large and imposing. The interior has a _bel colpo d'occhio_,
which is what many Italians chiefly value in morals, manners, and
architecture; but after this comes great shabbiness of detail. The
boxes, even of the first order, are paved with brick tiles, and the
red velvet border of the box which the people see from the pit is not
supported in style by the seats within, which are merely covered with
red oil-cloth. The opera we saw was also second-rate, and was to the
splendor of the scenic arrangements what the oil-cloth was to the
velvet. The house was full of people, but the dress of the audience
was not so fine as we had expected in Naples. The evening dress is not
_de rigueur_ at Italian theatres, and people seemed to have come to
San Carlo in any pleasant carelessness of costume.

VII.

The Italians are simple and natural folks, pleased through all
their show of conventionality with little things, and as easy and
unconscious as children in their ways. There happened to be a new
caffe opened in Naples while we were there, and we had the pleasure
of seeing all ranks of people affected by its magnificence. Artless
throngs blocked the sidewalk day and night before its windows, gazing
upon its mirrors, fountains, and frescos, and regarding the persons
over their coffee within as beings lifted by sudden magic out of the
common orbit of life and set dazzling in a higher sphere. All the
waiters were uniformed and brass-buttoned to blinding effect, and the
head waiter was a majestic creature in a long blue coat reaching to
his feet, and armed with a mighty silver-headed staff. This gorgeous
apparition did nothing but walk up and down, and occasionally advance
toward the door, as if to disperse the crowds. At such times, however,
before executing his purpose, he would glance round on the splendors
they were admiring, and, as if smitten with a sense of the enormous
cruelty he had meditated in thinking to deprive them of the sight,
would falter and turn away, leaving his intent unfulfilled.

VIII.

A DAY IN POMPEII.

I.

On the second morning after our arrival in Naples, we took the seven
o'clock train, which leaves the Nineteenth Century for the first cycle
of the Christian Era, and, skirting the waters of the Neapolitan bay
almost the whole length of our journey, reached the railway station
of Pompeii in an hour. As we rode along by that bluest sea, we saw
the fishing-boats go out, and the foamy waves (which i