he decides within himself that they are all rascals—­ the scum of the earth—­and that he and he only is the true representative of man at his best—­the model of civilized respectability.  And a mournful spectacle he thus seems to the eyes of us “base” foreigners—­in our hearts we are sorry for him and believe that if he could manage to shake off the fetters of his insular customs and prejudices, he might almost succeed in enjoying life as much as we do!

As I drove along I saw a small crowd at one of the street corners—­a gesticulating, laughing crowd, listening to an “improvisatore” or wandering poet—­a plump-looking fellow who had all the rhymes of Italy at his fingers’ ends, and who could make a poem on any subject or an acrostic on any name, with perfect facility.  I stopped my carriage to listen to his extemporized verses, many of which were really admirable, and tossed him three francs.  He threw them up in the air, one after the other, and caught them, as they fell, in his mouth, appearing to have swallowed them all—­then with an inimitable grimace, he pulled off his tattered cap and said: 

“Ancora affamato, excellenza!” (I am still hungry!) amid the renewed laughter of his easily amused audience.  A merry poet he was and without conceit—­and his good humor merited the extra silver pieces I gave him, which caused him, to wish me—­“Buon appetito e un sorriso della Madonna!”—­(a good appetite to you and a smile of the Madonna!) Imagine the Lord Laureate of England standing at the corner of Regent Street swallowing half-pence for his rhymes!  Yet some of the quaint conceits strung together by such a fellow as this improvisatore might furnish material for many of the so called “poets” whose names are mysteriously honored in Britain.

Further on I came upon a group of red-capped coral fishers assembled round a portable stove whereon roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy sides and emitted savory odors.  The men were singing gayly to the thrumming of an old guitar, and the song they sung was familiar to me.  Stay! where had I heard it?—­let me listen!

  “Sciore limone
   Le voglio far mori de passione
   Zompa llari llira!”
 [Footnote:  Neapolitan dialect.]

Ha!  I remembered now.  When I had crawled out of the vault through the brigand’s hole of entrance—­when my heart had bounded with glad anticipations never to be realized—­when I had believed in the worth of love and friendship—­when I had seen the morning sun glittering on the sea, and had thought—­poor fool!—­that his long beams were like so many golden flags of joy hung up in heaven to symbolize the happiness of my release from death and my restoration to liberty—­ then—­then I had heard a sailor’s voice in the distance singing that “ritornello,” and I had fondly imagined its impassioned lines were all for me!  Hateful music—­most bitter sweetness!  I could have put my hands up to my ears to shut out the sound of it now that I thought