oners sail idly, and the fishing-boats that have
put out from the marina float in the most dreamy manner. I fear that
the fishermen who have made a show of industry, and got away from
their wives, who are busily weaving nets on shore, are yielding to the
seductions of the occasion, and making a day of it. And, as I look at
them, I find myself debating which I would rather be, a fisherman there
in the boat, rocked by the swell, and warmed by the sun, or a friar,
on the terrace of the garden on the summit of Deserto, lying perfectly
tranquil, and also soaked in the sun. There is one other person, now
that I think of it, who may be having a good time to-day, though I do
not know that I envy him. His business is a new one to me, and is an
occupation that one would not care to recommend to a friend until he had
tried it: it is being carried about in a basket. As I went up the new
Massa road the other day, I met a ragged, stout, and rather dirty woman,
with a large shallow basket on her head. In it lay her husband, a large
man, though I think a little abbreviated as to his legs. The woman asked
alms. Talk of Diogenes in his tub! How must the world look to a man in
a basket, riding about on his wife's head? When I returned, she had put
him down beside the road in the sun, and almost in danger of the passing
vehicles. I suppose that the affectionate creature thought that, if he
got a new injury in this way, his value in the beggar market would be
increased. I do not mean to do this exemplary wife any injustice; and I
only suggest the idea in this land, where every beggar who is born
with a deformity has something to thank the Virgin for. This custom
of carrying your husband on your head in a basket has something to
recommend it, and is an exhibition of faith on the one hand, and of
devotion on the other, that is seldom met with. Its consideration is
commended to my countrywomen at home. It is, at least, a new commentary
on the apostolic remark, that the man is the head of the woman. It is,
in some respects, a happy division of labor in the walk of life: she
furnishes the locomotive power, and he the directing brains, as he lies
in the sun and looks abroad; which reminds me that the sun is getting
hot on my back. The little bunch of bells in the convent tower is
jangling out a suggestion of worship, or of the departure of the hours.
It is time to eat an orange.

Vesuvius appears to be about on a level with my eyes and I never kne