m the pavement of Naples at the call of Masaniello.

"Awful rascals some of these fellows look, eh?" remarks P---- in a stage
whisper.

"Yes, their faces are certainly no letter of recommendation. There is some
truth, undoubtedly, in the _last_ clause of the old proverb: 'Greek wines
steal all heads, Greek women steal all hearts, and Greek men steal
everything.'"

But at this moment our attention is drawn to a crowd a little way ahead,
the centre of attraction being apparently a good-looking young Greek from
the Morea, whose jaunty little crimson cap with its hanging tassel sets
off very tastefully his dark, handsome face and the glossy black curls
which surround it. He is leaning against the pillar of a gateway in an
attitude of unstudied grace that would charm an Italian painter, and
singing, to the accompaniment of his little three-stringed guitar, a
lively Greek song, of which we only come up in time to catch the last
verse:

Look in mine eyes, lady fair:
There your own image you'll see.
Open my heart and look there:
_There_ too your image will be.

The coppers that chink into the singer's extended hat show how fully his
efforts are appreciated; but at this moment P----, with the free-and-easy
command of a true John Bull, elbows his way through the throng, and calls
out: "Holloa, Johnny! we only got the fag-end of that song. Tip us
another, and here's five piastres for you" (about twenty-five cents).

The musician seems to understand him, and with a slight preliminary
flourish on his instrument pours forth, in a voice as clear and rippling
as the carol of a bird, a song which may be thus translated:

Men fret, men toil, men pinch and pare,
Make life itself a scramble,
While I, without a grief or care,
Where'er it lists me ramble.
'Neath cloudless sun or clouded moon,
By market-cross or ferry,
I chant my lay, I play my tune.
And all who hear are merry.

When summer's sun unclouded shines,
And mountain-shadows linger,
I watch them dance among the vines
As quicker moves my finger;
And so they sport till day is o'er,
And black-robed Night advances,
And where the maidens tripped before,
The lovely moonbeam dances.

When 'neath the rush of winter's rain
The dripping forests welter,
The shepherd opes his door amain,
And gives me food and shelter.
I touch my chords, I trill my lay,