nd a half I should think. I got into the strangest places, among
the wildest Neapolitans--kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables,
vineyards--was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible
Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked doors, in cracked female voices,
quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman.
By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old
Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not
rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in
his hand. To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor. "Sir," said
he, with the sweetest politeness, "can you speak French?" "Sir," said I,
"a little." "Sir," said he, "I presume the Signor Loothere"--you will
observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his
country--"is an Englishman." I admitted that he was the victim of
circumstances and had that misfortune. "Sir," said he, "one word more.
_Has_ he a servant with a wooden leg?" "Great Heaven, sir," said I, "how
do I know! I should think not, but it is possible." "It is always," said
the Frenchman, "possible. Almost all the things of the world are always
possible." "Sir," said I--you may imagine my condition and dismal sense
of my own absurdity, by this time--"that is true." He then took an
immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an
arch commanding a wonderful view of the bay of Naples, and pointed deep
into the earth from which I had mounted. "Below there, near the lamp,
one finds an Englishman, with a servant with a wooden leg. It is always
possible that he is the Signor Loothere." I had been asked at six, and
it was now getting on for seven. I went down again in a state of
perspiration and misery not to be described, and without the faintest
hope of finding the place. But as I was going down to the lamp, I saw
the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a man in a
white-waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it, fuming. I
dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most of the
whole story, and was indescribably popular. The best of it was, that as
nobody ever did find the place, he had put a servant at the bottom of
the Salita, to "wait for an English gentleman." The servant (as he
presently pleaded), deceived by the moustache, had allowed the English
gentleman to pass unchallenged.

The night before we left Naples we were at the San Carlo, where, with