As we descend, we come upon a group of little children seated about a doorstep, black-eyed, chubby little urchins, who are cutting oranges into little bits, and playing “party,” as children do on the other side of the Atlantic.  The instant we stop to speak to them, the skinny hand of an old woman is stretched out of a window just above our heads, the wrinkled palm itching for money.  The mother comes forward out of the house, evidently pleased with our notice of the children, and shows us the baby in her arms.  At once we are on good terms with the whole family.  The woman sees that there is nothing impertinent in our cursory inquiry into her domestic concerns, but, I fancy, knows that we are genial travelers, with human sympathies.  So the people universally are not quick to suspect any imposition, and meet frankness with frankness, and good-nature with good-nature, in a simple-hearted, primeval manner.  If they stare at us from doorway and balcony, or come and stand near us when we sit reading or writing by the shore, it is only a childlike curiosity, and they are quite unconscious of any breach of good manners.  In fact, I think travelers have not much to say in the matter of staring.  I only pray that we Americans abroad may remember that we are in the presence of older races, and conduct ourselves with becoming modesty, remembering always that we were not born in Britain.

Very likely I am in error; but it has seemed to me that even the funerals here are not so gloomy as in other places.  I have looked in at the churches when they are in progress, now and then, and been struck with the general good feeling of the occasion.  The real mourners I could not always distinguish; but the seats would be filled with a motley gathering of the idle and the ragged, who seemed to enjoy the show and the ceremony.  On one occasion, it was the obsequies of an officer in the army.  Guarding the gilded casket, which stood upon a raised platform before the altar, were four soldiers in uniform.  Mass was being said and sung; and a priest was playing the organ.  The church was light and cheerful, and pervaded. by a pleasant bustle.  Ragged boys and beggars, and dirty children and dogs, went and came wherever they chose—­about the unoccupied spaces of the church.  The hired mourners, who are numerous in proportion to the rank of the deceased, were clad in white cotton,—­a sort of nightgown put on over the ordinary clothes, with a hood of the same drawn tightly over the face, in which slits were cut for the eyes and mouth.  Some of them were seated on benches near the front; others were wandering about among the pillars, disappearing in the sacristy, and reappearing with an aimless aspect, altogether conducting themselves as if it were a holiday, and if there was anything they did enjoy, it was mourning at other people’s expense.  They laughed and talked with each other in excellent spirits; and one varlet near the coffin, who had slipped off his mask, winked at me repeatedly, as if to inform me that it was not his funeral.  A masquerade might have been more gloomy and depressing.