And always the shadows of the narrow streets crooked in the end into a little plaza full of sun and beggars, and lemonade stands, and hawkers of wild strawberries, and when the great bank of a flower-stall stood just where the shadow ended sharply and the sun began, it made something to remember.  After that our way lay through a suburban parish fete, and we pursued it under strings and strings of little glass lanterns, red, and green, and blue, that swung across the streets; and there were goats and more children, and momma vainly endeavoured to keep off the smells with her parasol.  Then a region of docks and masts rising unexpectedly, and many little fish shops, and a glitter of scales on the pavement, and disconnected coils of rope, and lounging men with earrings, and unkempt women with babies, and above and over all the warm scent, standing still in the sun, of hemp, and tar, and the sea.

“The city,” said the Senator, casting his practised eye on a piece of dead wall that ran along the pavement, “is evidently in the turmoil of a general election, though you mightn’t notice it.  It’s the third time I’ve seen those posters ‘Viva il Prefetto!’ and ’Viva L’opposizione! That seems to be about all they can do, just as if we contented ourselves with yelling ‘’Rah for Bryan!’ ‘One more for McKinley!’ I must say if they haven’t any more notion of business than that they don’t either of ’em deserve to get there.”

“In France,” observed Mr. Dod, “they stick up little handbills addressed to their ‘chers concitoyens’ as if voters were a lot of baa-lambs and willie-boys.  It makes enervating reading.”

“Young man,” said poppa in a burst of feeling, “they say the American eagle might keep her beak shut with advantage, more than she does; but I tell you,” and the Senator’s hand came down hard on Dicky’s knee, “a trip around Europe is enough to turn her into a singing bird, sir, a singing bird.”

I don’t get my imagination entirely from momma.

“Viva il Prefetto!  Viva L’opposizione!” poppa repeated pityingly, as another pair of posters came in sight.  “Well, it won’t ever do the Government of Italy any good, but I guess I’m with the Opposizione.”

The road grew emptier and sandy white, and commerce forsook it but for here and there a little shop with fat yellow bags, which were the people’s cheeses, hanging in bladders at the door.  Crumbled gateways began to appear, and we saw through them that the villa gardens inside ran down and dropped their rose leaves into the blue of the Mediterranean.  We met the country people going their ways to town; they looked at us with friendly patronage, knowing all about us, what we had come to see, and the foolishness of it, and especially the ridiculous cost of carozza that take people to Pompeii.  And at last, just as the sun and the jolting and the powdery white dust combined had instigated us all to suggest to the Senator how much better it would have been to come by rail, the ponies made a glad and jingling sweep under the acacias of the Hotel Diomede, which is at the portals of Pompeii.