eless stick, or even by the goad, for the Neapolitan
donkey-boy is absolutely callous to the feelings of his animal. Not that
he is cruel out of sheer cussedness, for cruelty's sake, for he can be
really kind to his dog or his cat; but the beast of burden, the helpless
uncomplaining servant of man, suffers terribly at his hands. It is useless
to remonstrate or argue with the young ruffian, who at our sharp reprimand
will merely open wide his big black eyes and stare in genuine amazement.
_Non sono Cristiani_--they have no souls, and the beasts are their property
and not yours; what does it matter then to you how they are treated,
provided they carry you properly? That is the sum total of the
donkey-boy's argument, and he has high ecclesiastical authority to back up
his private theory, if he had the wit to enter into a discussion with us
on the subject. Almost equally hopeless is it to point to the simple fact
that a well-groomed, well-treated animal lasts longer than a half-starved,
mutilated scare-crow. "How old is your horse?" we once asked a driver in
the south. "He is very old indeed, _eccelenza_," was the reply; "he must
be nearly twelve!" On being informed that horses often worked well up to
twenty years old and over in England, he let us infer, quite politely,
that he thought we were romancing. Tenderness towards the dumb creation is
a common, not to say a prevailing characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race,
and it must be confessed that the thoughtless and horrible cruelty towards
animals witnessed on all sides in the Neapolitan Riviera amounts to a
serious drawback to the full enjoyment of its many beauties and amenities.
Matters are improving a little of late, it is only fair to add. There is
an Italian Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and its
officials have done some good in the streets of Naples itself, but
naturally its new ideas have not yet penetrated far into the country
districts.

[Illustration: ROAD NEAR CASTELLAMARE]

To the healthy and energetic the most delightful excursion that
Castellamare can offer is the ascent to the summit of Monte Sant' Angelo,
that monarch of the Bay of Naples, whose lofty crest gleams with snowy
streaks until the spring be well advanced. The lazy or the feeble can make
use of one of the poor oppressed donkeys, but it is better to engage its
ragged master, who without his four-footed drudge to whack and kick is a
harmless enough being, to act as guide over