After dinner, some of our party left in the whale-boat, being anxious to be present at Madame Almazilia’s benefit performance at the opera, for which I fear they arrived too late after all.  Whilst we were waiting at the railway-station to-day, some of the bouquets, which were to be presented at the theatre to-night, arrived by train.  The flowers were arranged in all manner of strange shapes and devices—­full-sized tables and chairs, music-stands, and musical instruments, and many other quaint conceits, composed entirely of grey Neapolitan violets, marked out with camellias and other coloured flowers.

Sunday, September 24th.—­Most of us went ashore in the whale-boat at ten o’clock, to attend the English church, reopened to-day for the first time for some months.  After our own service we met many friends, and walked to the Roman Catholic cathedral.  The streets were full of well-appointed carriages, and in the interior of the building we found a great many well-dressed ladies, and a few men.  Mass had not commenced, and a constant stream of worshippers was still entering; but we remained only for a short time, and then returned to the Mole.  By this time the wind had freshened considerably, and several of our friends tried to persuade us to remain on shore; but as we knew Tom was expecting us, and we wanted to get the things we required for our next journey, we thought it better to go off.

It took us two hours and a half, beating against the wind, to reach the yacht, sea-sick, and drenched to the skin.  Directly we got outside the bar the sea was very bad, and each wave broke more or less over the little half-deck, under which the children had been packed away for shelter.  Seeing how rough it was out at the anchorage—­far worse than near the shore—­Tom had quite given us up, for it was now half-past three, and was preparing to come ashore, bringing our things with him.  On board the yacht we found an unfortunate French maid, and another servant, who had come off early in the morning to spend the day and have dinner with our people, but who were now lying prostrate and ill in the cabin.

Champagne and luncheon revived us a little, and Tom hurried us off to get ashore again by daylight, before the weather became worse.  It was a very pleasant twenty minutes’ sail to the shore, racing along before the wind, with two reefs in the mainsail—­quite a different thing from beating out.  The tide was high, and the captain therefore steered for the pier, where he hoped to land us.  Unfortunately, however, he missed it; and as it was impossible to make another tack out, all that could be done was to let go the anchor to save running ashore, and wait until they sent out a small boat to fetch us.  This took some little time during which we pitched and tossed about in a very disagreeable fashion.  When the boat did at last arrive she turned out to be a wretched little skiff, rowed by two men, with very indifferent oars, and only capable of taking