And Constantly Alarmed By The
Falling Among Us Of Somebody From Behind, Who Endangers The Footing
Of The Whole Party,
And clings pertinaciously to anybody's ankles.
It is impossible for the litter to be in advance, too, as the track
Has to be made; and its appearance behind us, overhead--with some
one or other of the bearers always down, and the rather heavy
gentleman with his legs always in the air--is very threatening and
frightful. We have gone on thus, a very little way, painfully and
anxiously, but quite merrily, and regarding it as a great success--
and have all fallen several times, and have all been stopped,
somehow or other, as we were sliding away--when Mr. Pickle of
Portici, in the act of remarking on these uncommon circumstances as
quite beyond his experience, stumbles, falls, disengages himself,
with quick presence of mind, from those about him, plunges away
head foremost, and rolls, over and over, down the whole surface of
the cone!
Sickening as it is to look, and be so powerless to help him, I see
him there, in the moonlight--I have had such a dream often--
skimming over the white ice, like a cannon-ball. Almost at the
same moment, there is a cry from behind; and a man who has carried
a light basket of spare cloaks on his head, comes rolling past, at
the same frightful speed, closely followed by a boy. At this
climax of the chapter of accidents, the remaining eight-and-twenty
vociferate to that degree, that a pack of wolves would be music to
them!
Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is Pickle of Portici
when we reach the place where we dismounted, and where the horses
are waiting; but, thank God, sound in limb! And never are we
likely to be more glad to see a man alive and on his feet, than to
see him now--making light of it too, though sorely bruised and in
great pain. The boy is brought into the Hermitage on the Mountain,
while we are at supper, with his head tied up; and the man is heard
of, some hours afterwards. He too is bruised and stunned, but has
broken no bones; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the
larger blocks of rock and stone, and rendered them harmless.
After a cheerful meal, and a good rest before a blazing fire, we
again take horse, and continue our descent to Salvatore's house--
very slowly, by reason of our bruised friend being hardly able to
keep the saddle, or endure the pain of motion. Though it is so
late at night, or early in the morning, all the people of the
village are waiting about the little stable-yard when we arrive,
and looking up the road by which we are expected. Our appearance
is hailed with a great clamour of tongues, and a general sensation
for which in our modesty we are somewhat at a loss to account,
until, turning into the yard, we find that one of a party of French
gentlemen who were on the mountain at the same time is lying on
some straw in the stable, with a broken limb: looking like Death,
and suffering great torture; and that we were confidently supposed
to have encountered some worse accident.
So 'well returned, and Heaven be praised!' as the cheerful
Vetturino, who has borne us company all the way from Pisa, says,
with all his heart! And away with his ready horses, into sleeping
Naples!
It wakes again to Policinelli and pickpockets, buffo singers and
beggars, rags, puppets, flowers, brightness, dirt, and universal
degradation; airing its Harlequin suit in the sunshine, next day
and every day; singing, starving, dancing, gaming, on the sea-
shore; and leaving all labour to the burning mountain, which is
ever at its work.
Our English dilettanti would be very pathetic on the subject of the
national taste, if they could hear an Italian opera half as badly
sung in England as we may hear the Foscari performed, to-night, in
the splendid theatre of San Carlo. But, for astonishing truth and
spirit in seizing and embodying the real life about it, the shabby
little San Carlino Theatre--the rickety house one story high, with
a staring picture outside: down among the drums and trumpets, and
the tumblers, and the lady conjurer--is without a rival anywhere.
There is one extraordinary feature in the real life of Naples, at
which we may take a glance before we go--the Lotteries.
They prevail in most parts of Italy, but are particularly obvious,
in their effects and influences, here. They are drawn every
Saturday. They bring an immense revenue to the Government; and
diffuse a taste for gambling among the poorest of the poor, which
is very comfortable to the coffers of the State, and very ruinous
to themselves. The lowest stake is one grain; less than a
farthing. One hundred numbers--from one to a hundred, inclusive--
are put into a box. Five are drawn. Those are the prizes. I buy
three numbers. If one of them come up, I win a small prize. If
two, some hundreds of times my stake. If three, three thousand
five hundred times my stake. I stake (or play as they call it)
what I can upon my numbers, and buy what numbers I please. The
amount I play, I pay at the lottery office, where I purchase the
ticket; and it is stated on the ticket itself.
Every lottery office keeps a printed book, an Universal Lottery
Diviner, where every possible accident and circumstance is provided
for, and has a number against it. For instance, let us take two
carlini--about sevenpence. On our way to the lottery office, we
run against a black man. When we get there, we say gravely, 'The
Diviner.' It is handed over the counter, as a serious matter of
business. We look at black man.
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