"Nay," replied Mr Lutter, "Belfront Castle would be infinitely improved if

such doctrines were adopted in it."

"Gentlemen," said Reginald, "you are both learned men; and I know nothing

about the questions you discuss."

"Your lady shall judge between us," said Mr Lutter.

"She shall not," said Mr Peeper; "I am the sole judge in matters of the

kind."

"Let us hear Phil's song in the mean time," said Reginald. "Come, Lorimer."

"What shall it be?" said Phil.

"Something comic," said Sir Bryan.

"Something bloody," said Hasket of Norland.

"Something loving," said Maulerer of Phascald.

"Will the lady decide for us?" said Phil, with a smile. "Will you have the

'Silver Scarf,' madam; or 'the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad?' They are

both done into my poor English from the troubadours of Almeigne."

The lady fixed, at haphazard, on "the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad:"

and Phil prepared to obey her commands. He took a small harp in his hand,

and sate down in the vacant chair next to Sir Bryan de Bareilles. The rest

of the company composed themselves to listen; and, after a short prelude,

Lorimer, in a fine manly voice, began--

"Oh, brightly bloom'd the orange flow'r,

And fair the roses round;

And the fountain, in its marble bed,

Leapt up with a happy sound;

And stately, stately was the hall,

And rich the feast outspread;

But the Soldan of Bagdad sigh'd full sore,

And never a word he said.

Never a word the Soldan said,

But many a tear let fall;

He had tried all the joys that life could give,

And was weary of them all.

The Soldan lift up his heavy eye--

And to that garden fair,

A stranger enter'd with harp in hand,

And with a winsome air;

Long locks of yellow molten gold

Hung over his cheek so brown,

And a red mantle of Venice silk

Fell from his shoulders down.

A weary wanderer he did seem,

Come from a distant land;

And over the harpstrings thoughtfully,

He moveth his cunning hand.

He opes his lips, and he poureth forth

Such a sweet stream of sound,

That the Soldan's heart leaps up in his breast,

And his eye he casts around.

'Was never a voice,' the Soldan said,

'So sweet--nor so blest a song;--

Sing on, kind minstrel,' the Soldan said,

'I have been sad too long.'

The minstrel sang, and soft and sweet

The Soldan's tears fell free;

'Oh, tell me, thou minstrel dear,' he said,

'What boon shall I give to thee?

Oh, stay with me but a year and a day,

And sing sweet songs to me;

And whatever the boon, by Allah, I swear,

I will freely give it to thee.'

The minstrel stay'd a year and a day,

And the Soldan loved him well;

'Now what is the boon thou askest of me--

I prithee, dear minstrel, tell.'

'A Christian knight in thy dungeon pines,

And his hope is nearly o'er;

His freedom is the boon I ask--

Oh, open his prison door!'

The minstrel went--and no more was seen;

And the Christian knight, set free,

Found a stately ship, that bore him safe

Home to his own countrie.

And his lady met him at the gate,

His lady fair and young;

And with a scream of pride and joy,

She in his bosom hung.

Oh, glad, glad was the Christian knight,

And glad was his lady fair,

And her pale cheek flush'd as he cast aside

The locks of her raven hair,

And kiss'd her brow, and told the tale

Of his dungeon, deep and strong;

And of the minstrel, too, he told

And of the power of song.

And they blest the minstrel, and blest his song,

And soon the feast was dight;

And prince and noble crowded in,

To welcome home the knight.

And when the brimming cup went round,

Spoke out an evil tongue,

And blamed that lady to her lord,

That lady fair and young;

And told, with many a bitter sneer,

How that, for many a day,

When he was prison'd in Paynim land,

That dame was far away,

And none knew where; but all could guess--

Up rose the knight, and kept

His hand close clutch'd on his dagger heft,

And down the hall he stept;

And onwards with the dagger bared,

He rush'd to the lady's bower--

'Thou hast been false, and left thy home--

Thou diest this very hour!'

'Oh! it is true, I left my home;

But yet, before I die,

Oh! look not on me with face so changed,

Nor with so fierce an eye!

Oh! let me, but for a minute's space,

Into my chamber hie;

One prayer I would say for thee and me--

One prayer--before I die!'

She left the bower; and as he stept

To and fro in ireful mood,

A stranger from the chamber came,

And close behind him stood.

Long locks of molten yellow gold

Hung over his cheek so brown,

And a red mantle of Venice silk,

Fell from his shoulder, down.

Dark frown'd the knight--'Vile churl!' he said;

But ere he utter'd more,

The stranger let the mantle fall

Unclasp'd upon the floor,--

And off he cast the yellow locks--

And, lo! the lady fair,

Blushing and casting from her cheek

Her glossy raven hair!

Down fell the dagger; down the knight

Sank kneeling and opprest;

And the lady oped her snow white arms,

And wept upon his breast!"

"A foul song!--a wanton woman!"--exclaimed Sir Bryan de Barreilles--"he

should have stabbed her for living so long with a Jew villain like the

Soldan of Bagdad."

"Was the villain a Jew?" enquired Dr Howlet, who had caught the word. "I

did not know Bagdad was in Jewry. Is a heathen the same as a Jew, Mr

Peeper?"

The gentleman thus appealed to, coughed as if to clear his throat, and

though he usually spoke with the utmost clearness, he mumbled and muttered

in the same unintelligible manner as he had done when he was saying grace;

and it was a very peculiar habit of the learned individual, whenever he

was applied to for an explanation, to betake himself to a mode of speech

that would have puzzled a far wiser head than Dr Howlet's, to make head or

tail of it.

Dr Howlett, however, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the

information; and by the indignant manner in which he struck his long

gold-headed ebony walking-stick on the floor, seemed entirely to agree

with the worthy knight in his estimate of the heroine of Phil Lorimer's

ballad.

"I like the ballad about the jousting of Romulus the bold Roman, with

Judas Maccabaeus in the Camp at Ascalon far better," said Hasket of

Norland. "Sing it, Phil."

"No, no," cried Maulerer, who was far gone in intoxication. "Sing us the

song of the Feasting at Glaston, when Eneas the Trojan married Arthur's

daughter.--Sing the song, sirrah, this moment, or I'll cut your tongue in

two, to make your note the sweeter.--Sing."

Thus adjured, Phil once more began:--

"There was feasting high and revelry

In Glaston's lofty hall;

And loud was the sound, as the cup went round,

Of joyous whoop and call;

And Arthur the king, in that noble ring,

Was the merriest of them all.

No thought, no care, found entrance there,

But beauty's smiles were won;

No sour Jack Priest to spoil the feast"--

"Ha!" cried Howlet, interrupting Mr Lorimer in a tremendous passion, "what

says the varlet? He is a heathen Turk, and no Christian. How dares he talk

so of the church?" The old man rose as he spoke, and, suddenly catching

hold of the enormous ebony walking-stick, which generally reposed at the

side of his chair, he aimed a blow with all his force at the unfortunate

songster; but, being blind, and not calculating his distance, his staff

fell with tremendous effect on the left eye of Sir Bryan de Barreilles.

"Is it so?" cried the Knight, stunned; but resisting the tendency to

prostration produced by the stroke, and flinging a large silver flagon

across the table, which missed Dr Howlet, and made a deep indentation in

the skull of Maulerer of Phascald--"Now, then!"

Hasket of Norland attempted to hold Sir Bryan, and prevent his following

up his attack; and Mr Maulerer recovered sufficiently to fling the heavy

candlestick at his assailant; the branches of which hit the cheek of

Hasket, while the massive bottom ejected the three front teeth of Sir

Bryan.

There was now no possibility of preventing the quarrel; and while the four

strangers were pounding each other with whatever weapons came first to

hand, and Mr Peeper crept under the table for safety, and Reginald essayed

to talk them into reason, Mr Lutter politely handed Jane to the door of

the hall.

"Permit me, madam, to rescue you from this dreadful scene."

"Is it thus always?" enquired Jane, nearly weeping with fright.

"There are many things that may be improved in the castle," said Mr Lutter.

"I have seen the necessity of an alteration for a long time, and, if you

will favour me with your assistance, much may be done."

"Oh! I will help you to the utmost of my power."

"We must upset the influence of Mr Peeper," said Mr Lutter. "May I speak

to you on the subject to-morrow?"

A month had passed since Jane's arrival at Belfront Castle, and she had

had many private and confidential conversations with Mr Lutter. The

ominous eyes of Mr Peeper grew fiercer and fiercer, and she many times

thought of coming to an open rupture with him at once; but was deterred

from doing so, by not yet having ascertained whether her influence over

Reginald was sufficiently established to stand a contest with the

authority of his ancient friend. She could not understand how her husband

could have remained hoodwinked so long; or how he had submitted to the

despotic proceedings of his former tutor, who persisted in assembling the

same airs of authority over him, as he had exercised when he was a child.

Such, however, was evidently the case; and Reginald had never entertained

a thought of rescuing himself from the thraldom in which he had grown up.

A look from Mr Peeper; a solemn statement from him, that such and such

things had never been heard of before in Belfront; and, above all, the use

of the muttered and unintelligible jargon to which Mr Peeper betook

himself in matters of weight and difficulty, were quite sufficient:

Reginald immediately gave up his own judgment, and felt in fact rather

ashamed of himself for having hinted that he had a judgement at all. Under

these circumstances, Mr Lutter had a very difficult part to play; and all

that Jane could do, was to second him whenever she had the opportunity.

One day, in the lovely month of April, Phil Lorimer sat on a sunny part of

the enornous wall that guarded the castle, and leaning his back against

one of the little square towers that rose at intervals in the circuit of

the fortifications, sang song after song, as if for the edification of a

number of crows that were perched on the trees on the other side of the

moat. The audience were grossly inattentive, and paid no respect whatever

to the performer, who still continued his exertions, as highly satisfied

as if he were applauded by boxes, pit, and gallery of a crowded

theatre:--Among others, he sang the ballad of the "Silver Scarf."

"It was a King's fair daughter,

With eyes of deepest blue,

She wove a scarf of silver

The whole long summer through--

"A stately chair she sat on

Before the castle door,

And ever in the calm moonlight

She work'd it o'er and o'er.

"And many a knight and noble

Went daily out and in,

And each one marvell'd in his heart

Which the fair scarf might win.

"She took no heed of questions,

From her work ne'er raised her head,

And on the snow-white border

Sew'd her name in blackest thread.

"Then came a tempest roaring,

From the high hills it came,

And bore the scarf far out to sea

From forth its fragile frame:

"The maiden sate unstartled,

As if it _must_ be so--

She stood up from her stately chair,

And to her bower did go.

"She took from forth her wardrobe

Her dress of mourning hue--

Whoever for a scarf before

Such weight of sorrow knew?

"In robes of deepest mourning,

Three nights and days she sate;

On the third night, the warder's horn

Was sounded at the gate--

"A messenger stands at the door,

And sad news bringeth he;

The king and all his gallant ships

Are wreck'd upon the sea.

"And now the tide is rising,

And casts upon the shore

Full many a gallant hero's corse,

And many a golden store.

"Then up rose the king's daughter,

Drew to her window near;

'What is it glitters on thine arm,

In the moonlight so clear?'

"'It is a scarf of silver,

I brought it from the strand;

I took it from the closed grasp

Of a strong warrior's hand.'

"That feat thou ne'er shouldst boast of

If but alive were he;

Go take him back thy trophy

To the blue rolling sea.

"And when that knight you've buried,

The scarf his grave shall grace;

And next to where you've laid him,

Oh, leave a vacant place!"

"Here, you cursed old piper! leave off frightening the crows, and open the

gate this moment. Who the devil, do you think, is to burst a bloodvessel

by hollowing here all day?"

Mr Lorimer, though used to considerable indignities, as we have already

seen, had still a little of the becoming poetical pride about him, and

looked rather angrily over the wall. "Nobody wishes you to break

bloodvessels, or have their own ears disturbed by your screaming," he said.

"What do you want?"

"To get into your infernal house, to be sure. Where did you get such

unchristian roads? My bones are sore with the jolting. Send somebody to

open the gate."

"The drawbridge is up, and Mr Peeper must have his twopence."

"Who the devil is Mr Peeper?" said the stranger. "I sha'n't give him a

fraction. Who made the drawbridge his? Is Mr Belfront at home?"

"Yes, he is in Mr Peeper's study."

"And Mrs Belfront?"--

"Pickling cod. It is Mr Peeper's favourite dish; so we all live on it

sometimes for weeks together."

"With such a trout-stream at your door? He'll be a cleverer fellow than I

think him if he gets me to eat his salted carrion. Open the door, I say,

or you'll have the worst of it when my stick gets near your head. Tell Mrs

Belfront her uncle is here--her Uncle Samson."

Phil Lorimer saw no great resemblance to the Jewish Hercules in the little,

dapper, bustling-mannered man in a blue coat with bright brass buttons,

pepper-and-salt knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who thus proclaimed his

relationship to the lady of the castle. He hurried down from the wall to

make the required announcement.

"My uncle Samson, the manufacturer, from Leeds! Oh, let him in, by all

means!" exclaimed Jane; "he was always so kind to me when I was a child!"

"He can't get in, madam, unless Mr Peeper orders the drawbridge to be

lowered; and he is now busy with Mr Belfront."

"Go for Mr Lutter; he will be glad to hear of uncle Samson's arrival."

Mr Lorimer discovered Mr Lutter comfortably regaling himself in the

buttery; but on hearing in what respect his services were required, he

left unfinished a large tankard of ale, with which he was washing down an

enormous quantity of bread and cheese, and proceeded to the moat.

"Don't disturb Mr Peeper," he said, "but help me to launch the little

punt."

By dint of a little labour, the small vessel was got into the water, and

Mr Lutter, taking a scull in his hand, paddled over to the other side, and

embarked the gentleman in the blue coat. Paddling towards an undefended

part of the castle, he taught him how to clamber up the wall; and Mr

Samson, wiping the stains of his climbing from the knees of his nether

habiliments, looked round the castle-yard. "Well! who'd have thought that

such a monstrous strong-looking place should be stormed by a middle-aged

gentleman in a punt!"

"You've a friend in the garrison, you'll remember, sir, and the

battlements have never been repaired."

"They ain't worth repairing. It's a regular waste of building materials to

make such thick walls and pinnacles. Blowed, if them stones wouldn't build

a mill; and a precious water-power, too," he added, as he saw the river

sparkling downward at the northern side. "Oho! I must have a talk with

Jane. Will you take me to Mrs Belfront? I haven't seen her for five years.

She must be much changed since then, and I must prepare her for the

arrival of her cousins."

Jane was sitting in the great hall, feeling disconsolate enough. Often, in

her father's comfortable parlour, she had read accounts of baronial

residences of the olden time; and one of the greatest pleasures she had

felt in becoming Mrs Belfront, was to be the possessor of a real _bona

fide_ castle that had been actually a fortress in the days of knighthood.

She had studied long ago the adventures of high-born dames and stately

nobles, till she was nearly as far gone in romance as Don Quixote; and

many questions she had asked about Belfront, and donjon-towers, and keeps,

and tiltyards, and laboured very hard to acquire a correct idea of the

mode of life and manners of the days of chivalry. Her imagination, we have

seen, was too lively to be restrained by the more matter-of-fact nature of

her husband; and she now felt with great bitterness the difference between

presiding at a tournament, or being present at the Vow of the Peacock, and

the slavish submission in which she, with the whole household, was held by

Mr Pepper. Deeply she now regretted the feelings of superiority she had

experienced over her own relations by her marriage into such an ancient

race as the Belfronts. She felt ashamed of the contempt she had felt for

the industrious founders of her own family's wealth, and at that moment

would have preferred the blue coat and brass buttons of her uncle Samson,

to all the escutcheons and shields of the Norman conquest; and at that

moment, luckily, the identical coat and buttons made their appearance.

"Well, niece, here's a go!" exclaimed the angry uncle. "Is this a way to

receive a near relation after such a journey?"

"Oh, uncle!"

"Why, did ye never hear tell of such a place as Kidderminster?--have you

no carpets?"

"Mr Belfront says there were no carpets in his ancestor's time"--

"And no railroads, nor postchaises, nor books, nor nothing; and is that

any reason why we shouldn't have lots of every thing now? By dad, before

I've been here a week I'll have a reg'lar French Revolution! No Bastille!

says I; let's have a Turkey carpet, and a telescope dining-table, good

roads, and no infernal punts--and, above all, let's get quit of the

villain Peeper."

"Oh! if Reginald would only consent!"

"Why not? by dad, I'll make his fortune. I'll give him a thousand a-year

for the water-power that's now all thrown away. I'll have a nice village

built down in the valley. I'll get him two guineas an acre for his land

that's now lying waste. I'll dig for coal. We'll build a nice comfortable

house, and leave this old ruin to the crows."

"And the neighbours, uncle Samson?"

"Why, we'll build a church, and the parson will be a good companion. When

the roads are made, you'll give a jolly dinner once a-week to every squire

within ten miles. You'll have a book club. You'll help in the Sunday

school. You'll go to the county balls. Your husband will join the

agricultural society, and act as a magistrate. He'll subscribe to the

hounds. He'll attend to the registrations. He'll have shooting-parties in

September. And as to any old-world, wretched talks about chivalry and

antiquity, we'll show him that there never was a time like the

present--commerce, land, property, and intelligence, all in the very best

condition. We'll make Lutter superintendent of the whole estate, and send

old Peeper about his business. And in all this you must help; for there's

nothing to be done without the help of the ladies: so give me your hand,

dear niece, and don't cry."

"It would make me so happy! I would never look into Amadis de Gaul again!"

"Hang Amadis de Gall and Amadi de Spurzheim, too! Where is your husband?"

"I seldom see him now. He is always in the oratory with Mr Peeper."

"The deuce he is!" said the uncle. "And how do you get on in other

respects? Are you comfortable--happy--contented?" Jane told him all she

had encountered since she had come to the castle, and the uncle seemed

thunderstruck at the recital.

"Well! bold measures are always the best," he said at last; "I'll kick

Peeper into the moat!" and before his niece could interfere, the uncle had

rushed across the quadrangle, guided, we are sorry to say, by Mr Lutter,

and, grasping the venerable Peeper, whom he met near the drawbridge, he

dragged him towards the water.

Jane ran to get assistance for the unfortunate victim; and crying "Help!

help!" as she saw the wretched man forced over the walls, she looked in a

state of distraction towards her husband. "Dear Jane," said that

individual, smiling blandly, "I told you you had overtired yourself with

walking." Jane gazed round; there was Reginald sitting beside her, with

her head reclining on his shoulder, at the open window of the inn in Wales.

The vale of Cwmcwyllchly was spread in a beautiful landscape below. They

were still on their wedding tour.

"You have been asleep, Jane," said Reginald.

"And have had such dreadful dreams. Oh, Reginald! I have had such visions

of horrid things and people. I shall never be romantic again about

chivalry. Such coarseness!--such slavery!--such ignorance! Ah, how happy

we ought to be that we are born in a civilized time, with no Mr Peepers

for father confessors, nor fighting with firebrands for amusement!"

"You have been reading _Hallam's Middle Ages_--a present from your uncle

Samson--till you have become a right-down Utilitarian. Come, let us ring

for tea; and to-morrow we must start for Yorkshire! The Quarter-sessions

are coming on."

* * * * *

DUMAS IN HIS CURRICLE.

We left M. Dumas at Marseilles: we find him again at Naples. Three volumes

are the result of his visit to the last named city--volumes in which he

manages to put a little of every thing, and a good deal of some things.

Antiquarian, historian, virtuoso, novelist, he touches upon all subjects,

flying from one to the other with a lightness and a facility of transition

peculiarly his own, and peculiarly agreeable. English travellers and

Italian composers, St Januarius and the opera, Masaniello and the

_gettatura_, Pompeii, princes, police spies, Vesuvius, all have their

turn--M. Dumas, with his usual tact, merely glancing at those subjects

which are known and written about by every tourist, but giving himself

full scope when he gets off the beaten track. His book is literally

crammed with tales and anecdotes, to such a degree indeed, and most of

them so good, that our principal difficulty in commencing a notice of it,

is to know where to pick and choose our extracts; _l'embarras des

richesses_, in short. The best way will probably be to begin at the

beginning, and go as far as our limits allow us, referring our readers to

the original for the many good things that want of space will compel us to

exclude.

M. Dumas calls his book the _Corricolo_, and devotes a short and

characteristic preface to an explanation of the title. This explanation we

must give in his own words. It is so highly graphic, that, after reading

it, we fancied we had seen a picture of what it describes.

"A _corricolo_ is a sort of tilbury or gig, originally intended to hold

one person, and be drawn by one horse. At Naples they harness two horses

to it; and it conveys twelve or fifteen individuals, not at a walk nor at

a trot, but at full gallop, and this, notwithstanding that only one of the

horses does any work. The shaft horse draws, but the other, which is

harnessed abreast of him, and called the _bilancino_, prances and curvets

about, animates his companion, but does nothing else.

"Having said that the gig built to carry one is made to carry fifteen, I

am, of course, expected to explain how this is accomplished. There is an

old French proverb, according to which, when there is enough for one there

is enough for two; but I am not aware of any proverb in any language which

says, that when there is enough for one, there is enough for fifteen.

Nevertheless, it is the case with the _corricolo_. In the present advanced

state of civilization, every thing is diverted from its primitive

destination. As it is impossible to say at what period, or in how long a

time, the capacity of the vehicle in question was extended in the ratio of

one to fifteen, I must content myself with describing the way of packing

the passengers.

"In the first place, there is almost invariably a fat greasy monk seated

in the middle, forming the centre of a sort of coil of human creatures. On

one of his knees is some robust rosy-cheeked nurse from Aversa or Nettuno;

on the other, a handsome peasant woman from Bauci or Procida. On either

side of him, between the wheels and the body of the vehicle, stand the

husbands of these two ladies. Standing on tiptoe behind the monk is the

driver, holding in his left hand the reins, and in his right the long whip

with which he keeps his horses at an equal rate of speed. Behind _him_ are

two or three lazzaroni, who get up and down, go away, and are succeeded by

others, without any body taking notice of them, or expecting them to pay

for their ride. On the shafts are seated two boys, picked up on the road

from Torre del Greco or Pouzzoles, probably supernumerary _ciceroni_ of

the antiquities of Herculaneum and Pompeii. Finally, suspended under the

carriage, in a sort of coarse rope network with large meshes, which swings

backwards and forwards at every movement of the vehicle, is a shapeless

and incomprehensible mass, which cries, laughs, sings, screams, shouts,

and bellows, all by turns and none for long together, and the nature of

which it is impossible to distinguish, dimly seen as it is through the

clouds of dust raised by the horses' feet. This mass consists of three or

four children, who belong to Heaven knows who, are going Heaven knows

where, live Heaven knows how, and are there Heaven knows wherefore.

"Now then, put down, one above the other, monk, women, husbands, driver,

lazzaroni, boys and children; add them up, include the infant in arms,

which has been forgotten, and the total will be fifteen.

"It sometimes happens that the _coricolo_ passes over a big stone, and

upsets, pitching out its occupants to a greater or less distance,

according to their respective gravity. But, on such occasions, nobody

thinks of himself; the attention of every one is immediately turned to the

monk. If he is hurt, the journey is over for the day; they carry him to

the nearest house; the horses are put into the stable, and he is put to

bed; the women nurse him, make much of him, cry and pray over him. If, on

the other hand, the monk is safe and sound, nobody has a right to complain;

he resumes his seat, the nurse and the peasant woman resume theirs, the

others climb up into their respective places--a crack of the long whip,

and a shout from the driver, and the _corricolo_ is off again full speed."

From this we learn what a _corricolo_ is, but we have not yet been told

why M. Dumas should christen his book after the degenerate descendant of

the Roman curriculum. Patience--we shall get to it in time. Materials

crowd upon our traveller, and it is only in the second chapter that the

desired explanation is given. In the first we are informed of M. Dumas's

installation at the Hotel Vittoria, kept by M. Martin Zill, who, besides

being an innkeeper, is a man of much taste in art, a distinguished

antiquary, an amateur of pictures, a collector of autographs and

curiosities. Apropos of the hotel we have an anecdote of the ex-dey of

Algiers, who, on being dispossessed of his dominions by the French, took

refuge at Naples, and established himself under M. Zill's hospitable roof.

The third floor was entirely occupied by his suite and attendants, the

fourth was for himself and his treasures, the fifth, or the garrets, he

converted into his harem. The curious arms, costumes, and jewels which

Hussein Pacha had brought with him, were a godsend to the virtuoso weary

of examining and admiring them; and, before the African had been a week in

the house, he and his host were sworn friends. Unfortunately this harmony

was not destined to last very long.

"One morning Hussein Pacha's cook (a Nubian as black as ink, and as

shining as if he had been polished with a shoe-brush) entered the kitchen

of the hotel, and asked for the largest knife they had. The head-cook gave

him a sort of carving-knife, some eighteen inches long, sharp as a razor,

and pliant as a foil. The negro looked at it, shook his head as if in

doubt whether it would do, but nevertheless took it up stairs with him.

Presently he brought it down again, and asked for a larger one. The cook

opened all his drawers, and at last found a sort of cutlass, which he

hardly ever used on account of its enormous size. With this the Nubian

appeared more satisfied, and again went up stairs. Five minutes afterwards

he came down for the third time, and returned the knife, asking for a

bigger one still. The cook's curiosity was excited, and he enquired who

wanted the knife, and for what purpose.

"The African told him very coolly that the dey, having left his dominions

rather in a hurry, had forgotten to bring an executioner with him, and had

consequently ordered his cook to get a large knife and cut off the head of

Osmin, chief of the eunuchs, who was convicted of having kept such

negligent watch and ward over his highness's seraglio, that some

presumptuous Giaour had made a hole in the wall, and established a

communication with Zaida, the dey's favourite _odalisque_. Accordingly

Osmin was to be decapitated; and as to the offending lady, the next time

the dey took an airing in the bay of Naples, she would be put into the

boat in a sack, and consigned to the keeping of the kelpies. Thunderstruck

at such summary proceedings, the cook desired his Nubian brother to wait

while he went for a larger knife; then hastening to M. Martin Zill, he

told him what he had just heard.

"M. Martin Zill ran to the minister of police, and laid the matter before

him. His excellency got into his carriage and went to call upon the dey.

He found his highness reclining upon a divan, his back supported by

cushions, smoking latakia in a chibouque, while an icoglan scratched the

soles of his feet, and two slaves fanned him. The minister made his three

salaams; the dey nodded his head.

"'Your highness,' said his excellency, 'I am the minister of police.'

"'I know you are,' answered the dey.

"'Then your highness probably conjectures the motive of my visit.'

"'No. But you are welcome all the same.'

"'I come to prevent your highness from committing a crime.'

"'A crime! And what crime?' said the dey, taking the pipe from his mouth,

and gazing at his interlocutor in the most profound astonishment.

"'I wonder your highness should ask the question,' replied the minister.

'Is it not your intention to cut off Osmin's head?'

"'That is no crime,' answered the dey.

"'Does not your highness purpose throwing Zaida into the sea?'

"'That is no crime,' repeated the dey. 'I bought Osmin for five hundred

piasters, and Zaida for a thousand sequins, just as I bought this pipe for

a hundred ducats.'

"'Well,' said the minister, 'what does your highness deduce from that?'

"'That as this pipe belongs to me, as I have bought it and paid for it, I

may break it to atoms if I choose, and nobody has a right to object.' So

saying, the pacha broke his pipe, and threw the fragments into the middle

of the room.

"'All very well, as far as a pipe goes,' said the minister; 'but Osmin,

but Zaida?'

"'Less than a pipe,' said the dey gravely.

"'How! less than a pipe! A man less than a pipe! A woman less than a pipe!'

"'Osmin is not a man, and Zaida is not a woman: they are slaves. I will

cut off Osmin's head, and throw Zaida into the sea.'

"'No!' said the magistrate. 'Not at Naples at least.'

"'Dog of a Christian!' shouted the dey, 'do you know who I am?'

"'You are the ex-dey of Algiers, and I am the Neapolitan minister of

police; and, if your deyship is impertinent, I shall send him to prison,'

added the minister very coolly.

"'To prison!' repeated the dey, falling back upon his divan.

"'To prison,' replied the minister.

"'Very well,' said Hussein. 'I leave Naples to-night.'

"'Your highness is as free as air to go and to come. Nevertheless, I must

make one condition. Before your departure, you will swear by the Prophet,

that no harm shall be done to Osmin or Zaida.'

"'Osmin and Zaida belong to me, and I shall do what I please with them.'

"'Then your highness will be pleased to deliver them over to me, to be

punished according to the laws of the country; and, until you do so, you

will not be allowed to leave Naples.'

"'Who will prevent me?'

"'I will.'

"The pacha laid his hand on his dagger. The minister stepped to the window

and made a sign. The next moment the tramp of heavy boots and jingle of

spurs were heard upon the stairs; the door opened, and a gigantic corporal

of gendarmes made his appearance, his right hand raised to his cocked hat,

his left upon the seam of his trouser.

"'Gennaro,' said the minister of police, 'if I gave you an order to arrest

this gentleman, would you see any difficulty in executing it?'

"'None, your excellency.'

"'You are aware that this gentleman's name is Hussein Pacha.'

"'I was not, your excellency.'

"'And that he is dey of Algiers.'

"'May it please your excellency, I don't know what that is.'

"'You see?' said the minister, turning to the dey.

"'The devil! exclaimed Hussein.

"'Shall I?' said Gennaro, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and

advancing a pace towards the dey, who, on his part, took a step backwards.

"'No,' replied the minister, 'it will not be necessary. His highness will

do as he is bid. Go and search the hotel for a man named Osmin, and a

woman named Zaida, and take them both to the prefecture.'

"'What!' cried the dey; 'this man is to enter my harem?'

"'He is not a man,' replied the minister; 'he is a corporal of gendarmes.

But if you do not wish him to go, send for Osmin and Zaida yourself.'

"'Will you promise to have them punished?' enquired the dey.

"'Certainly; according to the utmost rigour of the law.'

"Hussein Pacha clapped his hands. A door concealed behind a tapestry was

opened, and a slave entered the room.

"'Bring down Osmin and Zaida,' said the dey.

"The slave crossed his hands on his breast, bowed his head, and

disappeared without uttering a word. The next instant he came back with

the two culprits.

"The eunuch was a little round fat fellow, with beardless face, and small

hands and feet. Zaida was a beautiful Circassian, her eyelids painted with

kool, her teeth blackened with betel, her nails reddened with henna. On

perceiving Hussein Pacha, the eunuch fell upon his knees; Zaida raised her

head. The dey's eyes flashed, and he clutched the hilt of his kangiar.

Osmin grew pale; Zaida smiled. The minister of police made a sign to the

gendarme, who stepped up to the two captives, handcuffed them, and led

them out of the room. As the door closed behind them, the dey uttered a

sound between a sigh and a roar.

"The magistrate looked out of the window, till he saw the prisoners and

their escort disappear at the corner of the Strada Chiatamone. Then

turning to the dey--

"'Your highness is now at liberty to leave Naples, if he wishes so to do,'

said the imperturbable functionary with a low bow.

"'This very instant!' cried Hussein. 'I will not remain another moment in

such a barbarous country as yours.'

"'A pleasant journey to your highness,' said the minister.

"'Go to the devil!' retorted Hussein.

"Before an hour had elapsed, the dey had chartered a small vessel, on

board of which he embarked the same evening with his suite, his wives, and

his treasures; and at midnight he set sail; cursing the tyranny that

prevented a man from drowning his wife and cutting off the heads of his

slaves. The next day the minister of police had the culprits brought

before him and examined. Osmin was found guilty of having slept when he

ought to have watched, and Zaida of having watched when she ought to have

slept. But, by some strange omission, the Neapolitan code allots no

punishment to such offences; and, consequently, Osmin and Zaida, to their

infinite astonishment, were immediately set at liberty. Osmin took to

selling pastilles for a livelihood, and the lady got employment as _dame

de comptoir_ in a coffeehouse. As to the dey, he had left Naples with the

intention of going to England, in which country, as he had been informed,

a man is at liberty to sell his wife, if he may not drown her. He was

taken ill, however, on the road, and obliged to stop at Leghorn, where he

died."

M. Dumas, not being in good odour with the Neapolitan authorities, on

account of some supposed republican tendencies of his, is at Naples under

an assumed name; and, as it is uncertain how long he may be able to

preserve his incognito, he is desirous of seeing all that is to be seen in

as short a time as possible. He finds that Naples, independently of its

suburbs, consists of three streets where every body goes, and five hundred

streets where nobody goes. The three streets are, the Chiaja, the Toledo,

and the Forcella; the five hundred others are nameless--a labyrinth of

houses, which might be compared to that of Crete, deducting the Minotaur,

and adding the Lazzaroni. There are three ways of seeing Naples--on foot,

in a _corricolo_ or in a carriage. On foot, one goes every where, but one

sees too much; in a carriage, one only goes through the three principal

streets, and one sees too little--the _corricolo_ is the happy medium, the

_juste milieu_, to which M. Dumas for once determines to adhere. Having

made up his mind, he sends for his host, and enquires where he can hire a

_corricolo_ by the week or month. His host tells him he had better buy one,

horse and all. To this plan M. Dumas objects the expense.

"'It will cost you,' said M. Martin, after a momentary calculation in his

head, 'it will cost you--the _corricolo_ ten ducats, each horse thirty

carlini, the harness a pistole; in all, eighty French francs.'

"'What! for ten ducats I shall have a _corricolo_?'

"'A magnificent one.'

"'New?'

"'Oh! you are asking too much. There are no such things as new _corricoli_.

There is a standing order of the police forbidding coachmakers to build

them.'

"'Indeed! How long has that order been in force?'

"'Fifty years, perhaps.'

"'How comes it, then, that there is such a thing as a _corricolo_ in

existence?'

"'Nothing easier. You know the story of Jeannot's knife?'

"'To be sure I do; it is one of our national chronicles. The blade had

been changed fifteen times, and the handle fifteen times, but it was still

the same knife.'

"'The case of the _corricolo_ is exactly similar. It is forbidden to build

new ones, but it is not forbidden to put new wheels to old bodies, and new

bodies on old wheels. By these means the _corricolo_ becomes immortal.'

"'I understand. An old body and new wheels for me, if you please. But the

horses? Do you mean to say that for thirty francs I shall have a pair of

horses?'

"'A superb pair, that will go like the wind.'

"'What sort of horses?'

"'Oh, dead ones, of course!'

"'Dead ones!'

"'Certainly. At that price you could hardly expect any thing better.'

"'My dear M. Martin, be kind enough to explain. I am travelling for my

improvement, and information of all kinds is highly acceptable.'

"'You are acquainted with the history of the horse, I suppose?'

"'The natural history? Buffon's? Certainly. The horse is, after the lion,

the noblest of all the beasts.'

"'No, no; the philosophical history. The different stages and vicissitudes

in the existence of those noble quadrupeds.'

"'Oh yes! first the saddle, then a carriage or gig, thence to a

stage-coach or omnibus, hackney-coach or cab, and finally--to the

knacker's.'

"'And from the knacker's?'

"'To the Elysian fields, I suppose.'

"'No. Not here, at least. From the knacker's they go to the _corricoli_.'

"'How so?'

"'I will tell you. At the Ponte della Maddalena, where horses are taken to

be killed, there are always persons waiting, who, when a horse is brought,

buy the hide and hoofs for thirty carlini, which is the price regulated by

law. Instead of killing the horse and skinning him, these persons take him

with the skin on, and make the most of the time he yet has to live. They

are sure of getting the skin sooner or later. And these are what I mean by

dead horses.'

"'But what can they possibly do with the unfortunate brutes?'

"'They harness them to the _corricoli_.'

"'What! those with which I came from Salerno to Naples'--

"'Were the ghosts of horses; spectre steeds, in short.'

"'But they galloped the whole way.'

"'Why not? _Les morts vont vite._'"

_Et cetera, et cetera_. For the price stated by his host, M. Dumas finds

himself possessor of a magnificent _corricolo_ of a bright red colour,

with green trees and animals painted thereon. Two most fiery and impatient

steeds, half concealed by harness, bells, and ribands, are included in his

purchase. After a vain attempt to drive himself, the phantom coursers

having apparently a supreme contempt for whipcord, he gives up the reins

to a professional charioteer, and commences his perambulations. His first

visit is to the Chiaja, the favourite promenade of the aristocracy and of

foreigners; his second to the Toledo, the street of shops and loungers;

his third to the Forcella, frequented by lawyers and their clients. He

makes a chapter, and a long one too, out of each street; but not in the

way usually adopted by those pitiless tour-writers who overwhelm their

readers with dry architectural details, filling a page with a portico, and

a chapter with a chapel--not letting one off a pane of a painted window or

line of worm-eaten inscription however often those things may have been

described already by previous travellers. M. Dumas prefers men to things

as subjects for his pen; and the three chapters above named are filled

with curious illustrations of Neapolitan manners, customs, and character.

Apropos of the Toledo, we are introduced to the well-known _impresario_,

Domenico Barbaja, who had his palazzo in that street, and who, from being

waiter in a coffeehouse at Milan, became the manager of three theatres at

one time, namely, San Carlo, La Scala, and the Vienna opera. He appears to

have been a man of great energy and originality of character, concealing

an excellent heart under the roughest manners and most choleric of tempers.

"It would be impossible," says M. Dumas, "to translate into any language

the abuse with which Barbaja used to overwhelm the singers and musicians

at his theatres when they displeased him. Yet not one of them bore him

malice for it, knowing that, if they had the least triumph, Barbaja would

be the first to embrace and congratulate them: if they were unsuccessful,

he would console them with the utmost delicacy: if they were ill, he would

watch over them with the tenderness of a father or brother. The fortune

which he had amassed, little by little, and by strenuous exertions, he

spent in the most generous and princely manner. His palace, his villa, and

his table, were open to all.

"His genius was of a peculiar and extraordinary kind. Education he had

none: he was unable to write the commonest letter, and did not know a note

of music; yet he would give his composers the most valuable hints, and

dictate with admirable skill the plan of a libretto. His own voice was of

the harshest and most inharmonious texture; but by his advice and

instructions he formed some of the first singers in Italy. His language

was a Milanese patois; but he found means to make himself excellently

understood by the kings and emperors, with whom he carried on negotiations

upon a footing of perfect equality. It was a great treat to see him seated

in his box at San Carlo, opposite that of the King of Naples, on the

evening of a new opera; with grave and impartial aspect, now turning his

face to the actors, then to the audience. If a singer went wrong, Barbaja

was the first to crush him with a severity worthy of Brutus. His '_Can de

Dio_!' was shouted out in a voice that made the theatre shake and the poor

actor tremble. If, on the other hand, the public disapproved without

reason, Barbaja would start up in his box and address the audience.

'_Figli d'una racca_!' 'Will you hold your tongues? You don't deserve good

singers.' If by chance the King himself omitted to applaud at the right

time, Barbaja would shrug his shoulders and go grumbling out of his box.

"With all his peculiarities, he it was who formed and brought forward

Lablache, Tamburini, Rubini, Donzelli, Colbran, Pasta, Fodor, Donizetti,

Bellini, and the great Rossini himself, whose masterpieces were composed

for Barbaja. It is impossible to form an idea of the amount of entreaties,

stratagems, and even violence, expended by the _impresario_ to make

Rossini work. I will give an example of it, which is highly characteristic

both of the manager and of the greatest and happiest, but most

_insouciant_ and idle, musical genius that ever drew breath under the

bright sky of Italy."

We are sorry to tantalize our readers, but we have not space for the story

that follows. It relates to the opera of _Othello_, which was composed by

Rossini in an incredibly short time, whilst a prisoner in an apartment of

Barbaja's house. For nearly six months had the composer been living vith

the manager, entertaining his friends at his well-spread table, drinking

his choicest wines, and occupying his best rooms--all this under promise

of producing a new opera within the half-year, a promise which he showed

little disposition to fulfil. Barbaja was in a fever of anxiety, and

finding remonstrance unavailing, had recourse to stratagem. One morning,

when Rossini was about to start on a party of pleasure, he found his doors

secured outside; and, on putting his head out of the window, was informed

by Barbaja that he must remain captive until his ransom was paid. The

ransom, of course, was the opera.

Rossini subsequently revenges himself on his tyrant in a very piquant

manner; and, finally, the morning after _Othello_ has been performed with

triumphant success, he starts for Bologna, taking with him, as travelling

companion, the _prima donna_ of the San Carlo theatre, Signora Colbran,

whom he had privately married. All this is related very amusingly by M.

Dumas, but at too great length for our limits.

We have a naval combat in the second volume, in which a French frigate is

attacked by two English line-of-battle ships, one of which she sinks, and

receives in return the entire point-blank broadside of the other, a

three-decker; which broadside, we in our ignorance of nautical matters,

should have thought sufficient to blow her either out of the water or

under it. It has not that effect, however, and the frigate is captured;

the captain of her, when he has hauled down his flag in order to save the

lives of his men, stepping into his cabin and blowing his brains out. All

this is very pretty, whatever may be said of its probability. But there

are two subjects on which the majority of Frenchmen indulge in most

singular delusions. These are, their invincibility upon the sea, and the

battle of Waterloo. M. Dumas has not escaped the national monomania.

Our author is very hard upon the poor English in this book. He attacks

them on all sides and with all weapons. Nelson and Lady Hamilton occupy a

prominent position in his pages. The execution of Admiral Carraciolo, an

undoubted blot on the character of our naval hero, is given in all its

details, and with some little decorations and embellishments, for which we

suspect that we have to thank our imaginative historian. Nelson's weakness,

the ascendency exercised over him by Lady Hamilton, or Emma Lyonna, as M.

Dumas prefers styling her, her intimacy with the Queen of Naples, and

subservient to the wishes and interests of the Neapolitan court, are all

set forth in the most glowing colours. This is the heavy artillery, the

round-shot and shell; but M. Dumas is too skilful a general to leave any

part of his forces unemployed, and does not omit to bring up his

sharpshooters, and open a pretty little fire of ridicule upon English

travellers in Italy, who, as it is well known, go thither to make the

fortunes of innkeepers and purchase antiquities manufactured in the

nineteenth century. Strange as it may appear, we should be heartily sorry

if M. Dumas were to exchange his evident dislike of us for a more kindly

feeling. We should then lose some of his best stories; for he is never

more rich and amusing than when he shows up the sons and daughters of _le

perfide Albion_. In support of our assertion, take the following sketch:--

"During my stay at Naples an Englishman arrived there, and took up his

quarters at the hotel at which I was stopping. He was one of those

phlegmatic, overbearing, obstinate Britons, who consider money the engine

with which every thing is to be moved and all things accomplished, the

argument in short which nothing can resist. Money was every thing in his

estimation of mankind; talent, fame, titles, mere feathers that kicked the

beam the moment a long rent-roll or inscription of three per cents were

placed in the opposite scale. In proportion as men were rich or poor, did

he esteem them much or little. Being very rich himself, he esteemed

himself much.

"He had come direct to Naples by steam, and during the voyage had made

this calculation: With money I shall say every thing, do every thing, and

have every thing I please. He had not long to wait to find out his mistake.

The steamer cast anchor in the port of Naples just half an hour too late

for the passengers to land. The Englishman, who had been very sea-sick,

and was particularly anxious to get on shore, sent to offer the captain of

the port a hundred guineas if he would let him land directly. The

quarantine laws of Naples are very strict; the captain of the port thought

the Englishman was mad, and only laughed at his offer. He was therefore

obliged to sleep on board in an excessively bad humour, cursing alike

those who made the regulations and those who enforced them.

"The first thing he did when he got on shore, was to set off to visit the

ruins of Pompeii. There happened to be no regular guide at hand, so he

took a lazzarone instead. He had not forgotten his disappointment of the

night before, and all the way to Pompeii he relieved his mind by abusing

King Ferdinand in the best Italian he could muster. The lazzarone, whom he

had taken into his carriage, took no notice of all this so long as they

were on the high-road. Lazzaroni, in general, meddle very little in

politics, and do not care how much you abuse king or kaiser so long as

nothing disrespectful is said of the Virgin Mary, St Januarius, or Mount

Vesuvius. On arriving, however, at the _Via dei Sepolchri_, the ragged

guide put his finger on his lips as a signal to be silent. But his

employer either did not understand the gesture, or considered it beneath

his dignity to take notice of it, for he continued his invectives against

Ferdinand the Well-beloved.

"'Pardon me, Eccellenza,' said the lazzarone at last, placing his hand

upon the side of the barouche, and jumping out as lightly as a harlequin.

'Pardon me, Eccellenza, but I must return to Naples.'

"'And why so?' inquired the other in his broken Italian.

"'Because I do not wish to be hung.'

"'And who would dare to hang you?'

"'The king.'

"'Why?'

"'Because you are speaking ill of him.'

"'An Englishman has a right to say whatever he likes.'

"'It may be so, but a lazzarone has not.'

"'But you have said nothing.'

"'But I hear everything.'

"'Who will tell what you hear?'

"'The invalid soldier who accompanies us to visit Pompeii.'

"'I do not want an invalid soldier.'

"'Then you cannot visit Pompeii.'

"'Not by paying?'

"'No.'

"'But I will pay double, treble, four times, whatever they ask.'

"'No, no, no.'

"'Oh!' said the Englishman, and he fell into a brown study, during which

the lazzarone amused himself by trying to jump over his own shadow.

"'I will take the invalid,' said the Englishman after a little reflection.

"'Very good,' replied the lazzarone, 'we will take him.'

"'But I shall say just what I please before him.'

"'In that case I wish you a good morning.'

"'No, no; you must remain.'

"'Allow me to give you a piece of advice then. If you want to say what you

please before the invalid, take a deaf one.'

"'Ooh!' cried the Englishman, delighted with the advice, 'by all means a

deaf one. Here is a piaster for you for having thought of it.' The

lazzarone ran to the guard-house, and soon returned with an old soldier

who was as deaf as a post.

"They began the usual round of the curiosities, during which the

Englishman continued calling King Ferdinand any thing but a gentleman, of

all which the invalid heard nothing, and the lazzarone took no notice.

They visited the Via dei Sepolchri, the houses of Diomedes and Cicero. At

last they came to Sallust's house, in one of the rooms of which was a

fresco that hit the Englishman's fancy exceedingly. He immediately sat

down, took a pencil and a blank book from his pocket, and began copying it.

He had scarcely made a stroke, however, when the soldier and the lazzarone

approached him. The former was going to speak, but the latter took the

words out of his mouth.

"'Eccellenza,' said he, 'it is forbidden to copy the fresco.'

"'Oh!' said the Englishman, 'I must make this copy. I will pay for it.'

"'It is not allowed, even if you pay.'

"'But I will pay ten times its value if necessary; I must copy it, it is

so funny.'

"'If you do, the invalid will put you in the guard-room.'

"'Pshaw! An Englishman has a right to draw any thing he likes.' And he

went on with his sketch. The invalid approached him with an inexorable

countenance.

"'Pardon me, Eccellenza,' said the lazzarone; 'but would you like to copy

not only this fresco, but as many more as you please?'

"'Certainly I should, and I will too.'

"'Then, let me give you a word of advice. Take a blind invalid.'

"'Ooh!' cried the Englishman, still more enchanted with this second hint

than with the first. 'By all means, a blind invalid. Here are two piasters

for the idea.'

"They left Sallust's house, the deaf man was paid and discharged, and the

lazzarone went to the guard-room, and brought back an invalid who was

stone-blind and led by a black poodle.

"The Englishman wished to return immediately to continue his drawing, but

the lazzarone persuaded him to delay it, in order to avoid exciting

suspicion. They continued their rambles, therefore, guided by the invalid,

or rather by his dog, who displayed a knowledge of Pompeii that might have

qualified him to become a member of the antiquarian society. After

visiting the blacksmith's shop, Fortunata's house, and the public oven,

they returned to the abode of Sallust, where the Englishman finished his

sketch, while the lazzarone chatted with the blind man, and kept him

amused. Continuing their lounge, he made a number of other drawings, and

in a couple of hours his book was half full.

"At last they arrived at a place where men were digging. There had been

discovered a number of small busts and statues, bronzes, and curiosities

of all kinds, which, as soon as they were dug up, were carried into a

neighbouring house, and had his attention speedily attracted by a little

statue of a satyr about six inches high. 'Oh!' cried he, 'I shall buy this

figure.'

"'The king of Naples does not wish to sell it,' replied the lazzarone.

"'I will give its weight in sovereigns--double its weight even.'

"'I tell you it is not to be sold,' persisted the lazzarone; 'but,' added

he, changing his tone, 'I have already given your excellence two pieces of

advice which you liked, I will now give you a third: Do not buy the

statue--steal it.'

"'Oh--oh! that will be very original, and we have a blind invalid too.

Capital!'

"'Yes, but the invalid has a dog, who has two good eyes and sixteen good

teeth, and who will fly at you if you so much as touch any thing with your

little finger.'

"'I'll buy the dog, and hang him.'

"'Do better still; take a lame invalid. Then, as you have seen nearly

every thing here, put the figure in your pocket and run away. He may call

out as much as he likes, he will not be able to run after you.'

"'Ooh!' cried the Englishman, in convulsions of delight, 'here are three

piasters for you. Fetch me a lame invalid.'

"And in order not to excite the suspicions of the blind man and his dog,

he left the house, and pretended to be examining a fountain made of

shell-work, while the lazzarone went for a third guide. In a quarter of an

hour he returned, accompanied by an invalid with two wooden legs. They

gave the blind man three carlini, two for him and one for his dog, and

sent him away.

"The theatre and the temple of Isis were all that now remained to be seen.

After visiting them, the Englishman, in the most careless tone he could

assume, said he should like to return to the house in which were deposited

the produce of the researches then making. The invalid, without the

slightest suspicion, conducted them thither, and they entered the

apartment in which the curiosities were arranged on shelves nailed against

the wall.

"While the Englishman lounged about, pretending to be examining every

thing with the greatest interest, the lazzarone busied himself in

fastening a stout string across the doorway, at the height of a couple of

feet from the ground. When he had done this, he made a sign to the

Englishman, who seized the little statue that he coveted from under the

very nose of the astounded invalid, put it into his pocket, and, jumping

over the string, ran off as hard as he could, accompanied by the lazzarone.

Darting through the Stabian gate, they found themselves on the Salerno

road--an empty hackney-coach was passing, the Englishman jumped in, and

had soon rejoined his carriage, which was waiting for him in Via dei

Sepolchri. Two hours after he had left Pompeii he was at Torre del Greco,

and in another hour at Naples.

"As to the invalid, he at first tried to step over the cord fastened

across the door, but the height at which the lazzarone had fixed it was

too great for wooden legs to accomplish. He then endeavoured to untie it,

but with no better success; for the lazzarone had fastened it in a knot

compared to which the one of Gordian celebrity would have appeared a mere

slip-knot. Finally, the old soldier, who had perhaps read of Alexander the

Great, determined to cut what he could not untie, and accordingly drew his

sword. But the sword in its best days had never had much edge, and now it

had none at all; so that the Englishman was halfway to Naples whilst the

invalid was still sawing away at his cord.

"The same evening the Englishman left Naples on board a steamboat, and the

lazzarone was lost in the crowd of his comrades; the six plasters he had

got from his employer enabling him to live in what a lazzarone considers

luxury for nearly as many months.

"The Englishman had been twelve hours at Naples, and had done the three

things that are most expressly forbidden to be done there. He had abused

the king, copied frescoes, and stolen a statue, and all owing, not to his

money, but to the ingenuity of a lazzarone."

The lazzarone is a godsend for M. Dumas, an admirable peg upon which to

hang his quaint conceit and sly satire; and he is accordingly frequently

introduced in the course of the three volumes. We must make room for one

more extract, in which he figures in conjunction with his friend the

sbirro or gendarme, who before being invested with a uniform, and armed

with carbine, pistols, and sabre, has frequently been a lazzarone himself,

and usually preserves the instincts and tastes of his former station. The

result of this is a coalition between the lazzarone and the

sbirro--law-breaker and law-preserver uniting in a systematic attack upon

the pockets of the public.

"I was one day passing down the Toledo, when I saw a sbirro arrested. Like

La Fontaine's huntsman, he had been insatiable, and his greediness brought

its own punishment. This is what had happened.

"A sbirro had caught a lazzarone in the fact.

"'What did you steal from that gentleman in black, who just went by?' he

demanded he.

"'Nothing, your excellency,' replied the lazzarone. A lazzarone always

addresses a sbirro as _eccellenza_.

"'I saw your hand in his pocket.'

"'His pocket was empty.'

"'What! Not a purse, a snuff-box, a handkerchief?'

"'Nothing, please your excellency. It was an author.'

"'Why do you go to those sort of people?'

"'I found out my mistake too late.'

"'Come along with me to the police-office.'

"'But, your excellency--since I have stolen nothing?'

"'Idiot, that's the very reason. If you _had_ stolen something, we might

have arranged matters.'

"'Only wait till next time. I shall not always be so unfortunate. I

promise you the contents of the pocket of the next person who passes.'

"'Very good; but I will select the individual, or else you will be making

a bad choice again.'

"'As your excellency pleases.'

"The sbirro folded his arms in a most dignified manner, and leaned his

back against a post; the lazzarone stretched himself on the pavement at

his feet. A priest came by, then a lawyer, then a poet; but the sbirro

made no sign. At last there appeared a young officer, dressed in brilliant

uniform, who passed gaily along, humming between his teeth a tune out of

the last opera. The sbirro gave the signal. Up sprang the lazzarone and

followed the officer. Both disappeared round a corner. Presently the

lazzarone returned with his ransom in his hand.

"'What have you got there?' said the sbirro.

"'A handkerchief,' replied the other.

"'Is that all?'

"'That all! It is of the finest cambric.'

"'Had he only one?'[11]

[11] At Naples, it is customary to carry two handkerchiefs, one of

silk, and the other of cambric; the latter being used to wipe the

forehead.

"'Only one in that pocket.'

"'And in the other?'

"'In the other he had a silk handkerchief.'

"'Why didn't you bring it?'

"'I keep that for myself, excellency. It is fair that we should divide the

profits. One pocket for you, the other for me.'

"'I have a right to both, and I must have the silk handkerchief.'

"'But, your excelleilcy'----

"'I must have the silk handkerchief.'

"'It is an injustice.'

"'Ha! Do you dare speak ill of his majesty's sbirri? Come along to prison.'

"'You shall have the silk handkerchief, your excellency.'

"'How will you find the officer again?'

"'He is gone to pay a visit in the Strada de Foria. I will go and wait for

him at the door.'

"The lazzarone walked away, turned the corner of the street, and

established himself in the recess of a doorway. Presently the young

officer came out of a house opposite, and before he had gone ten paces,

put his hand in his pocket, and found he was minus a handkerchief.

"'Pardon me, excellency,' said the lazzarone, stepping up to him; 'you

have lost something, I think?'

"'I have lost a cambric handkerchief.'

"'Your excellency has not lost it; it has been stolen from him.'

"'And who stole it?'

"'What will your excellency give me if I find him the thief?'

"'I will give you a piastre.'

"'I must have two.'

"'You shall. Hallo! What are you doing?'

"'I am stealing your silk handkerchief.'

"'In order to find my cambric one?'

"'Yes.'

"'And where will both of them be?'

"'In the same pocket. The person to whom I shall give this handkerchief is

the same to whom I have already given the other. Follow me, and observe

what I do.'

"The officer followed the lazzarone, who gave the handkerchief to the

sbirro, and walked away. The latter had hardly put his prize in his pocket

when the officer came up and seized him by the collar. The sbirro fell on

his knees, but the officer was inexorable, and he was sent to prison. As

the sbirro had himself been a lazzarone, he saw at once the trick that had

been played him. He wanted to cheat his confederate, and his confederate

had cheated him; but far from bearing him malice for having done so, the

sbirro views the conduct of the lazzarone in the light of an exploit, and

feels an additional respect for him in consequence. When he is released

from prison, he will seek him out, and they will be hand and glove

together. When that time comes, look to your pockets."

We are introduced to Ferdinand IV. of Naples, King Nasone, as the

lazzaroni nicknamed him; also to Padre Rocco, a popular preacher, and the

idol of the lower classes of Neapolitans; and to Cardinal Perelli,

remarkable for his simplicity, which quality, as may be supposed, loses

nothing in passing through the hands of his present biographer. With his

usual skill, M. Dumas glides from a ticklish story of which the cardinal

is the hero, (a story that he does _not_ tell, for which forbearance we

give him due credit, since he is evidently sorely tempted thereto,) to an

account of the Vardarelli, a band of outlaws which for some time infested

Calabria and the Capitanato.

"Gaetano Vardarelli was a native of Calabria, and one of the earliest

members of the revolutionary society of the Carbonari. When Murat, after

for some time favouring that society, began to persecute it, Vardarelli

fled to Sicily, and took service under King Ferdinand. He was then

twenty-six years of age, possessing the muscles and courage of a lion, the

agility of a chamois, the eye of an eagle. Such a recruit was not to be

despised, and he was made sergeant in the Sicilian guards. On Ferdinand's

restoration in 1815, he followed him to Naples; but finding that he was

not likely ever to rise above a very subordinate grade, he became

disgusted with the service, deserted, and took refuge in the mountains of

Calabria. There two of his brothers, and some thirty brigands and outlaws,

assembled around him and elected him their chief, with right of life and

death over them. He had been a slave in the town; he found himself a king

in the mountains.

"Proceeding according to the old formula observed by banditti chiefs both

in Calabria and in melodramas, Vardarelli proclaimed himself redresser

general of wrongs and grievances, and acted up to his profession by

robbing the rich and assisting the poor. The consequence was, that he soon

became exceedingly dreaded by the former, and exceedingly popular among

the latter class; and at last his exploits reached the ears of King

Ferdinand himself, who was highly indignant at such goings on, and gave

orders that the bandit should immediately be hung. But there are three

things necessary to hang a man--a rope, a gallows, and the man himself. In

this instance, the first two were easily found, but the third was

unfortunately wanting. Gendarmes and soldiers were sent after Vardarelli,

but the latter was too cunning for them all, and slipped through their

fingers at every turn. His success in eluding pursuit increased his

reputation, and recruits flocked to his standard. His band soon doubled

its numbers, and its leader became a formidable and important person,

which of course was an additional reason for the authorities to wish to

capture him. A price was set on his head, large bodies of troops sent in

search of him, but all in vain. One day the Prince of Leperano, Colonel

Calcedonio, Major Delponte, with a dozen other officers, and a score of

attendants, were hunting in a forest a few leagues from Bari, when the cry

of '_Vardarelli_!' was suddenly heard. The party took to flight with the

utmost precipitation, and all escaped except Major Delponte, who was one

of the bravest, but, at the same time, one of the poorest, officers of the

whole army. When he was told that he must pay a thousand ducats for his

ransom, he only laughed, and asked where he was to get such a sum.

Vardarelli then threatened to shoot him if it was not forthcoming by a

certain day. The major replied that it was losing time to wait; and that,

if he had a piece of advice to give his captor, it was to shoot him at

once. The bandit at first felt half inclined to do so; but he reflected

that the less Delponte cared about his life, the more ought Ferdinand to

value it. He was right in his calculation; for no sooner did the king

learn that his brave major was in the hands of the banditti, than he

ordered the ransom to be paid out of his privy purse, and the major

recovered his freedom.

"But Ferdinand had sworn the extermination of the banditti with whom he

was thus obliged to treat as from one potentate to another. A certain

colonel, whose name I forget, and who had heard this vow, pledged himself,

if a battalion were put under his command, to bring in Vardarelli, his two

brothers, and the sixty men composing his troop, bound hand and foot, and

to place them in the dungeons of the Vicaria. The offer was too good to be

refused; the minister of war put five hundred men at the disposal of the

colonel, who started with them at once in pursuit of the outlaw. The

latter was soon informed by his spies of this fresh expedition, and _he_

also made a vow, to the effect that he would cure his pursuer, once and

for all, of any disposition to interfere with the Vardarelli.

"He began by leading the poor colonel such a dance over hill and dale,

that the unfortunate officer and his men were worn out with fatigue; then,

when he saw them in the state that he wished, he caused some false

intelligence to be conveyed to them at two o'clock one morning. The

colonel fell into the snare, and started immediately to surprise

Vardarelli, whom he was assured was in a little village at the further

extremity of a narrow pass, through which only four men could pass abreast.

He made such haste that he marched four leagues in two hours, and at

daybreak found himself at the entrance of the pass, which, however, seemed

so peculiarly well adapted for an ambuscade, that he halted his battalion,

and sent on twenty men to reconnoitre. In a quarter of an hour the twenty

men returned. They had not met a single living thing. The colonel

hesitated no longer, and entered the defile; but, on reaching a spot about

halfway through it, where the road widened out into a sort of platform

surrounded by high rocks and steep precipices, a shout was suddenly heard,

proceeding apparently from the clouds, and the poor colonel looking up,

saw the summits of the rocks covered with brigands, who levelled their

rifles at him and his soldiers. Nevertheless, he began forming up his men

as well as the nature of the ground would permit, when Vardarelli himself

appeared upon a projecting crag. 'Down with your arms, or you are dead

men!' he shouted in a voice of thunder. The bandits repeated his summons,

and the echoes repeated their voices, so that the troops, who had not made

the same vow as their colonel, and who thought themselves surrounded by

greatly superior numbers, cried out for quarter, in spite of the

entreaties and menaces of their unfortunate commander. Then Vardarelli,

without leaving his position, ordered them to pile their arms, and march

to two different places which he pointed out to them. They obeyed; and

Vardarelli, leaving twenty of his men in their ambush, came down with the

remainder, who immediately proceeded to render the Neapolitan muskets

useless (for the moment at least) by the same process which Gulliver

employed to extinguish the conflagration of the palace at Lilliput.

"The news of this affair put the king in very bad humour for the first

twenty-four hours; after which time, however, the love of a joke

overcoming his anger, he laughed heartily, and told the story to every one

he saw; and as there are always lots of listeners when a king narrates,

three years elapsed before the poor colonel ventured to show his face at

Naples and encounter the ridicule of the court."

The general commanding in Calabria takes the matter rather more seriously,

and vows the destruction of the banditti. By offers of large pay and

privileges, they are induced to enter the Neapolitan service, and prove

highly efficient as a troop of gendarmes. But the general cannot forget

his old grudge against them; although, for lack of an opportunity, and on

account of the desperate character of the men, he is obliged to defer his

revenge for some time. At last he succeeds in having their leaders

assassinated, and by pretending great indignation, and imprisoning the

perpetrators of the deed, he lulls the suspicions of the remaining bandits,

who elect new officers, and on an appointed day, proceed to the town of

Foggia to have their election confirmed. Only eight of them, apprehensive

of treachery, refuse to accompany their comrades. The remaining thirty-one,

and a woman who would not leave her husband, obey the general's summons.

"It was a Sunday, the review had been publicly announced, and the square

was thronged with spectators. The Vardarelli entered the town in perfect

order, armed to the very teeth, but giving no sign of hostility or

mistrust. On reaching the square, they raised their sabres, and with one

voice exclaimed--'_Viva il Re_!' The general appeared on his balcony to

acknowledge their salute. The aide-de-camp on duty came down to receive

them, and after complimenting them on the beauty of their horses and good

state of their arms, desired them to file past under the general's window,

which they did with a precision worthy of regular troops. They then formed

up again in the middle of the square, and dismounted.

"The aide-de-camp went into the house again with the list of the three new

officers; the Vardarelli were standing by their horses, when suddenly

there was a great confusion and movement in the crowd, which opened in

various places, and down every street leading to the square, a column of

Neapolitan troops was seen advancing. The Vardarelli were surrounded on

all sides. Perceiving at once that they were betrayed, they sprang upon

their horses and drew their sabres; but at the same moment the general

took off his hat, which was the signal agreed upon; the command, '_Faccia

in terra_,' was heard, and the spectators, throwing themselves on their

faces, the soldiers fired over them, and nine of the brigands fell to the

ground, dead or mortally wounded. Those who were unhurt, seeing that they

had no quarter to expect, dismounted, and forming a compact body, fought

their way to an old castle in which they took refuge. Two only, trusting

to the speed of their horses, charged the group of soldiers that appeared

the least numerous, shot down two of them, and succeeded in breaking

through the others and escaping. The woman owed her life to a similar

piece of daring, effected, however, on another point of the enemy's line.

She broke through, and galloped off, after having discharged both her

pistols with fatal effect.

"The attention of all was now turned to the remaining twenty Vardarelli,

who had taken refuge in the ruined castle. The soldiers advanced against

them, encouraging one another, and expecting to encounter an obstinate

resistance; but, to their surprise, they reached the gate of the castle

without a shot being fired at them. The gate was soon beaten in, and the

soldiers spread themselves through the halls and galleries of the old

building. But all was silence and solitude; the bandits had disappeared.

"After an hour passed in rummaging every corner of the place, the

assailants were going away in despair, convinced that their prey had

escaped them; when a soldier, who was stooping down to look through the

air-hole of a cellar, fell, shot through the body.

"The Vardarelli were discovered; but still it was no easy matter to get at

them. Instead of losing men by a direct attack, the soldiers blocked up

the air-hole with stones, set a guard over it, and then going round to the

door of the cellar, which was barricadoed on the inner side, they heaped

lighted fagots and combustibles against it, so that the staircase was soon

one immense furnace. After a time the door gave way, and the fire poured

like a torrent into the retreat of the unfortunate bandits. Still a

profound silence reigned in the vault. Presently two carbine shots were

fired; two brothers, determined not to fall alive into the hands of their

enemies, had shot each other to death. A moment afterwards an explosion

was heard; a bandit had thrown himself into the flames, and his cartridge

box had blown up. At last the remainder of the unfortunate men being

nearly suffocated, and seeing that escape was impossible, surrendered at

discretion, were dragged through the air-hole, and immediately bound hand

and foot, and conveyed to prison.

"As to the eight who had refused to come to Foggia, and the two who had

escaped, they were hunted down like wild beasts, tracked from cavern to

cavern, and from forest to forest. Some were shot, others betrayed by the

peasantry, some gave themselves up, so that, before the year was out, all

the Vardarelli were dead or prisoners. The woman who had displayed such

masculine courage, was the only one who finally escaped. She was never

heard of afterwards."

M. Dumas finds that the climate of Naples, delightful as it is, has

nevertheless its little drawbacks and disadvantages. He returns one night

from an excursion in the environs, and has scarcely got into bed, when he

is almost blown out of it again by a tornado of tropical violence.

"At midnight, when we returned to Naples, the weather was perfect, the sky

cloudless, the sea without a ripple. At three in the morning I was

awakened by the windows of my room bursting open, their eighteen panes of

glass falling upon the floor with a frightful clatter. I jumped out of bed,

and felt that the house was shaking. I thought of Pliny the Elder, and

having no desire for a similar fate, I hastily pulled on my clothes and

hurried out into the corridor. My first impulse had apparently been that

of all the inmates of the hotel, who were all standing, more or less

dressed, at the doors of their apartments; amongst others, Jadin, who made

his appearance with a phosphorus box in his hand, and his dog Milord at

his heels. 'What a terrible draught in the house!' said he to me. This

same draught, as he called it, had just carried off the roof of the Prince

of San Feodoro's palace, including the garrets and several servants who

were sleeping in them.

"My first thought had been of an eruption of Vesuvius, but there was no

such luck for us; it was merely a hurricane. A hurricane at Naples,

however, is rather different from the same thing in any other European

country.

"Out of the seventy windows of the hotel, three only had escaped damage.

The ceilings of seven or eight rooms were rent across. There was a crack

extending from top to bottom of the house. Eight shutters had been carried

away, and the servants were running down the street after them, just as

one runs after one's hat on a windy day. The broken glass was swept away;

as for sending for glaziers to mend the windows, it was out of the

question. At Naples nobody thinks of disturbing himself at three in the

morning. Besides, even had new panes been put in, they would soon have

shared the fate of the old ones. We were obliged, therefore, to manage as

well as we could with the shutters. I was tolerably lucky, for I had only

lost one of mine. I went to bed again, and tried to sleep; but a storm of

thunder and lightning soon rendered that impossible, and I took refuge on

the ground-floor, where the wind had done less damage. Then began one of

those storms of which we have no idea in the more northern parts of Europe.

It was accompanied by a deluge such as I had never witnessed, except

perhaps in Calabria. In an instant the Villa Reale appeared to be a part

of the sea; the water came up to the windows of the ground-floor, and

flooded the parlours. A minute afterwards, the servants came to tell M.

Zill that his cellars were full, and his casks of wine floating about and

staving one another. Presently we saw a jackass laden with vegetables come

swimming down the street, carried along by the current. He was swept away

into a large open drain, and disappeared. The peasant who owned him, and

who had also been carried away, only saved himself from a like fate by

clinging to a lamp-post. In one hour there fell more water than there

falls in Paris during the two wettest months in the year.

"Two hours after the cessation of the rain, the water had disappeared, and

I then perceived the use of this kind of deluge. The streets were clean;

which they never are in Naples except after a flood of this sort."

One short anecdote, and we have done. After a long account of St Januarius,

including the well-known miracle of the liquefaction of his blood, and

some amusing illustrations of his immense popularity with the Neapolitans,

M. Dumas, in two pithy lines, gives us the length, breadth, and thickness

of a lazzarone's religion.

"I was one day in a church at Naples," he says, "and I heard a lazzarone

praying aloud. He entreated God to intercede with St Januarius to make him

win in the lottery."

On the whole, we think this one of the most amusing of M. Dumas's works,

very light and sketchy, as is evident from our extracts; but at the same

time giving a great deal of information concerning Naples, its environs,

inhabitants, and customs, of much interest, and calculated to be highly

useful to the traveller. It is also very free from a fault with which we

taxed its author in a former paper, and we can scarcely call to mind a

single line which it would be necessary to expunge, in order to render it

fit reading for the most fastidious. As far as we ourselves are concerned,

we heartily wish M. Dumas would travel over all the kingdoms of the earth,

and write a book about each of them; and if he is as good company in a

post-chaise as his books are at the chimney-corner, there are few things

we should like better than to accompany him on his pilgrimage.

* * * * *

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.