and without thought of the consternation which would ensue, pro- posed in precise Neapolitan tongue that I myself fill the tiny lamp. "Madonna Santa! La signorina jokes!" the woman exclaimed, almost dropping her oil in the awful surprise of being accosted with such request from a signorina — but a real signorina wearing a true hat! But no, la signorina is deeply, deeply in earnest and — 89 90 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING Yet ecco! Maria has missed me and hastens to the scene with such consternation in her eyes and such reproof in her sonor- ous exclamation of "Angela mia! '* that I do not urge the re- quest and meekly ask her to explain to the woman that I shall come again some morning and bring an armful of flowers to replace the poor faded ones of paper — roses which had turned as pale as Madonna's sweet face. The translation being made into voluble Neapolitan and followed by very dignified explan- ation that the eccellenza is not mad and that such requests are entirely natural from americani (Oh, thou Maria!) I am es- corted quickly toward the Chiaia — beyond reach of the spell of these mysterious by-ways where the subtle charm somehow tempts one to all manner of madness. And if some of the oil which should have gone into Our Lady's lamp, was spilled this morning, I alone, am to blame. Fortunately it is but once in a life-time a real signorina wearing a hat accosts one with such wild demand. " It is Sirocco, little signorina! '* Maria affirmed, graciously pardoning my madness as we turned our backs on the woman, who on having learned the signorina was American, was excit- edly relating the news with much profuse gesture and expressive eye-play to a swarthy vendor of greens. " Sirocco e vero! ** Ah, this ever-useful, long-suffering Sirocco which is to blame for all things ! Was it Sirocco too, I wonder, which put the impropriety into my mind of saying, '' Buon giorno! " to a modest Friar ]\Iinor who, discaled, and wearing the coarse brown robe of poverty, toiled up the stairway as Maria and I tripped down. And was not Sirocco perhaps accountable for putting it into my heart to send Maria after him with an alms? — small, but exchanged for so large a blessing that I came home the richer a thousand fold. But alas — poor, long-suf- fering Sirocco is never held accountable, but for blame or sheer madness ! And perchance some philosopher dares mention the fact that during the long summer heat 'tis Sirocco itself which carries humidity to the parched olives and vineyards and causes the roses to run riot over the Amalfi cliffs and the little Hand of Madonna to bloom bravely by the wayside under the bold withering summer sun, — it is all small comfort when here in January one stands in n« need of humidity and mysterious CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 91 Sirocco too often rushes over from Africa to put a damper on gay plans. But even grandiose Sirocco can never put damper on the subtle charm of these Neapolitan by-ways and stair-streets, nor on the never failing simpatia of the smiling brown-eyed people who are tucked away therein — any more than can it put damper on a the-dansant held within some old palazzo through whose massive walls Sirocco may never penetrate. We were at Duchessa C.'s the-dansant yesterday and this morning our names flourish in prominence under heading of Cronaca Rosa — rose-colored chronicles ! as the society columns of the Italian journals are picturesquely dubbed. These the- dansants here, by the way, are rather different from the teas we generally give at home. One goes about five o'clock, has much conversation or dancing — as they will — refreshes themselves aesthetically with a little tea or chocolate, or perhaps a glass of wine at the buffet, and one or two dolci — the small fancy cakes for which these Italian artists des cuisines are so famous, you know. Then every one dances and leaves about eight or so — in time for dinner. Very simple little affairs, you see, but there is a certain Old-World charm to them that we in America can seldom manage. We would be sure to think tea and wine with only small cakes far too meager to offer at an affair which had a dance attached and add ices and salads and heaven knoweth what not ! ' In place of one good musician at a grand piano, we would of course order an orchestra and so on until all simplicity was lost. We were guests of honor and had a very lovely time, meeting no end of these people who are really wonderfully attractive — altogether simpatici. And since Duchessa C. is giving a series of these teas we shall probably see more than we intended of Neapolitan nohili this winter, even though we are traveling incognite as J. would say, and came only to study and lead la vie simple. Unlike America there are as many men if not more at the teas here than women, which is quite lovely to be sure for jeunes files — no girl, however plain, need fear she will not have a good time. They of course have the waltz and then there is the Boston — a dance similar to our two-step yet dif- 92 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING ferent enough to be quite new to me. 'Tis extremely popular, and considered the dance of America ! having been introduced by one of our Ambassadors at a ball he gave in Rome several seasons ago (so at least I was informed by a dashing young cavalry officer who is stationed there and was able to Boston a hundred per cent, better I fancy than any bona fide Bostonian — to say nothing of the grace with which he managed at the same time a long clanging scabbard!). Altogether it seems the Boston is considered quite the thing throughout Italy — for an American to admit he had never danced it before would be to admit himself quite bour- geois. Grazie a Dio I myself caught the trick of the step at once ! There is surely no doubt about it — Italians do love the Americans and all that comes from America. Most certainly this includes our language and few of the nobili think their education complete without having studied more or less English. They are so gifted too, that even though English is so very different from their own soft, euphonious Italian, one is always able to find some one who speaks the tongue. This at times very fortunate — especially for those not even speaking French. But at other times when one does speak a little French and Italian and would prefer using it for the practice it gives, it is amusingly discouraging to have some one say, " Speke Engleesh at me. I understands well ever think you says. Me — I speke Engleesh veery good. I has frin' in New York — New York eese beeg ceety. I likes beauteeful American peoples " et cetera ! Really this is a very fair example of the conversation one sometimes finds themselves engaged in with a Neapolitan. Yet our Italian is probably not half as clever and on the whole Italians pick up our language wonderfully quick. It is not at all surprising to hear a jehu or street gamin sonorously rolling forth our slang. To be informed sweetly to " Skidoo " by a small vendor from whom you have lately bought a dozen postcards is an every-day affair. And if you pin the gamin down to what " Skidoo " may mean, he will assure you wisely that it means " Come again." To be told you are a banana is at first rather mystifying 'tis true; but ecco! if the signorine americane are "peaches," per Bacco! surely they are CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 93 "bananas" also! Such mysterious reasoning on the part of Neapolitan birrichini being conduced from the fact that bananas are held in much higher esteem than peaches — peaches growing so plentifully that one may buy several kilos for a few soldi in summer^ while bananas are always more or less of a luxury — a lira apiece just now^ and delicacy but for American mil- lionaires. Of course French is the international tongue and spoken when foreigners are present, but when among themselves the Neapolitan dialect is always used — not the Italian you know as there is really no such thing. The language we call Italian is only the Tuscan dialect — greatest and most classical of all the nearly seven hundred Italian dialects, as it was in this the divine Dante wrote his mystic verse and Petrarch too. The educated classes are of course all able to speak this so-called Italian of Tuscany — though they seldom do unless it is neces- sary — and 'tis this Tuscan which foreigners study, and then later pick up the dialects. Were it not for Maria's delightful Tuscan, I myself would doubtless be in the topsy-turvy act of learning my Neapolitan first — a calamity true, as 'tis said that Neapolitan of the uneducated class would not understand dialect used less than fifty miles away! French being in such constant demand here, I have made rapid progress with that tongue — am able, grazie a Dio, to carry on a lengthy conversation without being seriously at loss for a word. In fact I speak the language much better than I read it — another topsy-turvy act, but it was really necessary that I learn to carry on conversation since several of my new friends speak not a word of English other than ** how-do-you-do ? " in a perfectly expressionless monotone, hence one is simply obliged to use French or Italian. A resort to gesture and eye- play being poor satisfaction at times, and even a widely com- prehensive Neapolitan shrug sometimes fails. But my Italian is still, I fear, of decided primer style though I love it much better than French. This sweet, sonorous Tuscan is the most melodious language on earth I'm quite satisfied. Yet I often make most absurd statements, though Maria is ever clever and quick to understand — doubtless without lessons will be speak- ing fluently in English before I with three lessons a week, a 94 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING Tuscan maid and a score of Italian speaking friends, am able to manage her Tuscan with any great skill. I have offered the apologetic explanation, — heaven knoweth how many times ! since coming here among those polyglot Ital- ians, — that " In America, our country is so large — but really immense ! — we all speak the single language and there is little need of our knowing several!" If I attempt using this again I am sure I shall smile — at least F. said he should and indeed a smile would be quite out of place in the serious matter of explaining to an Italian, why Americans, who as a people are so fond of rushing over Europe, should be satisfied with speak- ing but one or two languages. A smile at such subtle point would be as unfathomable to a Neapolitan I fancy, as that mysterious smile of Mona Lisa. ' And by the way that smile of Mona Lisa is in a thousand ways the very same smile of this Napoli. Unf athomably mysterious ! The thought just came as I sit here looking down upon the smiling city. Maria doubtless believed even Sirocco should not be held to account for such madness when I commanded my little copy of Mona Lisa brought out to me here on the balcony and began comparing the two smiles. Did she not catch the similarity I demanded, vaguely moving my hand out over the mysteriously smiling city. And Maria, stupid for the first time in her life — or was it in mere Italian eagerness to make gracious answer? murmured, ^^ Madonna mia! — there is no similarity between the signorina and that simpering Mona Lisa — the signorina is a mille times more beautiful. But vero, vero! " I see Pietro coming to inquire when the most excellent ladies will be ready for the carrozella this morning — Pietro, you must know, is prince of jehus. What wonderful explorations have we not made with this sun-browned, smiling cabman-courier — in the city and out into the country with lunch at some tiny trattoria where Pietro always terrifies our host by commanding in stentorian tones of warning, accompanied by mysterious movement of fingers under our host's very nose, '^ Senz* aglio! " — without garlic ! And then when a little later the salada comes to table redo- lent of garlic — what will you ? Pietro has given warning in his CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 95 most tragic tones. Our host has commanded signora in the kitchen in still more tragic voice. Signora is beside herself with fear that it may not be just right — she having used but about half the usual amount — and peeps through doorway with tragic face. Our host coughs discreetly and wears expression equally tragic as he glances from salada to eccellenze. Eccola! we eat, remembering bravely that it was that brilliant and charming Isabella d'Este who adored the garlic deity. And such the charm of this Old World Italy that salad well dashed with garlic becomes food for gods — or is it perhaps the charm of the bottle of vino del paese which accompanies the feast .f* Wine of the smiling country with golden Italian sun- shine and Neapolitan laughter of the sun-browned contadini who trod the grapes in the wine-press, all bottled within ! That the wine has been resurrected from some dark corner of the cellar in special honor of the noble ladies is doubtless also due to stentorian command from Piietro. Heaven knoweth what princesses of royal blood, incognite, he declares us to be ! For Pietro is devotion itself — devotion which can be ac- counted for only byj a certain shining amulet with which we once presented him for his cavallo. A ten lire gift which gave as great joy seemingly as Caesar's famous tip of $80,000.00 to that astonished charioteer Eutychus. In prowling one day through some of the tiny side-streets, we came across a mysteri- ous little shop selling horse trappings and wonderful amulets to ward off Evil Eye. So we bought this one — a large cres- cent with bold horns which screw into the headpiece of the harness and tower up bravely, insuring both Pietro and his serious-eyed little cavallo from all danger of Evil Eye as long as they and Evil Eye shall inhabit Napoli. For a horn in some form is the best of all preventives against this malady, you know, and one sees them in some shape or size on every side. Why horns? Chi sa? Unless perhaps it comes somehow from the old belief that Moses came down from Mount Sinai with actual horns upon his head — a belief which is said to be due, you know, to St. Jerome's translation of the Hebrew word qaran, a word which originally meaning horned had come to mean radiant and shining, yet St. Jerome turned it into the Latin cornuta and made that portion of Exodus to read Moses was 96 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING horned and children of Israel feared to approach him. This the thought which some of the old masters carried out in their painting of Moses, and even Michael Angelo, you know, followed the belief in his famous Moses in San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome. A bishop's mitre typifies this old thought too, since it has the two little points or horns, and the same thought kept alive when in the consecration of a Roman bishop as the mitre is placed on the head, the consecrator prays that " with his head armed with the horns of either Testament, he may appear terrible to the gainsayers of the Truth." Doubtless this belief in the horns as amulet par excellence against Evil Eye comes somehow from this old thought that Moses came down from the Mount with his face horned, though true it is that where the belief in the efficiency of horns first started, is of little importance compared with the great fact that they are the most efficacious of all amulets against mysterious Evil Eye. At least Pietro will solemnly tell you, with brave brandishment of his long whip, that those bold horns which adorn his cavallo have been means of averting — Mamma mia! how many dire disasters .f* Horse trappings, by the way, are decidedly novel here. Each horse, of course, must wear as many amulets against jettatori as his owner can aiford, since horses, you know, are especially sub- ject to baneful influence of Evil Eye. Then, too, they use no bit here. Instead there is a metal piece over the nose con- nected with straps running under the jaw to which reins are at- tached, so that a pull from cocher causes nose and jaw to be held in far more powerful grip than by ordinary bit. Trap- pings, as in the days of Pompeii, for nothing changes in Italy you know. Indeed often have we seen peasants with the same wooden plows Master Virgil tells one of in puzzling passage of his Georgics. Maria just here came into the room bearing a large branch of juniper which Pietro brought for us. We were asking him yes- terday morning where we might find some of the trees, for it was the juniper that was blessed by Our Lady after its branches bent down and hid her during the flight into Egypt. 'Tis much venerated here in Italy and hung up at Natale just as we hang the holly at home, while few of the cabmen of Napoli forget to CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 97 tuck a sprig in their horses' harness — even though, as they are careful to explain, the cavalli are not huoni Cristiani! One has only to inquire of Pietro about something and then lo! in a few hours here it is. The other day we chanced to ask what in the world it might be that an old vendor was selling to some highly amused tourists in the Villa as we drove past. Ecco! if the excellenz* would have patience, they should be satisfied. And true to word, Pietro appeared next morning and presented to the most excellent signora, with many elegant flourishes, a tiny amulet representing a sea-horse — impossible little animal with head like a goat, gravely assuring us that its power over the Evil Eye is almost equal to that of the horns ! Pietro is simply brimming over with these old Southern Ital- ian superstitions — superstitions so shadowy that all the wealth of Neapolitan sunshine can never wipe them out. INIaria says he hopes he has not kept the noble ladies waiting this morning, but alas ! when he started the very first person he met was a priest which would have brought him diabolic luck had he pro- ceeded, so what to do but return and wait a while before making a new start? Why a priest of all persons, is thought to be an evil omen in such a case, heaven alone knoweth satisfactory answer — or is there no answer to these shadowy mysteries of this sunshiny mysterious land.^ Coming out the second time, Pietro confided to Maria that the saints put a dear little gohbo in his path — an hunchback, which is considered heighth of good fortune. Ecco! the eoccellenze need have no fear of an accident — the saints are with us for the day ! " Dio mio! But how it is these Neapolitans are full of super- stitions ! " Maria has just exclaimed with deprecatory shrug of her graceful shoulders. Yet all the same on the strength of that dear little gohbo she is advising us to make a nice little promenade out to Pompeii — even though Vesuve and Sirocco both declare we shall be drenched to skin do we follow her ad- vice. Ah, thou Maria ! Delightful city of Parthenope, Still the soft airs that fan thee seem enchanted; By song and beauty-crescent shores still haunted Along thy bright bay, once the siren's sea." — ^William Hamilton Gibson * * TO M. ' Naples, January — WE are just returned to-day from another short stay at Capri in Mr. T.'s charming villa. The English family who have it for the winter are gone to Rome for a week, so we had it quite to ourselves and spent two delightful days ex- ploring the island and learning more of the charming art of housekeeping in this sweet land, where even prosaic duties are made picturesque, than could we learn in a lifetime by living in great cosmopolitan menage such as this noble hotel. The Villa is truly captivating ! Blue tiled roof — pink plaster walls — balconies for two — roses running rampant — pergole and gardens — views everywhere ! We were not expected, having decided to come over with Mr. T. barely ten minutes before the little steamer left, and the cupboard in the blue and white tiled villa kitchen was quite bare the evening we arrived. For here in Italy, you must know, they have a quaint custom of buying just what is needed for each meal. And surely there is infinite more picturesque in sending a maid to market to bargain and select each article fresh for each meal than in the system we follow in America. I, although it is not at all the thing among the nobili and Maria was decidedly shocked at my middle class manners, went to market with the little maid Francesca and took rapturous pleasure in the novelty of buying a few pennies worth of this and that — each tiny purchase being stored away in the great basket on her head. In the little dairy where we bought cheese to accompany the 98 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 99 fruity I suggested we buy some of the cunning little pates of unsalted butter — two soldi a pate. Francesca raised her fine eyebrows. " Would the signorina americana eat the butter with her dinner ? " To serve butter at the evening meal is thing un- heard of here — indeed 'tis seldom butter is ever served except with the early coffee and rolls in the Neapolitan houses and even then honey is preferred. So you will not wonder I hastened to reply " Oh^ for dinner ! — but most certainly not ! " with fine shade of scorn in my tone, lest she think me quite plebeian — " for the breakfast to-morrow, Francesca ! " ** But, signorina, if we take the butter to-night, it is not fresh for the breakfast," she carefully explained. *' The butter I will buy when I come for the coffee and sugar and honey in the morning! " — giving basilisk glance at the shopkeeper who dared to smile. Was the coffee bought by the very ounce or pennyweight I wondered the next morning as we had it out in the sunshine of the garden under the orange and lemon trees. And if one dared ask for second pot and for another roll, would Fran- cesca have to rush down to the village on another marketing expedition before such request could be fulfilled ? — or for lump of sugar perhaps } But before I had found courage to run risk of upsetting the entire household in any such ruthless man- ner, Pasquale came to announce the yacht and men waiting below. We spent the day in making a gir6 of the entire island. The day was perfect — no sirocco. And although up in the villa, scaldini were needed and Mr. T. swore by all the saints he would have steam heat before another winter, the temperature is really extraordinarily mild for an island exposed on all sides to the sea and by many Capri is considered an ideal winter residence. Of course we had to see the Blue Grotto again. Che hellez^ za! It was really more sapphire — more wonderfully beautiful this time than a month ago, were that possible. As Alexander Dumas said when in 18S5 he made the Mediterranean trip in his own yacht with crew of nine men, the Blue Grotto was " as if God had pleased Himself by making a tent of a bit of the sky." And of course Dumas referred to the azure Neapolitan sky for surely that the only sky of world which could in 100 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING any measure be comipared to the deep azzurra of this marvelous grotto. One seldom hears of any grotto at Capri except the famous Azzurra, but in our giro, we saw also the Grotta Verde in which the water is exquisite emerald. Here^ however, one has not the great fun of entering the grotto on crest of a wave through a tiny archway so low that one must duck their head, as is necessary in entering the Blue. Then there is also Grotta Rosa and Grotta Bianca — each wonderfully beautiful and within the White Grotto the Grotto Marvelous was discovered only few years ago. There are several other grottoes also — of queer formation but less beauty. We stopped here and there, putting off from the yacht each time into one of the little skiffs which we towed. At the Rose Grotto, the rose colored prospects so enchanted Maria that in leaving the yacht, she missed the boat as it rose on a wave and stepped off into the water, frightening herself terribly. She should know maid as simpatica as she, need have no fears of drowning as long as there is a man around. There were six that morning, counting the ragazzo tuffatore, and she was rescued almost before her feet were wet. These dare-devil ragazzi tuffatori, by the way, are the boys who dive in the Blue Grotto and for the nonce, turn themselves into silver in the magic depths of the water. To be a diver into the sap- phire pools of the Azzurra is ambition of each piccolo of Capri. We stopped at Punta Tragara, a small landing place and had lunch at the picturesque little cafe just above, with lovely view out over the scintillating water. Some girls en costume danced the Tarantella while we had coffee out on the terrace — dancing remarkably well. The dance has no end of grace in it, as danced by these people around Naples • — entirely changed from the mad tarantella danced in the fourteenth cen- tury when it was believed the music was best means of giving relief to those bitten by the tarantula, that huge spider named from the Italian town of Taranto. Near Punta Tragara are the Faraglioni — the three rocky cliffs which rise mysteriously out of the water, the central cliff having a wonderful archway through which small boats can pass. We in the yacht, however, were obliged to go around — r CITY OF SWEET-DO-XOTHING 101 to my disappointment^ for to pass through the archway of the Faraglioni is quite as much part of seeing Capri as \isit to Blue Grotto. We made ascent of Solaro (1918 feet) the second day — driving to Anacapri and taking asini — (donkeys) from there. A beautiful excursion with the most heavenly view of the purple Apennines stretching in a great crescent, and nearer at hand_, just across the water. Naples climbing bravely up from the sapphire water, and Vesuvius bathed in amethystine hues. But around the crater hung those clouds which Xeapolitans know are premonitions of Sirocco — Vesuvius serves as a gigantic bar- ometer for the whole surrounding country. And true. Sirocco was blowing horridly the very next morn- ing. One gave out two breaths of vigorous life for each whiff of pure air inhaled. But we crossed early on the mail steamer to Tasso's Sorrento and spent the day there — wandering around the quaint little town (in which the little Torquato grew up a precocious child, speaking at the age of six months !) and visiting the Scula d'Arte which has been established by the Government in picturesque old convent. Here the tarsia (in- laid wood) is fashioned in all sorts of attractive articles, and the boys and girls at work in the school all seemed quite happy that we had come to ^isit them — foreigners do not come very often they told us shyly. " The forestieri had rather hunt the old palazzo where Tasso's sister lived ! " one old woman com- plained as she skillfully worked on large salad fork of olive wood. In the afternoon we made a beautiful promenade — en ven- ture, though it is a lovely three-mile walk — to the little village of Massa Lubreiise, where the women are famed for their beauty. The road is continuation of the beautiful drive from Castellamare to Sorrento — rival of the Salerno- Amalfi drive which is considered by so many to be more beautiful than the famous drive along the Riviera di Ponente or the drive along the now much talked of Riviera di Levanti. This morning we started early and drove from Sorrento to Castellamare enchantingly lovely alongside of vineyards and olive groves. There is also a tram line — sad incongruity. The morning was ideal — Sirocco had quite abated. The 102 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING sparkling Golfo di Napoli as blue as water of Grotta Azzurra. The heavens I am sure^ even bluer. Castellamare is a great summer resort for the Neapolitans — the sea bathing is said to be splendid. On the hillsides are many lovely villas and there are beautiful walks also, as the town is not enclosed with the high walls such as shut out the views at Sorrento. Many Neapolitans have ville there, it being so accessible to Naples for men. We came from there by railway back to Naples, taking third class along with a young parroco of saintly countenance, a handsome peasant woman with gay handkerchief over her head and zoccoli (wooden shoes). Two men who looked quite like the banditti of a third-rate opera company completed the party. Of course seats in third class compartments are bare and hard and there is ever odor of garlic, but — che vuole } One is in Italy! The classic Tuscan is supposed to be like Greek or English to these peasants, but we dropped all finals after the manner of Neapolitans and used some Spanish to assist our vocabulary, — wise thought for as you may imagine our Italian is not very voluble as yet and does not embrace many of the six hun- dred odd dialects into which it is divided. I, fortunately, had a large box of dates we had bought ini Sorrento, and these Maria passed to the whole compartment with the signorina's compli- ments — Italian etiquette ! This served very cleverly to break the ice for the two signore wrapped in rugs and wearing hats — but real hats ! and accompanied by Tuscan maid, had at first quite embarrassed the whole compartment. All, except the parroco whose eye was taken by neither American women and Paris chapeaux, nor mamma's gold mesh bag on which the sup- posed bandits admiringly gazed. The parroco was devoutly wrapt in his breviary reading the Latin half aloud, for the Roman Church you know requires her priests read the Canonical Hours forming every word with their lips even if they do not read aloud. I would never for a moment have dared disturb him. But Maria offered the box of dates to him first of all, gracefully murmuring something about compliments of the ladies. There- upon he became suddenly aware of our presence and having thanked us graciously, took a date. This set example for CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 103 the others since it is considered among the peasants etiquette to refuse as well as to offer. And even with the example^ the woman in bright handkerchief needed some urging. The banditti however followed after the priest without hesitation and rose from their seats to make gallant bows first to mamma, then to me and were about to conclude with Maria when, — che diavolo! sudden lurch of the train threw them into their seats entirely spoiling the effect. It was extremely embarrassing. But to laugh impossible, and mamma tactfully smoothed the situation by gracefully inquiring if they were going to Naples. Whereupon they quite lost their cut-throat appearance and in place of the bandits we had strongly suspected them to be, they proved most gallant cavaliers — insisting when we reached Naples on taking our bags and seeing us into our cab! That moment in Naples was truly puzzling. Should one pay them for carrying the bags as one would a facchino? Yet to offer money to your traveling companions with whom you had so recently shared your dates seemed truly indelicate ! I was quite nervosa — I confess it — over the situation as mamma opened her purse. But to my immense relief, she drew out, in- stead of lire — two of her cards ! I am sure you'll laugh and declare the poor fellows were doubtless much disappointed. But could you only have seen their evident pleasure and the courtly grace with which they stood hat in hand as we drove away, you would surely admit mercenary thoughts very far from their minds, and that to have offered pay would have been most indelicate ! They had told us that they were coming into Naples to make arrangements about going to America this Spring. They had about decided on Buonas Ay res, but after asking many questions concerning California and listening with rapture while we elo- quently set forth with Maria's assistance, the glories of that one state of our country which resembles in small measure this Italia adorata, they had by the time we parted, about decided on California. Who knows but that we shall sometime run across them out there — working perhaps, in your own uncle's great vineyards. More likely though, if perchance we do ever see them in California, it will be as owners of their own vine- yard, for these peasants around Naples are the most industrious 104 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING people in the world. The vinej^ards and orange and lemon groves all along the coast are but glimpse of their patience and affectionate labor, being made by hand into marvels of fertility- out of the bare limestone cliff. The parroco too, his office finished, was much interested in America. He had a brother in Pittsburg — a priest also. He himself, would like to be sent to work among his people in the United States — but God had wiUed that he remain to die in Italy. And as he spoke so calmly of Death, we noticed how very thin he was — thin almost to emaciation. Tuberculous perhaps, though it is hard to think of this awful disease here on this sun-inundated coast. He left us at Torre Annunziata. " Madonna go with you ! " he said. And we each answered reverently, knowing we would none of us see him again, " And with you, Father ! " — the peasant woman adding devoutly, '' Cento mill' anni, padre mio! " which is to say, *' May you have a hundred thousand years' freedom from Purgatory ! " Yet his large spiritual eyes, beautiful with mysteries of which we knew little, seemed already looking beyond Purgatory — into Paradise itself. The woman was a splendid creature — coming to Naples for first time in her life though living for thirty years less than twenty miles away. She was coming to serve as halia — a wet nurse. These are the splendidly gowned maids we see with chil- dren so often in the Villa. They are always strong peasant women, from the mountains or country and generally stay with a child until it is two or three years old. They are given their outfit as soon as they arrive, — wonderfully picturesque costume, gay colored gown, fichu and aprons of net and lace as rich as the family can afford, and for the head, massive pins of silver or gold which fastens to their dark hair a great bow of ribbon — blue or red for boy bambini and pink for girls — from which long broad streamers hang to the feet or fly in the breeze in extremely picturesque effect. Doubtless down in the Villa we shall often see this woman of to-day, no longer in* wooden shoes and gay handkerchief wrapped around her head, but brave in elegant stuff gown and heavy silk ribbons — some tiny Neapolitan resting on lace pillow in her arms. Baby carriages or go-carts are items undreamed of in this Old World Napoli. CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 105 Indeed no English mother has yet found Italian nurse-maid brave enough to wheel one ! And so you see the seventeen miles from Castellamare to Naples were full of picturesque inside as well as out, for the railroad skirts the sapphire waters and the way is full of charm — orange trees loaded with balls of gold fruit, olives already whitening to silver in this warm sun of the South, humble homes of fisher-folk with confusion of nets, old sails and baskets drying in the sun, and after passing Vesuvius and Pompeii, maccaroni hung out to dry everywhere. It seems very much like home to be back again in this great wonderful Naples, full of vivid colors and vivid life, and we've made the corso on Toledo this afternoon con amore. Surely no city in the world hath charm that Naples hath! But when our swallows fly hack to the South, To the sweet South, to the sweet South, The tears may come again into my eyes On the old wise, ' And the sweet name to my mouth." " Italia/' — Christiana G. Rossetti TO G. Naples, January — YESTERDAY we spent beautiful day wandering over the Phlegrean Fields, as that history-laden country to west of Napoli is called. How we wished you might be with us ! You could hare combined your love of prowling around old ruins with your adoration of beautiful views in ideal manner. I fancy too, you might have been rather interested in the oy- sters of Lucrinus Lake — oysters such as graced many a feast of Lucullus and famous Roman epicures. F. and Mr. T. were with us en voiture, Maria and Pasquale following in carrozella with Pietro. F. thought of taking the car, yet that would have been great mistake since an auto is positively useless for prowling through the intricate, slippery little streets such as we found at Baia — even the horses slipped so badly at times we were glad to use our own feet. The honk of a motor horn seldom, if ever, breaks in upon the animated chatter held in these old streets among the women of blue- black hair and twinkling ear-rings. We went by way of Fuorigrotto, a typical Southern village just beyond the long Grotta Nuova — a village where all chil- dren of the place rushed out to perform stunts for our amuse- ment. Luckily, in looking up Phlegrean Fields in Baedeker just before we left, his hint that an abundant supply of copper coins should be taken on country excursions had caught our eye and we had robbed our gold-laced, pompous old portier of soldi. So I think each black-eyed child of Fuorigrotto must have had 106 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 107 soldo' s worth of happiness yesterday while we ourselves had — who knows how many fervent blessings invoked upon our heads by fond parents and picturesque ear-ringed grandmothers. Of course it's a bad plan — I hear you declaring — and no wonder Italy is full of beggars if this is the way all forestieri behave ! But what will you here in Italy where bambini spring up like flowers along the wayside — where small ragazze in sabots with great tinkling gold hoops in their ears toss bouquets into your lap^ while ragazzi turn hand-springs with rapidity to put to shame many a skillful acrobat of America? But when one black-eyed imp^ who like Perugino's angels looked as though he might be in midst of mumps, set up such a howl as a cherub- faced friend relieved him of his soldo, that the entire adult por- tion of Fuori grotto appeared like magic at windows, balconies and doorways, we who were like this Young Italy herself — hands full of flowers and coflfers empty ! made brave dash for Pozzuoli, gaining the road at perilous risk of murdering sev- eral dozen bimbi, and strutting cocks. Yet with Fuorigrotto behind us we were kings of the road — free as the little feathered brothers and sisters of St. Francis who sang along the way and in tops of the tall umbrella pines. And if they were in as gay, good spirits as we ourselves it is not to be wondered at that their Matins sounded so hearty. Oh, the charm of these Italian roads ! Air with subtle breath of cobalt Tyrrhenian — sapphire sky — scintillating sun — smiling country ! Can the Umbrian roads over which St. Francis trav- eled singing the mystic love and glory of his betrothed, — his sweet Lady Poverty, be half so full of charm, I wonder, as these roads of the warm South where the sun shines so radiant and splendid — " Symbol of Thee, O Most Highest ! " as St. Francis' glorious Canticle of Creation runs. Surely Umbria cannot boast half the charms of this Campania! Or is it perhaps, only my ecstatic love of this old South, so full of mystery and legends as well as of mad beauty. Have you ever', heard, I wonder, of the Grotta del Cane which lies out from Naples near Pozzuoli? That was our first stop — an entirely new Neapolitan mystery to me though they say Mark Twain declared everybody had written of the old Grotto from Pliny down to Smith. But as you and I don't read mueh 108 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING Pliny and have read so many Smiths we couldn't remember a word from any of them to save our lives, perhaps you won't be bored. For really the thing impressed me tremendously and is an uncanny sort of sight — that Grotta del Cane. Since in order that tourists may appreciate how deadly are the gases arising within its walls, the guides usually carry a dog along which is made insensible in only a few seconds. Or if tourists be skeptical (as to be sure most Americans are!) in a few additional seconds, and for small additional fee of a franc the most obliging guide will have the poor dog quite dead. Pos- sibly dogs are running short as already this has been a great month for tourists — at least our debonair guide offered no such experiments along with his marvelous linguistic accom- plishments. Yet that we might feel we had found the place worth both our time and lire he regaled us with blood-curdling tales of how this old Grotto was used by the monster Nero for imprisoning poor gladiators or those who had incurred !his wrath. Five minutes in there with door closed was certain death. Cries of the terrified imprisoned soon grew faint — and ceased. Our guide grew so tragic both of face and voice at these points in his stories that we grew wild-eyed ourselves — much to his satisfaction no doubt! To prove his statements as to the deadly power of the gases he lit and relit his torch. Ecco! the noble signori should see that he, — even he, Pas- quale Benedetto, spoke true ! And true — if held even several feet above ground the light went out at once, so the gases are evidently deadly enough. But as to the Grotto having been used by Nero — chi sa? F. seemed to think Nero would have considered death by asphyxiation altogether too pleasant punish- ment for one who had displeased him however slightly. Dur- ing the whole thrilling discourse we noticed F. held his hand firmly on Noble's collar — his beautiful Borzoi which he brought down from Paris when last there. F. doubtless fancied that in ardor to prove all merits of his uncanny old Grotto that Mephistophelean countenanced guide would as soon seize upon a noble Borzoi as upon a humble yellow cur. But 'tis said these Neapolitans of Mephistophelean face have always hearts of Archangels — one needs fear only those with soulful eyes and countenances of Archangels ! This being of course only CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 109 one of the mysteries of Napoli as unfathomable as its blue heavens. From the Grotto it is not far to the old city gate of the ancient town of Pozzuoli — the Puteoli where St. Paul with St. Luke and Aristarchus landed from the " Castor and Pol- lux/' you know, and spent sev«n days in preaching to the people. For this reason alone Pozzuoli would be an intensely interesting old place, yet it is full of noble ruins as well as history; since even before the Roman days the merchants of Tyre had made it great center of trade — the most important city of all Italy ! But far more interesting than ruins of temples and baths or the Serapeum, the splendid old market house, were the thirteen great piles which may yet be seen standing in the blue waters of the bay — the piles which once supported the pier on which St. Paul entered Italy. And in driving around one may also see remains of the old Appian road over which the Saint trav- eled to Rome, after his seven days among the people of Poz- zuoK. Indeed it would seem rather more appropriate at first thought, that the Pozzuoli Cathedral be called after that first famous Saint who tarried here, rather than after San Proculo — fellow martyr of the blessed San Gennaro. Mr. T. and I went in to see the picture on the High Altar — a lovely work of Pietro da Cortona, though often attributed to Guido Reni. Pergolese has a monument here in this time-darkened Cathedral — immortal Pergolese who sought health in old Pozzuoli yet died when only twenty-six, leaving us on his death-bed that most beautiful Stabat Mater. Could St. Paul have known as he journeyed on to Rome that one day a Stabat Mater to be sung by the whole world was to rise out of the Pozzuoli which then boasted temples to Diana, Neptune and strange gods, surely he would have thanked God and taken courage even as he did later when the new* Christians came out from Rome and met him at Three Tav- erns. Yet perhaps as he passed out the gates of the gay, pagan city and heard the loud shouts rising from the great Pozzuoli Amphitheater, he foresaw that gladiators and wild beasts and naval combats were not alway to furnish sport within its mas- sive arches, but that followers of Christ Whose Name he preached must also suffer there and die. 110 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING It is this still splendid old Amphitheater which is to most people the greatest point of interest of Pozzuoli to-day, for it is the largest of its kind — able to seat more than 30,000. Its wonderful state of preservation enhances its great interest as a ruin — makes it the show place without which many tourists would never take time for Pozzuoli. Our girl guide there was wonderfully attractive — a splen- did Diana-like creature. Pasquale lost his heart at once. Mr. T. declared she was the very model he wanted for his next picture, while F. delighted her by asking a thousand questions, paying rapt attention to her tales of horror, interspersed with her answers and profound knowledge of apparently all things under the shining Pozzuoli sun. Maria heard the Diana ex- claiming the '^ Inglesi '* this and the " Inglesi ** that, until she could stand it no longer — Maria dislikes the Inglesi with the same ardor with which Pasquale hates the Tedesci — and trans- fixing the Diana with her solemn eyes, remarked with enunci- ation provokingly distinct, "If the signorina knew foreigners as well as she does her Amphitheater she would not mistake noble Americani for Inglesi! *' The poor Diana was quite with- ered — for moment. Then tossed her head with elaborate ear- rings flashing disdain in the sunlight as she saw Pasquale bestow look of decided disapproval on Maria, and murmuring a hasty " Scusi, signori! " plunged into some new tale for F. and Mr. T., including Pasquale by means of adroit eye-play altogether maddening to poor Maria and me who meekly followed across the arena. The Diana's ear-rings were wonderful old things. I became so intent on watching them boldly flashing in the sun as she made expressive play of hands, that I all but made a mis-step which in another moment would have plunged me down a deep opening used in flooding the arena for those wonderful Roman naval combats. These poorer classes very often put their savings or Lotto winnings into some handsome piece of jewelry, consider- ing it much safer investment than placing it with Banks. They are all fond of ear-rings — indeed ear-rings seem a neces- sity to these dark-eyed women of olive skin and blue-black hair and we often see curiously exquisite ones. I fancy after all, most the attraction of our Diana lay within those bold brave CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 111 ear-rings of hers which completely overshadowed Maria's gold hoops and even mamma's pearls. As for me I intend wearing my handsome coral pendants set in platinum when next I set out sight-seeing — at least before I venture near that Pozzuoli amphitheater again! And it is such an intensely interesting old ruin that we mean to go again soon. The Royal box where Nero and other rulers once sat to watch the sport — Imperial entrance way — en- trance for Senators and Consuls — another for the people — dungeons for the prisoners — cages for the animals with which gladiators fought are all to be seen. It was within this old arena where now the flowers and grass grow and Diana of flashing ear-rings holds court, that San Gennaro, the holy pro- tector of Napolif was thrown in vain to wild beasts. Our Diana actually had grace to make sign of the Cross as she repeated the story of the miracle and her ear-rings ceased for a moment to flash. But I was quite happy to bid her au revoir and start for the Solfatara, though there is nothing to see there and the Amphitheater with its old Corinthian pillars kindly swathed in vines is a lovely place for lingering and sketching. Yet to be deserted by your escorts for peasant girl guide is, you will ad- mit, little short of enraging ! At Baia we drove first to curious old Grotto called Nero's Stoves where there are springs of boiling water into which Maria and the guide placed some eggs. For in spite of Baia's bewitching beauty, we were, you see, like veriest Philistines — • thinking of lunch and far more interested in watching those eggs come out of the water (after only a moment boiled as hard as could be!) rather than in raving over views or quoting Horace from our guide books. We had lunch among some picturesque ruins with old slab of marble for table which perhaps once embellished Villa of Nero himself. For it was to this Golden Shore with its splendid climate, limpid southern skies, superb scenery and hot springs that Nero, Julius Caesar, Pompey, Caligula, Caracalla and hun- dreds of other old Romans of whom history loves to make men- tion, came each year. Yet shades of old Romans are rather difiicult to conjure in the Baia of to-day, especially while one is engaged in eating lunch, — even though the eggs had been 112 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING cooked in Nero's stoves, and the gelati which Calflish had put up for us was accompanied by dolci very similar no doubt to that served at the feasts where Nero sat down at noon to eat and drink and continued till midnight. And while mamma and Maria cooked mushrooms in the chafing dish, F., — who adores them you remember perhaps, reminded us that it was of eating mush- rooms that Tiberius died. Since ours were canned and imported from France his subtle hint was of little avail, though I became so interested in watching the girls and men whom Pasquale had found to dance the Tarantella for us, that I turned later to find my own portion mysteriously disappeared. How they danced — those four, sun-burned, smiling-eyed people of Baia ! Danced as though they were quite mad — not from bite of tarantula but from sheer joy of living in the bold, hot sunshine. There was a young god — a perfect Pan — to play for them. A young genius who drew his bow so as to bring out all those daring little cries of the heart — a trick known only to an Italian. Later we went out on the bay with an old wrinkled fisherman. He too, wore ear-rings — dear-delight it seems of all who dwell on these Tyrrhenian shores ! The bay is ethereally lovely — a dream of beauty. No wonder Horace declared it unsurpassed, though of coursej I myself can't agree and love far too well this mad, bold beauty of Napoli's bay to lose my heart to Baia. Yet by many Baia is loved better — its beauty is so exquisite. Yesterday it was quite enchanting with its waters so clear that we were able to see the old pillars and ruins of some of the ancient Roman villas down underneath the cobalt sea over which we moved. Oh, the mystery of these old ruins ! — who knows what magic romance is not concealed by these old stones and pillars which lie buried by the waters of the bay? For Baia was only a small resort, but so anxious the wealthy nobles of the day to have a villa at this fashionable watering place, that for* want of room they sometimes built far out into the sea using these submarine foundations which are yet to be discerned. It is difficult to picture the splendid magnificence of the place of those days — so altogether foreign to its pastoral sim- plicity of to-day when emperors and nobles have for centuries given place to humble folk as picturesque as were the others CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 113 pompous, just as temples to Diana and Venus have given place to shrines to Madonna- — Maria stella del mare before whom votive offerings from many a rescued fisherman are placed each year. For the bay of Baia is not always calm and sleeping even though she has lost all glory of great naval harbor as was hers in those days of zenith when handsome galleys, luxurious barges and countless ships lay always on her waters. 'Twas across this same Baiaean Bay you know that the mad Caligula with tyrannical caprice built his marvelous bridge of boats, pressing into service - all vessels to be found — surpassing even Xerxes and Darius by his stupendous feat. And it was for a great naval celebration here, you know, that Agrippina came to Baia at Nero's invitation. Then after five days of the naval festival, you remember how Nero prepared the parting banquet for his mother, lasting long into the night, so that when she came to leave she found her own galley had been disabled and was induced to embark on the treacherous barge. We, out in the bay yesterday, managed with assistance of the clever imaginations with which we're all blessed, to pic- ture the whole affair. The elegantly decked barge — the star- light night and calm sea — Agrippina and her lady-in-waiting chatting over the splendid celebration and festivities they had enjoyed as Nero's guests. Then the given signal when the barge fell to pieces — the miraculous escape of Agrippina into the water — her wonderful presence of mind in not crying out and so draw on herself the blows of the conspirators — her great efforts to swim until at last she was picked up by a fisher- man. Just such a weather-beaten old fisherman perhaps as the one with whom we were ruthlessly skimming over very scene of her torture, quite too taken with the beauty on all sides to be very much in sympathy with any agonies Agrippina must have suffered that awful night. When we came ashore we saw site of the villa where later she was pitilessly stabbed to death. The country is studded with these historic sites, with ruins of temples and baths, theaters and ville. Yet who could be very enthusiastic over old ruins when at hand lies a great shimmering bay which Master Horace has declared loveliest in the world? I fancy that if Rome were blessed as this country round Napoli, we would hear much less 114 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING of the wonderful old forums and baths which now lead tourists such mad chase. Coming home we stopped at a little tavern for oysters from Lucrinus Lake — famous for its oysters in ancient days and its beds again revived. From here many an oyster has been taken for Lucullus' and Tiberius' feasts — Tiberius being as fond of oysters it seems as of mushrooms. It was he, wasn't it, who ordered Sabinus to write a story in which a mushroom and oys- ter figured as principal characters.^ Are the mushrooms of the Phlegrean fields as delicious as the oysters one might readily understand how Tiberius could die from eating them — not be served with the wrong kind either! But both mushrooms and oysters pale in sight of the dark-eyed folk of these shores when there is prospect of capitoni, the fat luscious eel which is the great Christmas delicacy for all the Kingdom of Naples and in such demand at this festa that price soars high, high ! But never so high as to be beyond temptation to a Neapolitan. Or when capitoni are not to be had for love or lire there are adorable young octopuses fried in oil to golden crisp which are infinitely preferable to even feast of mush- rooms and oysters. " Adorable " I might explain is the Neapol- itan attribute to an octopus — not mine. For to me one of these very adorable octopuses, be they ever so young and tender, looks much as though it might have been fashioned following Leonardo's rule for a chimera — head of a mastiff, eye of a cat, ears of a porcupine, mouth of a hare, brows of a lion, temples of an old cock and neck of a sea tortoise ! How such an animal ever manages to tempt a Neapolitan is but another of the mil- lion mysteries of Napoli. At our little tavern two debonair carabineers were feasting on one of these same adorable crea- tures with glad accompaniment of two lordly flasks of vino del paese costing, according to the prices inscribed outside the Osteria, eight soldi per litre! They left just ahead of us mak- ing us such splendid courtesies I quite forgavcj the octopus which had graced their table and leered in my face until he had been eaten to the very last eye. They were handsome young soldiers in spite their tastes, and Pasquale having made friends with them through the magic of Mr. T.'s cigarettes, we were honored by their mounted escort CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 115 as far as entrance to the Infernal Regions — that being nothing more serious, you must understand, than a sort of grotto on edge of Lake Averno mentioned by Virgil as the place of descent into Hell. The whole thing is quite disappointing if you have Virgil's vivid descriptions of the spot in mind — " No bird un- harmed o'er that dread orifice might steer its flight " and so on. We saw birds winging their way homeward so joyously and un- harmed though passing directly over the gate of Hell, that F. was much disgusted — declared Virgil had tricked him out another dozen oysters ! A statement highly amusing since F. had several dozen of Lucrinenses carefully stowed away in the tea-basket in the carriage. But had we found Avernus in truth very brink of Hell, the drive home in the sunset with visions of exquisite Baia and Poz- zuoli bays which are hardly lost sight of before the matchless crescent-coasted Bay of Parthenope appears, was quite sufficient to drive all terror of Infernal Regions from our hearts. Yet alas, for that poor Proserpine who is still held in those same In- fernal Regions — cut off from all joys of gold sunshine and cerulean skies ! "... the true Italy, that beloved and ancient land to which we owe almost everything that is precious and valuable in our lives, and in which still, if we be young, we\ may find all our dreams.'* -Edward Hutton * * TO M. Naples, January — Jl/TAMMA MIA! what a day — as prosaic as any bona fide J. VA. tourist's. F. has been playing devoted courier to Lady M., a dear distant cousin from England who arrived in this Paradise last week — an antipatica creature who sees beggars and dirt and superstition at every turn. Does one suggest that some dark-eyed imp following the carriage is altogether pic- turesque or that some tycked-away little church is rich in won- derful votive offerings, she never fails to quote, " All that glisters is not gold " — perfectly maddening ! She uses it at every turn until F. swears by all the gods who once dwelt on these siren shores, that unless she soon takes her ladyship off to Rome he shall certainly be compelled to request her not to be so awfully literal with her Shakespeare — kindly substitute " glitter " as does rest of the world, since " glister " savors too much of " blister " to be appropriate for use in connection with this queenly Napoli. Between Lady M. and a Baptist minister who arrived sim- ultaneously, armed with introductions from two of F.'s adoring Vermont aunts, poor F. has been on the mad chase. To-day we mercifully relieved F. of the Iconoclast — as we have dubbed the Baptist. He, having graciously admitted St. Paul and St. Luke probably landed there since Scripture so states, desired to visit Pozzuoli to-day and have F. guide him over that land of the gods to the extreme West, on this very morning which her ladyship had chosen for visiting Santa Maria del Carmine and having F. explain to her in just what portion of the old 116 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 117 convent Masaniello was murdered after his mad rebellion. She is deeply interested in the whole aiFair — sympathizes with the fiendish Masaniello and always closes her mention of him with a " Poor fellow ! he soon found out that ' all that glisters is not gold' ! " She has it in mind to write a short history of the rebellion — as you may have already suspected Lady M. is lit- erary. So when she announced her intention to go through Santa Maria del Carmine under F.'s personal escort, what for him to do but sweetly accept the implied compliment to his ability to serve her, gnash his teeth in private and dispose of the Iconoclast as best he could — to poor mammina and me ! Mr. T. is working madly at Capri, — pays no attention to F.'s frantic messages pleading that he come to the rescue. As for mamma and me being of any assistance in the role of couriers — 'tis quite absurd since we haven't yet found time for seeing half the sights here and F. himself declares us to be as pro- voking as that Anatole France who confessed the world was welcome to all dry facts of history as long as they would leave the romance for him. And, alas, hard dry facts are what both Lady M. and the Iconoclast demand — not romance ! In fact we have given the Iconoclast his title simply because he is forever tearing down anything which can not stand on a bold fact of his- tory. He scorns the romantic fact that this Napoli was first founded by the divine Parthenope — doubts that Virgil lies buried here on this sunny shore as he requested of the Emperor — smiled pitying when in driving past CasteV delV Ovo yesterday I took pains to tell him that it took its name not from its oval shape but from fact that Virgil with his magic arts had builded it upon an Gg^ ! So considering the nature with which we had to deal you'll not wonder that we sat up last night till convent bells were ring- ing for Matins, poring over all the guides F. could lay hands on in Naples, in mad endeavor to store up enough of dry facts regarding Pozzuoli and the romantic land of that coast as would last us through the morning with our iconoclastic patron. We drove him there by way of the superb Corniche road of Posilipo, trusting the beauty would so entrance him that dry history would sink into the background. Alas no! and we who are saturated with the mysteries and traditions and legends of 118 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING this adorable land were called upon to give and take dates an^^ cold facts without mercy. He knows just how many Italians can neither read nor write and all that — bewailed poverty and ignorance as we drove him over what is undoubtedly one of the most splendid drives in the worlds until we were ready to toss him into the Tyrrhenian at our feet. That being an art which died with Tiberius^ we contented ourselves in reminding him as did shrewd Cardinal Antonelli when Matthew Arnold bewailed in much the same strain as our Iconoclast, " — But you will find they are generally correct in matters of good taste." A state- ment however our patron accepted in much the same spirit as he did the statement regarding CasteV delV Ovo! Per Dio! but we had a morning. And never was Neapolitan morning more enchanting. Little brothers and sisters of St. Francis chanting their praises boisterously — sirens and tritons sporting in the waters. The whole land was full to the brim with mysteries and Old World tradition. We — en tourist! Oh, the sin of holding one's eyes on a guide-book — their minds on cold facts on such a morning! But happily we were two and one could talk wisely while the other made frantic search for a date. Alas, that F. or his dear aunts might not have heard us ! I, you may be sure, ventured nothing regarding sirens or sibyls ; politely refrained from pointing out the entrance of Hell through whose gate Ulysses passed into shades of infernal regions; cruelly silenced our loquacious guide who wanted me to translate to the excellent signore his stories of blessed San Gennaro and his many miracles, and contented myself in talking knowingly of St. Paul, while mamma bravely attended to Roman history. I boldly related facts of the Holy Saints' voyage up the Italian coast from Rhegium, pictured their turn at Cape Min- erva, just opposite Capri, at which point their vessel was recog- nized by those waiting at Pozzuoli since the Alexandrine corn- ships were the only vessels which did not lower their top-sails when rounding this Cape (a fact I bravely called upon Seneca to prove!). At last their arrival at the pier of the old Puteoli, then at her zenith. So far, so good, and having brought the Holy Apostle safely to Rome after his seven days at Pozzuoli (carefully refraining of course from mentioning his visit to CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 119 Virgil's grave and all other ancient tradition!) I began to feel I had cleverly redeemed myself and that reports of me which our Iconoclast would carry home to F.'s dear aunts were not to be altogether hopeless. Indeed so careful was I not to offend our patron that I forebore all mention of that blessed Saint Ignatius whom some think the little child Christ called to His side in teaching the lesson of humility^ and who also came through this old Pozzuoli to suffer martyrdom at Rome. But alas, that I had not the good judgment to leave St. Paul at Rome writing his Epistles to the Churches, but must mention as we sat over our Lucrinus Lake oysters, that if Saint Paul between his release and his death visited Spain as he intended, it seemed very probable that he might also have been one of the first Christians to Britain. Heaven protect one unread in Church History and the Lives of the early Fathers from raising such uncertain issue with a sectarian Protestant who must at once reject all things not found in Holy Scripture. In vain my argument that Saint Clement, who was St. Paul's dear friend and fellow laborer, wrote that St. Paul had traveled " as far to the west as possible." Saint Clement, though one of the first Bishops of Rome, was at once rej ected as unscriptural — ■ though what import scripture had in the question I failed to see ! Even supposition that Linus and Claudia, who talked with St. Paul and were converted, were children of the British King Caractacus who was brought prisoner to Rome and returned as the first missionaries at St. Paul's own request was but re- ceived with smile of pity. Turning into almost horror as we stopped talking to give an alms to a son of St. Francis who came through the room, and who unsuspecting the indignation he was causing in the Protestant's heart, quietly handed him Italian copy of that sweet hymn of Fortunatus, Ave Maris Stella, so popular here among Madonna's people dwelling on these Campanian shores. Indeed our Iconoclast was so full of both indignation and dismay as he gazed after the friar, of earth-brown robe and naked feet, that I desisted in my translating ** Hail, thou star of ocean ! Portal of the sky! Ever Virgin Mother — " 120 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING and called in a gay Mephistophelean countenanced youth to chant Funicoli Funicola in attempt to cheer him. The nonsense of the chant mingling with the sweet words of Ave, Maris Stella as always religion and deviltry, smiles and tears are to be found mingled in this mysterious old Napoli. Poor youth! he was quite abashed when at the Iconoclast's bidding we demanded his age, his occupation, whether he could read and write, had he any desire to go to America and other prosaic questions entirely out of place on these Old World shores — at least never to be required of a sun-browned young god such as our chanter of Funicoli Funicola. I translated the astonishing replies to the Iconoclast who scribbled down each item with serious face in serious looking note book. Fearing lest the notes be used in urging Protestant missionaries into this land of the gods, I confess I dared not always translate ver- batim ! But surely this old Italy with her Catholicism dating back even before St. Paul reached these shores, can not stand for Baptists — not at least do their methods of warfare have likeness to those of the Methodists now storming Rome. On the whole Funicoli Funicola was failure so far as our Iconoclast was concerned. But during the drive home we flooded him with such wealth of dates taken from Conyb^are and Howson concerning St. Paul and facts of prosaic Roman history of that romantic coast, that before we reached Naples we had managed by dint of earnest effort to retrieve much we lost dur- ing lunch. But, mamma mia! we could have held romance and mystery in background not another hour. I was on very point of inquiring if the city lying at our feet did not strike him as wearing the same smile as wears that Neapolitan Mona Lisa Giocondo, who very likely flirted with Leonardo in much the same manner this sirenic Naples mysteriously flirts with the cobalt waters of her bay and the sapphire skies. Yet the gods did not desert me — as I had been compelled for the nonce to desert them. Pegasus himself lent wings to our tired horses, enabling Pietro to dash up to the hotel entrance before the question had escaped me and our Iconoclast was turned safely over to F. who — povero! — had had as prosaic a morning with Lady M. and her ceaseless search of Masaniellic data as we ourselves had known with the CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 121 Iconoclast. Heaven permit that they each soon forsake this adorable place .where mysteries and enchantments and super- stitions overlie all facts — where all things *' glister " and one is too happy to care whether or no they be true gold. And really I wouldn't be surprised if F. had^ innocently enough, started the Iconoclast off for Rome at early date. We had them up here for dinner out of pity for long-suffering F. and while Lady M. made notes on her tyrant hero and I've been engaged scribbling you, mammina, F. and the Iconoclast have been in midst of theological discussion — unsafe topic, but safer no doubt in this instance than talk of sirens and sibyls or Nea- politan simpatia and smiles ! F., though one would seldom sus- pect it, is wonderfully well read in theology — would that he had been at hand this morning when I called upon Patristic authority in endeavor to persuade my Protestant Iconoclast that St. Paul might very probably have been father of the Church in England ! But F.'s knowledge and apt quoting from early fathers seemed quite hopeless to-night with our Iconoclast — the most unimpeachable witness to early Church practices failed to make slightest impression. Yet when F. sweetly assured him that baptism by immersion as practiced by his sect is never to be found portrayed in any of the ancient mosaics and frescoes of the churches in Italy or in the paintings of the Catacombs, but always by affusion, our Iconoclast was decidedly dismayed — thinks he will surely find F. in error and is anxious to explore the Roman catacomKs as soon as possible. Fare him well and may Lady M. and her Shakespeare wing away also! Dear Naples! the very sound of thy sweet name. Brings thoughts of flowers and sun and sapphire sky/* — M. P. ^ * To M. Naples, January — A REACTION to-day from all prosaicness of yesterday. F., Lady M. and the Iconoclast were off early to Capri — poor Mr. T ! — and we've had the day for basking like lizards in the sun, haunting little streets redolent with garlic and in- cense and lingering in the great Cathedral bewildering with its magnificence. A day as different from yesterday as this warm chiaroscuro of Italy is unlike our own dull ochreous-colored America. It's true I had to attend a class at the noble school this morning and puzzle my poor head with some stupid dates connected with the reign of that Ferdinand II — that king who had manners of a boor and no doubt well deserved the exclama- tion of his Queen, " I thought I had married a King — not a lazzarone," when he pulled away a chair on which she was about to sit down, causing her to fall to the floor in inelegant fash- ion. (Her exclamation seems rather hard on the poor lazzaroni, however — at least I'm ready to swear there's not one to-day with such manners in all this adorable Napoli.) Yet even dates and a history lecture are quite romantic compared with all the guide-book knowledge of yesterday — just as our noble lit- tle professor with the dark, soul-lit eyes of Dante is romance itself compared with our Iconoclast ! Conte C. lunched with us. He, by thq way, is a true Neapol- itan — amor patriae so deeply rooted in his heart, he knows no skies can be so serene, no sea so sapphire, no sunshine so splendid as these of his dolce Napoli. He, true son of the Church who has claimed so many of his family, was much dis- heartened to find we have been neglecting his Neapolitan churches and suggested we start with the Duomo this very after- 122 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 123 noon. Of course we've been in before — twice for Mass and once to hunt Mr. T. who was studying some of Domenichino's paintings, but as to the tomlbs and treasures the old Cathedral holds we had hardly given thought. So potent the spell of this outdoor world with its sunshine and dark people of simpatia and smiles. We met the Cardinal Archbishop coming down the Strada del Duomo just as we neared the Cathedral entrance. All the men on the street bared their heads — one devout woman knelt. Did His Eminence realize that it must have caused some sharp twinges of the rheumatism of which she was evidently a vic- tim, I doubt not he would have given her his blessing. I'm afraid though, he didn't see her at all our cab and big hats being sadly in her way and the Cardinal engaged at moment of her genuflection in bowing graciously to Conte C. An act which caused all the beggars gathered around the Duomo to besiege us as we left our cab, beseeching us for soldi for the love of our friend His Eminence and for the blessed San Gennaro. Poveri! they knew no one could refuse in the very shadow of the Cathedral itself — least of all one to whom the Cardinal had leaned out his carriage window to speak to and we were showered with blessings so splendid that splendors of the Duomo itself were paled. And that, did you but know the dazzling magnificence of the old Cathedral with its lavish gildings and rich decorations, is saying much. Gold on gold — color on color ! Of course the Cathedral is dedicated to San Gennaro, patron saint of the great city, the Christians of which he came as Bishop of Beneventum to aid during the awful reign of Diocle- tian. Condemned by the cruel Emperor to be burned alive, an- gels rescued himl from the flames. He was then thrown to wild beasts in the amphitheater at Pozzuoli — but again in vain. The beasts refused to touch him and five thousand were con- verted by the miracle. At last he was beheaded at Solfatara — September 19th, 305. All Naples knows the date of their pro- tector's martyrdom. And September 19th is now one of the dates of the liquefaction of the saint's blood — one of the great days of the Neapolitan year. A Christian woman saved some of the blood flowing from the 124 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING head of the holy saint, preserving it in two ampullas which were hidden away and miraculously saved from harm until the fifteenth century when they were placed in the Cathedral — you have doubtless read the story since everyone who writes of Naples tells it once again. The miracle of liquefaction takes place three times each year in the splendid Duomo Chapel dedicated to the Saint, and these are the great days of the year in this old Napoli — city of a saint, as well as of a siren, one remem- bers whenever San Gennaro is mentioned. This liquefaction is a miracle or mystery, engaging just now the thought of many prominent scientists as well as heads of the Roman Church. Is it really a miracle? CM sa? One devout Romanist of the Neapolitan nobili will question it, while another Catholic of the English Church will admit it can be nothing else. But in the hearts of these dark-eyed people there is not the shadow of a doubt. It is the miracle on which the welfare of Naples and its people depend. According as the liquefaction is rapid or slow it is to them a good or evil omen for future and of all the many, many ecclesiastical functions of this religious old city, tliis is the greatest. Dense crowds — fervent prayers — intense excitement — loud demonstrations — awesome silences — and sooner or later the Priest calls in loud tones, " It moves! " and the glad news of another perpetuation of the great miracle sweeps like wind through the old Cathedral and out into each street and lane of Napoli. This Chapel of San Gennaro — also called del Tesoro on account of its enormous wealth of gold and precious stones — has some paintings of Domenichino to whom the decorations were first entrusted. Much to the disgust of Neapolitan ar- tists. For the artists of Naples had determined no foreign artists should work in their city — at least not in the splendid Tesoro Chapel of the new Cathedral and so unpleasant did they make things that Domenichino and Guido Reni each ran away leaving their work unfinished, yet not before poor Domenico, Guido Reni's assistant, had been coldly assassinated as a last warning. The magnificence of the Chapel is bewildering and one is almost glad the tomb of the saint in the Confessional is not so dazzling in its richness. Were the decorations as lavish as CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHIXG 125 in the Chapel one might easily forget altogether the blessed saint himself, who having first comforted the early Christians of this city, has protected her people now for long centuries from plague and famine and that demoniac Vesuve. Here too in the Confessio is kneeling statue of Cardinal Carafa who built the crypt — a statue said by our verger to be work of the great Michael Angelo but Conte C. thought not, although some guide books do agree with the verger. We visited the other Cathedral chapels also — one of the handsomest of which belongs to Conte C.'s family and contains the tomb of Cardinal C. But thoughts of an uncle who was a famous thirteenth century saint and Cardinal make little impres- sion upon these twentieth century nobili of Napoli. Thirteenth century dates are accepted with the same coolness as dates of three figures and what old family here can not boast one and more saints or Cardinals? As we came out the Cathedral, our beggars were all van- ished, excepting one woman who flew to Conte C. He perhaps thought we would sooner forgive his not giving to the twentieth odd beggar than being obliged to go without gouier, so he gal- lantly informed her he would comie that way again soon and would not forget her — so full of simpatia these Neapolitans for their poor that they will not willingly hurt even a too ag- gressive beggar's feelings. Usually the kindly mention of " an- other day " is sufficient and one receives gracious thanks for the very promise and proceeds on their way in peace. But not so with our woman on the Cathedral steps, who poured forth volley after volley in expressive Neapolitan. We were highly amused when Count C. explained she had demanded if he was not much ashamed to have the American ladies think him so poor and had advised him, even if he had no love of Buon Dio, Madonna or the blessed saints in his heart, to give her at least a soldo that he might appear a Christian before the excellent ladies! Wasn't that deliciously clever? Conte C. found it quite irresistible and ran back. Did she reward him ^vith voluble thanks and invoked blessings ? — not she. The generous alms he placed in her hand were accepted with queenly thanks and in scornful tones she advised Conte C. to pray Madonna and San Gennaro without ceasing to give him love for the poor rather 126 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING than pride as to what American ladies might think! Poor, debonair Conte C. who in truth is generosity itself — always giv- ing an alms to some poor soul ! — was quite withered. But the beggars- do not in the least annoy the Neapolitans as they so often do Americans, and though they give less than we Americans, they give with their soldi sl generous sympathy and are ev^er gracious in the giving of even the smallest alms. Hawthorne, you know, said in his Italian Notes, the great num- ber of beggars in Italy makes one's heart as " obdurate as a paving stone." Mamma mial and how thankful these beggars should be that all Americans are not affected like Hawthorne! When one considers the question seriously, remembers that prac- tically every square inch of soil in Naples is turned to advantage and yet there is no work for many hundreds of this great swarm- ing, over-populated city, and at same time thinks of the happi- ness which only a few soldi can bring to some povero whose wants are so simple, giving an alms to a beggar seems little enough when in return one is always so copiously thanked and has blessings of all heaven invoked on one's head. Or in case one may not care for the invoked blessings ** should not the for- eigner be willing to pay something for the climate?" demands Marion Crawford. Many of these very poor have some small article to sell — amulets, post-cards, or a thousand more or less curious things and can hardly be called real beggars, though they are quite as pathetic and difficult to refuse. For instance, the old wrinkled, tinkling ear-ringed nonna who sits under her large artist's dis- carded umbrella not far from here, patiently awaiting purchaser for her matches. She is a darling — a consummate old actress, yet as adorable as this Napoli. Who could resist her when she murmurs her pathetic appeal to " la signorina hellissima *'9 Not I, though I know full well she says the very same words, showers the identical gracious compliments on many another jeune fille of Parco Murgherita — to my adorably beautiful Neapolitan friend A. who passes by with duenna on way to early Mass, and to the deplorably homely Fraiilein who lives here at our menage and drives us all mad with her Teutonic rendering of '" Sole Mio/* Yet I love her devotedly — can never bear to see her disappointed and always have a box or CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 127 more of matches in the pockets of each coat ! Maria — dear Italian that she is ! would never for moment dream of being so wildly extravagant as to give them away, but saves each box with elaborate care. There's a whole table drawer full already and when I leave this dolce Napoli some black-eyed, sun-bronzed gamin is to be set up with a stock the size of which has never been seen in this smiling old city of Parthenope. Though really these gamins are a thousandfold more pic- turesque unburdened with care of stock — free to turn their astonishingly agile cart-wheels under your horse's heels and im- portune you for soldi with impish persistence — persistence ac- companied with scorn as delicious as that of our povera on the Cathedral steps who feared lest we think Conte C. guilty of parsimony or poverty. There is so much mixture and simpatia between the classes here. Where else forsooth would beggars dare to advise nobili as to what manner of prayers they should make? Where else, indeed, but in this mysterious old Naples — Naples of sirens and sibyls, Marsii, Samnites, Lucanians, Arabians, Greeks, Romans, Normans, Suabians, Provencals, Spaniards, — a king- dom with no distinct nationality and a people like no other people of whole wide world. The mingling of classes strikes one at every turn — altogether different from in our own large cities where the poor have their own quarters, and quite different too, from London and Paris though the poor of no other European city can begin to be so wretchedly poor as many of these poveri of Naples. And yet none are too poor to feel at home alongside any prince or nohili of the city. One finds the juxtaposition of poveri and nobili in the narrow cross streets just as there is always mingling of garlic and incense. On all the main streets as well — even in the aristocratic Villa itself, and of course in each church, for the churches here you know are the home of the poor. Pius X in his latest decrees is very solicitous that his Bishops be quite certain all churches are free of access to poorest of the poor, that all may attend without danger of humiliation — suggestion which may be much needed in France and the United States but surely not here in Napoli where in the wealthiest church of an aristocratic parish there is always more or less of the poveri 128 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING as much at home as the duke or prince whose family chapel is there in splendid magnificence. Family chapels — we saw a handsome old one this afternoon. Santa Maria della Pieta, property of the Princes of Sansevero^ a very old Neapolitan family. It slumbers away, unsought by tourists, though it is easily reached from the Cathedral on foot. Simply a cut through some of these mysteriously wonderful little streets teeming with life and fruit stands and cooking stalls and redolent of flowers and garlic and hot roasting chestnuts — by-ways where sellers are legion and buyers few, but where among the popoli has si one may see an Othello engaged in con- versation with a Fornarina who has long ago forgotten the divine Raphael. And then after a turn to the right and a turn to the left and a dive under a low hung awning and a dart through an old palazzo courtyard, one rounds a corner and half a dozen black-eyed ragazzi rush off to fetch the Chapel sagrestano who at length shuffles into view with an immense iron key weighing at least two pounds ! You see it's really very simple to reach this old Santa Maria della Pieta. The Chapel holds some splen- did tombs decorated by artists of the Neapolitan school. But the jewel of the whole Chapel is its Dead Christ — a glorious master-piece sculptured out of one block of exquisite white mar- ble. The work of Sammartino — most beautiful, 'tis said, of all his work. We had our gouter at Calflish — Calflish on the Chiaia, which at the hour of the Cor so, is as unlike the tiny secret-filled by- ways through which we had been sauntering as is Calflish itself from the picturesque little trattoria where the Fornarina stood at the door conversing with Othello and dark men sat inside over their lordly flasks, their fingers flashing in the game of mora. Calflish — 'tis he who makes the most delicious dolci — has several of his pastry shops where each afternoon one meets all Napoli. Yet the real English tea-rooms are springing up here and there too. These Neapolitan nobili have caught the custom charmingly, though not the habit — being not in the least fearful of appearing bourgeois, and generally insist that their tea be served in the form of chocolate ! The chocolate here is always delicious — one often takes tea at their own risk. Notwithstanding which fact all nobili of Napoli go '" to take the CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 129 tea *' each day between 1 7 and 1 8 o'clock with all ardor of good Britishers. And by the way this modern method of reckoning time is wonderfully clever — so much simpler than the stupid duplicate system commonly in vogue. Day begins at midnight as with us, but after noon, 1 o'clock is 13 o'clock and so on up till 24. Italy, 'tis said, has been first to abolish the old system and other countries have followed in her lead. It is particularly scientific in making railroad time-tables lucid and does away with all confusion of a. m. and p. m. hours. The bells ring twenty- four at this very moment, so felice notte, carino! May you have the huon riposo which comes to those of Napoli, knowing that though we sleep in somber shadow of that Satanic Vesuve our San Gennaro is able protector from all harm. ' ' Who can withstand thee? What distress or care But yields to Naples," — Robert Underwood Johnson. * 4' TO J. Naples, January — FGAVE us tickets for the Palazzo Reale here in the city • to-day, so we went after lunch, taking with us a little ten-year-old girl whose mother was spending the day at Capri and had left her in our care. Naturally this little American coupled Royal Palace and the idea of King and Queen to- gether and fully expected it seems to see them! A more dis- appointed enfante you can not imagine than she when we ex- plained the Royal family lived in Rome and there was no roy- alty whatever here at the Neapolitan Palazzo Reale just now. She was utterly miserable and would be consoled with neither promises of gelati nor of Calflish dolci. We had made several futile efforts to find a suitable substitute for the King and Queen when, through happy thought, we suggested a Duke and of- fered to invite one to dinner to-night. One would have thought Duke much miore important than King by the sudden delight vnih which this last proposition was met and a note was quickly dispatched to Duca G. commanding his presence for our protegee. Happily he had no other engagement and came much amused at cause of his impromptu summons but treating little Miss T. with such devoted attention that she has been in her zenith and declares Dukes ever so much nicer than Kings. Of course I think so myself. Though since her years number but ten and mine not yet double that, our acquaintance with royalty has been somewhat limited, and we may be mistaken. But after this delicate matter of finding substitute for the Royal family had been so cleverly arranged, we all set forth for the Palazzo in gay, good spirits. The outside we have of course often seen since the palazzo is in center of the most fre- quented part of the city, and we have many times admired the 130 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING ISl simple elegance of the big brownish red palace with its green shuttered windows through which divers Neapolitan Queens have peeped. It has a certain noble grandeur quite impressive though the almost sole adornment of the main front is in eight marble statues which Humbert had placed there^ staring stonily across a handsome large piazza which reminds one of views of the piazza of St. Peter's. These represent Neapolitan rulers be- ginning with Roger of Normandy^ down to Joachim Murat and Victor Emmanuel II. Where Humbert himself and Victor Em- manuel III are to be placed, no one seems to know. A grand white marble stairway led to those of the eighty- five rooms most interesting to tourists — a magnificent dining- room, splendid throne rooms and Chapel which has been dec- orated by the illustrious Neapolitan, Domenico Morelli. In this Chapel, Maria Carolina, Queen of Ferdinand IV, knelt with her five daughters to pray for the soul of her sister, Marie- Antoinette, upon receiving awful news of her execution. Many of the rooms held beautiful pictures — some by the old masters, but mostly modern. Among these last, a picture of that charm- ing Lady Hamilton who, with her hero Nelson, has danced many a dance in the great ballroom of this regal palace. . But 'tis a contre-cceur to linger long in these tomb-like palaces when such wealth of sunshine awaits outside. But sunshine truly ! — dancing and dazzling with the magic of moonlight mixed with its rays. While it is often so cold here that fur coats feel none too warm, still the sun is always of such dazzling brilliancy that a parasol is gladly carried. At first it seemed rather laughable, — this combination of fur coat and sun shade; but when I saw a stunning one of Roman stripes in a charming little shop along the Via Calabritta — and prezzo fisso only twenty-eight francs ! — I could resist no longer. The bright warm stripes look wonderfully well with my gray or black fur coat although by carrying a parasol I proclaim myself one of the forestieri — yet surely a chic parasol is preferable to red guide-books ! One sees few of the Neapolitan women at this season with sun shades, doubtless because they are so accustomed to this fiery gold sun of Naples — said to have no equal in the world. Yet as we sing in the French version of '' Sole Mio," the popular old Neapolitan song: 132 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING " La belle chose qu'un soleil d'aurore! Mais sur ta levre Plus radieux TJn soleil regne que j'aime mieux; La flamme est dans ta levre Et la clart'e hrille en tes yeux! " Sunday : Your letter not yet sent! Each day so full — writing a bona fide letter seems quite hopeless, and even jotting down impressions, neglected until they are swept away entirely. And if you by chance remember the frightful rapidity with which I can make my pen fly, you will surely agree our days are full indeed, if even / cannot jot down impressions as they come. How I wish that you might have seen Naples while you were here in Italy! Comme ga I should not have to send you these scribbles thus — en rapport Neapolitan sunshine et cetera. We went to early Mass this morning and once home I had planned to finish this that it might be dispatched for the fast mail, but Conte C. came in to propose seeing more churches to- miorrow. He has graciously undertaken task of showing us some of the several hundred Neapolitan churches and of fulfilling the role of courier in general. F. is hopeless as a cicerone! So to prepare our souls for to-morrow, we all walked to San Francesco di Paola and attended a second Mass — one of the very fashionable churches in Naples belonging to the Royal estate. The Royal palace faces this church and these two prom- inent buildings are divided by the large and handsome piazza — which always reminds one of views of Piazza San Pietro. The Church too, reminds me of St. Peter's — the exterior view. For though the large columns in front have been placed to give the appearance of the Pantheon, there is also that ar- rangement of semi-circular colonnade, curving its great arms as though to embrace the whole world. In this splendid piazza lying between Church and Palazzo Reale, are placed two very fine equestrian statues — one of Charles III by Canova, other of Ferdinand I, — said by some to be a work of Call and by other critics to be work of Canova also. It seems to Mr. T. and me we can detect in each statue CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 133 that bold touch peculiar to Canova, though doubtless you would think them lacking much the strength and spirit of that Marcus Aurelius of which you always keep the copy on your desk. I, like you, have come to think there is certain strength and grandeur in equestrian statues found in nothing else. Were I a sculptor I fancy I would want to work altogether in this line and would no doubt begin with that most noble of animals, dear old Wheeler, modeling him with wings of Pegasus ! We often stop to admire an equestrian statue of Victor Em- manuel II in the Piazza del Municipio. A work of 1897, but a glorious piece — the king riding boldly and bravely out into space. Yet the finest thing by far in the equestrian statues of Naples are the two Horse Tamers at gate of the Royal Pal- ace garden. These, commonly called the Russian Horses since they were presented by the Emperor Nicholas I and are really splendid though not so traveled perhaps as the horses of St. Mark's. In the Museum too, there are several superb eques- trian pieces from Pompeii and Herculaneum — proof the Greeks were not slow to see that beauty lay in that noblest of animals, as well as in the human form. Two equestrian statues of the Balbi, found at Herculaneum, are among the most perfect pieces in the wonderful collection of Great Bronzes, and compared by some critics to your beloved Marcus Aurelius and the Colleoni of Venice. We came home from Church by way of the Villa where we found Marquis T. and several young cavalry officers, brave in their captivating gray uniforms- — all riding con spirit o around the circular course which encloses the Villa proper. Several of them joined us for an ice at the little cafe — one finds most delicious granita there. I pronjised Marquis T. to ride his favorite horse, Nero — a beautiful Black Beauty — sometime soon. Few girls ride here; but if Tuesday fa hel tempo, madame is to take me down to the Villa where one of Casa T.'s grooms is to have Nero waiting. Marchese T. is to cut his lectures at the University — quite a I'americane, you see, and we are planning some good canters in the Villa. Of course we may not go outside — without a chaperone that is not to be thought of! though I should much prefer the long white stretch of Via Caracciolo 134 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING alongside the dancing blue water, rather than the Villa course through which cavalry officers have raced their horses. Yet even here inside the Villa, were I jeune fille Italian, poor madame would be obliged to mount also and ride alongside, but happily, I'm American and consequently will be allowed the great liberty of being out of madame's surveillance for perhaps two minutes at a time! Conte C. asked permission to ride on Tuesday also. They seldom have opportunity to ride with a signorina and with a signorina americana but once in a lifetime ! Doubtless most of these Neapolitan girls are too dignified to go in for horse- back riding to any extent; or perhaps 'tis only lack of duennas who can adapt themselves to such exercise ! Speaking of these Italian girls — I once said to one of my Neapolitan friends who has no sisters, that I thought the girls here were rather too reserved to find an American girl very simpatica. However that was before I really came to know them. Yet his reply was very naive. " Not so, madamoiselle; but they must to appear stupid! " And yet as Naples grows more and more cosmopolitan, these old barriers are being thrown down. My pretty friend A., who is considered one of the most charming young women in all Neapolitan society, is really quite American in many of her ways; though of course by no means to the extent of ever appearing in public alone or with a man unless accompanied by some married woman or duenna. Returning to the hotel froml the Villa we were much amused to have some American tourists — a man and two nervous women, rush up to us and ask where tickets were sold in the depot for Pompeii. The depot in question being in an entirely different part of the city, we were naturally surprised at such a question. "The depot?" we repeated. "Yes, the depot across ! " they answered, impatient at our stupidity, and pointed just across the piazza to a building bearing POMPIERI in large letters. This they had read, in their tourist haste, as Pompeii and supposed it to be a station for a tram or railroad line to that place; but having been refused entrance as they rushed for tickets and unable to make the guards at the door understand, they were nonplused as to where the proper entrance was to be found, and much disgusted when we explained Pom- pieri meant fire-brigade and that the railway station for Pom- CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 135 peii was a m/ile or two away! As usual they had planned to spend the afternoon at the ruins and leave early to-morrow for Rome. Conte C. called a cab and arranged with the cocker, to reach the Ferrovia for Pompeii in all possible speed. We watched them dash off, bumping madly over the cobblestone pavement — the women with chapeaux awry, the man with his watch in hand. Oh, these tourists ! We spent this afternoon with friends who have a lovely Villa up on the Corso Victor Emmanuel with beautiful name of '' Santa Maria/' They have an exquisite garden with old marble seats, and fauns; quantities of roses and of course orange and mandarine trees — all the Neapolitan ville have those and air is ever filled with their fragrance. The gardeners broke oif whole branches, laden with the yellow fruit for us, and we came home almost buried with the foliage — stopping to make a few turns on the Via Caracciolo. One must always make this promenade here on Sunday; there is enchanting music in the Villa and all Naples is either on the Caracciolo or sauntering in the Villa — for this is our Pincian Garden. Though of course I am very sure this Villa Reale is far more beautiful than anything Rome can offer, or your bella Firenze either ! Rome may have more admirable old ruins but she can not be so lovable and adorable as this beauti- ful sunny Napoli stretched out along this turquoise Tyrrhenian. " God gives all men all earth to love, But since man's heart is small. Ordains for each one spot shall prove Beloved over all. Each to his choice, and I rejoice The lot has fallen to me " — To love a land — a smiling land; Sweet Napoli, by the sea. Of course I apologize to Kipling. Yet I'm sure had he known this Napoli as I, his verse would have run something like that. Tanti saluti! " dolce Napoli, suol heate Ove sorridere Voile il create/' Santa Lucia " — Neapolitan Boating Song TO G. Naples^ January — YESTERDAY, beloved St. Anthony's day and we went down to his church with Duchessa P. to attend the bless- ing of Neapolitan horses — great religious festa attended by the entire city, for Naples is a very religious old city — say what you will. Few of these Neapolitan cabmen, however in- different they may often seem to their priests, will miss this blessing for their animals and this in spite of the fact that the horses '^ non sono cristiani " — at least Pietro so states and so it must be true. Though it strikes us that Beppo after having dri\xn us all morning and arriving full two hours late to his pranzo bears up with true Christian spirit and sees to it that none of his brave dash is ever lost. And, like those fish who came together on the sea-shore of Rimini to listen to St. Anthony preach and showed their understanding of his sermon by open- ing wide their mouths and nodding heads, so Beppo himself by willing spirit and swift speed endeavors to make us understand that the blessing of St. Anthony which he has had now for six years is fully appreciated even though, as Pietro so emphatic- ally states, he can not be a good Catholic. Beppo was there at the Church this afternoon, smartly tricked out with ribbons, bells and charms to ward off the evil eye. For alas, potent as is St. Anthony's blessing, it would be of little avail against all these wicked jettatori of Napoli! and charms against the malocchio are as necessary as St. Anthony's blessing, though the two are in no way confounded by these mysterious Neapolitans. The amulets do their part and St. Anthony's blessing surely availeth much. Of the latter I am 136 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 137 sure. Since one living in this Napoli and driven every day through these crowded, narrow streets by debonair, dare-devil drivers, realizes how very few accidents occur and must cer- tainly attribute this special grace given to the horses as coming directly from St. Anthony in heaven. It would surely require more than earthly skill to avert accidents at the dashing rate we fly in Pietro's shining carrozella. The Humane- Society, introduced into Italy by a Bostonian, has done such splendid work among the cabmen of Naples that F. says one finds the cab-horses of Rome sorry beasts com- pared with these here, who, like Beppo, are generally fat and sleek. We've never yet seen a driver unkind to his beast though diabolic cockers are supposed to be as much a part of Naples as blue sky and gold sun. The nohili too had sent their horses by grooms and coachmen, for dear St. Anthony is not partial to cab-horses alone and his blessing is in demand on all sides — from aristocratic nohili and from humble owners of little sure-footed donkeys who climb the stair-streets buried in their loads of green and no doubt have much need of St. Anthony's blessing to give them the proper meekness for standing patiently at angle closely ap- proaching forty-five degrees while the debonair vendors bargain with dark-eyed signore in shrill voice and much gesticulation. Duchessa P.'s beautiful carriage horses, considered by many to be the most perfect pair in all Napoli, had been taken in the morning to receive their blessing and as we sat watching the ceremony, Nino, her footman, told us with simplicity which made us all smile, how he had made bold to ask the priest to give Principessa an extra heavy sprinkling of the holy water since she suffered with a slight case of distemper ! Oh, these Neapoli- tans ! The horses of the nohili, by the way, are splendid spirited animals of Moorish blood and turnouts here rival those of our own great cities. They have here the clever custom of shoeing the horses with rubber, using bells on the harness which tinkle charmingly. 'Tis said that no matter how poor a family of the nohili may be, if within power they will always manage to have their own carriage. Which reminds me, I've lately read in two different sketches 138 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING on Italy of the incident related by an American who had an apartment in a Roman palace and in going in or out frequently met a servant belonging to one of the families in the palazzo, forever carrying carriage doors ! It was explained later that the mysterious doors belonged to a single carriage which three rather poor Italian families, each having an apartment in the old palazzo, shared between them — each family having their door proudly bearing their own coat-of-arms. Thus, so the mystified American related, they each had, as it were, their own carriage for the corso and all their friends believed each family maintained their own complete outfit. This American, by the way, was none other than Mr. Hawthorne, and perhaps he himself would have preferred driving several days a week during nine months of the year with coat-of-arms emblazoned on the door which was not his own ! But whose coat-of-arms, please, would be used if the carriage was owned jointly by three different families.'^ Ecco! it would seem one must agree with the Romans that the simplest solution of the problem was to have the different sets of doors! Non e vero? But Americans and English are ever fond of declaring *' Tutto per I'apparenza " — all for appearance — is the one motto of Italian nobility and it really seems they base this remark particularly on the wish of Italian families to keep a carriage. How anyone can blame people for being willing to make sac- rifice to keep a turnout in such a divine land as this is quite past comprehension, though I suppose to a rotund Tedesco a lordly dinner would be a thousand times preferable than an hour of driving under bluest sky in the world. But happily, eating is not the chief end of a Neapolitan. On macaroni and fromaggio, a salad and fruit one miay dine like a king. And what difference if the great salons of these old palazzi have only scaldini for heating — one may always drive in the sun- shine and have their heart warmed by the smiles of friends in the corso. For here one makes the corso each afternoon with the never- failing regularity with which one looks to the barometer Vesuve each morning. We had a splendid trottata this afternoon with Duchessa P. — once we had seen for a surety that Pietro had walked his sleek Beppo around the court three times, receiving CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 1S9 each time a liberal sprinkling of the holy water. For without assurance of San Antonio's blessing we would never dare trust our precious necks in Pietro's hands. But being satisfied that all had been properly performed even to seeing the certificate of blessing tied with gaudy ribbon to the pompous horn amulet^ we dashed off for the corso with hearts at ease, joining in the long stream of carriages con amore. There's wonderful charm in the corso, though you who have never made one in an Italian city — and it's only in Italy that they are so regularly observed — will perhaps wonder wherein lies the so-great attraction in driving up and down a street and, as it were, placing oneself on exhibition for several hours each afternoon. It's only one of the many mysteries of this ador- able land — a something too intangible to be analyzed, yet no one who loves Italy will deny its potency. And so steeped are we in the ways of this Old World Napoli, rarely day passes that we are not on the corso, making a trottata with all zest of a Neapolitan born. In winter, except on those days when there's music in the Villa, the corso is generally held on the old Toledo and on the Chiaia — streets so narrow that there is little more than room for the two columns of carriages and when once you enter it is impossible, except at cross streets, to leave the line or dash ahead. One can go no faster than the turnout just in front. The superb sea-drive along the Villa front is surely unsur- passed for the stately moving corso, but even though there is no view, — no sapphire sea and only a mere ribbon of azure sky to be seen above one's head — on these inland streets, there is ever something of great interest and something of Old World picturesque. You know this old Toledo has been called most fascinating street of the whole world and 'tis surely true. Heaven knoweth how it holds its mass of humanity, for 'tis a street less than sixty feet wide — strange contrast with its almost two miles of length — and packed into its narrow con- fines each afternoon are not only all the gens d'elite of Napoli engaged in making the corso, but each class and condition of Neapolitans to be found between the array of nobili and army of poveri, finds its place there too. For the Toledo, unlike the handsome avenues used for the afternoon drives in New York, 140 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING Paris and Vienna, is for rich and poor alike — just as the laws and penalties which Don Pedro enforced here were for nohili as much as for peasant. (Alas for that debonair young noble- man, Antonio Brancaccio, who bent on a love adventure, was caught breaking into one of these old palazzi in the daytime by means of a ladder and was promptly executed !) But nohili of to-day who love to promenade this old Toledo, at all hours of day and night, seem to have altogether forgiven that zealous Viceroy who so disgusted their ancestors with his many reforms and attempts to establish the Inquisition in this smiling old city of the siren. Don Pedro may have been great- est of all viceroys, but he was surely not loved and no doubt many a Neapolitan must have sighed for those happy days of the Great Captain. Gonsalvo da Cordova, so severe, yet so lov- able and generous to his enemies that to this day the Neapoli- tans call him the gentil cavalier, and when he left this Parthen- ope he was followed to the shore by all the Neapolitans in a body. Not a dry eye was to be seen, Prescott says, you re- member — so completel)'^ had il gran capitano captivated all classes. We met F. later at Calflish — he always knows where to look for us late each afternoon, for these dolci of Calflish are so much a notre gout that even the splendid English tea-rooms in the new Galleria Vittoria fail to attract. The Italians really understand and enjoy the science of eating better than any other nation and it is predicted that English tea-rooms are to meet with the same fate as French restaurants so far as Neapoli- tans are concerned, and must depend on forestieri for patronage. Italians, you know, are true artists in the culinary arts — not so frugal as the French, yet by no means given to an over- abundance after manner of Americans and English (and of course not to be mentioned in the same breath with these ruddy, rotund Germians!) but strike a happy medium in quantity with a quality delectable — barring snails and eels and young octo- puses ! It's really not at all to be wondered at that the Italian chefs des cuisines are in such growing demand in our best Amer- ican hotels and restaurants and are so rapidly destroying the long-held monopoly of the French, just as Italian musicians have broken down the monopoly of the Germans. CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 141 F. had a box for San Carlos, last night. Signor Mascagni's " Amico Fritz/' the opera, splendidly given, though I much prefer '* Cavalleria Rusticana '' with which he leaped into fame. We had a beautiful box of the second tier — one which has be- longed for years to the prominent B. family until this season when they can no longer afford a box at San Carlos and the son of the family is making great efforts — so at least gossip says, to find an American who will exchange a few million for a share in his many titles. The opera season is in full sway and though the Metropolitan may boast better artists, its boxes surely hold no more beautiful women and no more splendid uni- forms than this old San Carlos of Naples. One receives calls in one's box at the theater here, consid- ering it equivalent to a call at one's home. It is custom d' habitude — one which, 'tis said, is carried out in the small towns with the same ardor as in the great centers, for of course each small town has its opera house and season of Grand Opera, it being nothing of a luxury but necessity to these music-mad people. We had callers at our palco the entire evening. These Neapolitans are wonderfully attractive — say what you will. Mr. T. surprised us by coming in unexpectedly from Rome ac- companied by three splendidly uniformed officers, with names and titles seemingly as splendid as the uniforms. They'll doubt- less leave cards some time to-day so one may puzzle out the titles at leisure — count the balls of the coronets and ascer- tain be its o^vner duke, prince, marchese or mere conte. The greatest difficulty being not in this, but how to know the men Vun ou Vautre, since when several leave cards at once, as is often the case, the matter becomes decidedly complicated. So incon- siderate of these people to have names, each with so many vow- els that in meeting several at the same mooment, one finds it impossible oftentimes to remember which signore ends in o and which in a! As some Italian himself has tersely said, one is slave here to the tiny visiting card, through whose medium many of the rigid rules of society in this sirenic old city are observed with unfailing exactitude sufficient to astonish that divine Parthenope. For instance this rule that each gentleman whom one meets must come the next day and leave his card for Mad- ame le Mere, although he never at this time asks, of course, to 142 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING see one. Like most of these Old World customs it's rather a charming one — one may know just whom they wish^ though it's a rule carried out on the part of these dark gallants of Napoli with such spirit that one may not meet a man in even the most casual manner^ but that his card is left the next day with your pompous old portier. 'Tis said these wise portiers gauge their fees by the number of cards left for the prospective f eer ! And I must tell you these old portiers of Naples are nothing like those portiers of France, but the most delightful, humble- pompous creatures you can imagine. Ours here is a treasure — one who holds all the secrets and old traditions of this mys- terious Napoli within his gold-laced breast, though you would seldom suspect him of being anything but a mechanical statue making profound obeisances at certain intervals of clock-like regularity. Though really it must be confessed he has his mechanism so nicely regulated that an obeisance in presenting the carte de visite of a prince or duke bearing an old Neapolitan name is much more profound than in the presentation, for in- stance, of the card of a conte or even a duke of the noveau riche! What these old portiers don't know concerning the his- tory of Neapolitan families and the etiquette due each shade of nobility would certainly be of little importance. But that is one of the secrets their superb mechanism never betrays, though it seems almiost evident at times they consider the dare-devil ways of Americans quite hopeless. " Hopeless " is doubtless what poor Contessina C. believes them to be. She is a gracious Neapolitan-English girl who makes her home here and though on account of her English father she herself takes many a liberty no true Neapolitan would dare, yet it is quite evident she considers ways of Ameri- cans often astonishing — quite impossible ! She gave me amus- ing warning the other night after an informal little dance here at the hotel, the purport being that if I talked or danced with one of these Neapolitans too often, there will be immediate rumors of my engagement, likely to reach America through that gossipy Nev} York Herald edition of Paris before I myself have learned to pronounce my supposed fiance's name correctly! Mamma mia! What would be considered too often — six CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 143 dances one evening? I questioned anxiously. And poor little Contessina C.'s warm olive skin actually turned pale at mention of such a thing. " Madonna mia! — not more than once dur- ing an evening if you know what is well ! " she exclaimed in such serious tones that last night at the opera I took elaborate pains my attentions should be evenly divided among the Neapoli- tans in the box. May the gods assist me if all future days in this idyllic land must be troubled by constant thought of fair di\dsion of words and smiles ! I broke off abruptly, Maria having interrupted to remind me that madame was