Fates in a Florentine gallery. Crimson
carnations in earthenware pots stand on the steps of the outside
staircase, giving a touch of refinement to the squalid home, and from the
balcony overhead the glossy-black, yellow-billed _passer solitario_, the
favourite cage-bird of the Neapolitan poor, chirrups with apparent
cheerfulness in his wicker-work prison. Behind, in the dim shadows of the
large room, which serves as sole habitation, we can espy the inevitable
household altar with the oil lamp glimmering before the little
crude-coloured print of the Virgin and Child, and its usual accessory, the
piece of palm or olive that was blessed by the priest last Palm Sunday;
poor and mean though the chamber be, its bed linen and simple appointments
are more cleanly than might perhaps be inferred from the appearance of the
family itself. In a shady corner close by, three or four young labourers
at their mid-day rest have finished their frugal repast of bread and
beans, and are now playing eagerly the popular game of _zecchinetto_ with
a frayed and grimy pack of cards. Wives or sweethearts watch with anxious
faces from a respectful distance, for it is not meet to disturb the lords
of creation when they happen to be engaged in a game of chance. What
possibilities of farce and tragedy can be drawn from so simple, so common
a scene upon these shores, where human life is less artificially conducted
than elsewhere in Europe, and where human passions are kept under less
restraint? Terrible are the tales of jealousy and revenge, of deliberate
treachery and of uncontrolled violence, which are related of these
quick-tempered grown-up children of the South, who seem to love and hate
with the blind intensity of untutored savages.

"Lo 'nnamorato' mmio sse chiammo Peppo,
Lo capo jocatore de le carte;
Ss' ha jocato 'sto core a zecchinetto,
Dice ca mo' lo venne, e mo' lo parte.
Che n'agg' io a fare lo caro de carte?
Vogho lo core che tinite 'm pietto!"

("That lover of mine is called Handsome Beppo,
The best player of cards all around this way;
He's been playing on Hearts at _zecchinetto_,
And says now they turn up, now are sorted away.
What matters the heart in the card-pack to me?
The heart in his bosom's the heart for me!")

Here lies the sleeping fisherman, worn out probably with hours of hauling
at the heavy nets, who is snatching a chance hour of repose, prone upon
his chest with face buried in his crossed arm