people fond of show; but after Venice and
Genoa it has no picturesque charm; nay, even busy Milan seems less
modern and more picturesque. The lines of the lofty palaces on the
Toledo are seldom broken by the facade of a church or other public
edifice; and when this does happen, the building is sure to be coldly
classic or frantically baroque.

You weary of the Toledo's perfect repair, of its monotonous iron
balconies, its monotonous lofty windows; and it would be insufferable
if you could not turn out from it at intervals into one of those
wondrous little streets which branch up on one hand and down on the
other, rising and falling with flights of steps between the high,
many-balconied walls. They ring all day with the motleyest life of
fishermen, fruit-venders, chestnut-roasters, and idlers of every age
and sex; and there is nothing so full of local color, unless it be the
little up-and-down-hill streets in Genoa. Like those, the by-streets
of Naples are only meant for foot-passengers, and a carriage never
enters them; but sometimes, if you are so blest, you may see a mule
climbing the long stairways, moving solemnly under a stack of straw,
or tinkling gayly down-stairs, bestridden by a swarthy, handsome
peasant--all glittering teeth and eyes and flaming Phrygian cap. The
rider exchanges lively salutations and sarcasms with the by-standers
in his way, and perhaps brushes against the bagpipers who bray
constantly in those hilly defiles. They are in Neapolitan costume,
these _pifferari_, and have their legs incomprehensibly tied up in the
stockings and garters affected by the peasantry of the provinces,
and wear brave red sashes about their waists. They are simple,
harmless-looking people, and would no doubt rob and kill in the most
amiable manner, if brigandage came into fashion in their neighborhood.

Sometimes the student of men may witness a Neapolitan quarrel in these
streets, and may pick up useful ideas of invective from the remarks of
the fat old women who always take part in the contests. But, though
we were ten days in Naples, I only saw one quarrel, and I could have
heard much finer violence of language among the gondoliers at any
ferry in Venice than I heard in this altercation.

The Neapolitans are, of course, furious in traffic. They sell a great
deal, and very boisterously, the fruit of the cactus, which is about
as large as an egg, and which they peel to a very bloody pulp, and lay
out, a sanguinary pr