“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