under this fascinating exterior, I suspect our Frattino to be a very worthless, as well as a very unhappy being.  While he pleases, he repels me.  There is a want of heart about him, a want of fixed principles—­a degree of profligacy, of selfishness, of fickleness, caprice and ill-temper, and an excess of vanity, which all his courtly address and savoir faire cannot hide.  What would be insufferable in another, is in him bearable, and even interesting and amusing:  such is the charm of manner.  But all this cannot last:  and I should not be surprised to see Frattino, a few years hence, emerge from his foreign frippery, throw aside his libertine folly, assume his seat in the senate, and his rank in British society; and be the very character he now affects to despise and ridicule—­“a true-bred Englishman, who rides a thorough-bred horse.”

* * * * *

Our excursion to Pompeii yesterday was “a pic-nic party of pleasure,” a l’Anglaise.  Now a party of pleasure is proverbially a bore:  and our expedition was in the beginning so unpromising, so mismanaged—­our party so numerous, and composed of such a heterogeneous mixture of opposite tempers, tastes, and characters, that I was in pain for the result.  The day, however, turned out more pleasant than I expected:  exterior polish supplied the want of something better, and our excursion had its pleasures, though they were not such as I should have sought at Pompeii.  I felt myself a simple unit among many, and found it easier to sympathise with others, than to make a dozen others sympathise with me.

We were twelve in number, distributed in three light barouches, and reached Pompeii in about two hours and a half—­passing by the foot of Vesuvius, through Portici, Torre del Greco, and l’Annonziata.  The streams of lava, which overwhelmed Torre del Greco in 1794, are still black and barren; but the town itself is rising from its ruins; and the very lava which destroyed it serves as the material to rebuild it.

We entered Pompeii by the street of the tombs:  near them are the semicircular seats, so admirably adapted for conversation, that I wonder we have not sofas on a similar plan, and similar scale.  I need not dwell on particulars, which are to be found in every book of travels:  on the whole, my expectations were surpassed, though my curiosity was not half gratified.

The most interesting thing I saw—­in fact the only thing, for which paintings and descriptions had not previously prepared me, was a building which has been excavated within the last fortnight:  it is only partly laid open, and labourers are now at work upon it.  Antiquarians have not yet pronounced on its name and design; but I should imagine it to be some public edifice, perhaps dedicated to religious purposes.  The paintings on the walls are the finest which have yet been discovered:  they are exquisitely and tastefully designed; and though executed merely