ces, and on the other by the long park separating
it from the sea.

This Chiaja is the famous drive-way of Naples, and is a broad and
beautiful street by which we enter the city from the west. Just about
sunset this thoroughfare presents daily a scene more peculiar and quite
as gay as the Bois de Boulogne, or the Prater of Vienna, being crowded
at that hour by the beauty and fashion of the town enjoying an afternoon
drive or horseback ride. Here may be seen gigs driven by young
Neapolitans in dashing style, and some smart brushes in the way of
racing take place. The small Italian horses are real flyers, and are
driven only too recklessly over the crowded course. Mingling with the
throng are long lines of donkeys laden with merchandise, keeping close
to the side of the way in order to avoid the fast drivers; pedestrians
of both sexes dodging out and in among the vehicles; cavalry officers
cantering on showy horses; and the inevitable army of beggars with
outstretched hands pleading for alms, among whom is an occasional
mendicant friar also soliciting a few pennies.

It is not alone the common classes who live so much in the streets. It
is not alone the palace windows that are filled with spectators all
along the drive-way of the Chiaja during the carnival hour of the day,
but before each residence are gathered a domestic group sitting
contentedly in the open air, bareheaded and in gauze-like costume. Some
of the ladies employ their hands with dainty needlework, some are
crocheting, others are engaged in simple domestic games, and all are
chatting, laughing, and enjoying themselves heartily. The ladies wear
the gayest colors, these adding vividness to the whole picture. To
complete the strongly individualized scene, there are the graceful
palms, orange-trees, and fountains of the park, amid abundant marble
statuary, and flowering shrubs, with the sea, Capri, and Vesuvius for a
background, which together make up the view of the Chiaja at twilight.

Naples is very peculiar in the aspect of its out-of-door life; we see
the public letter-writer at his post in the open square; the common
people are conducting most of their domestic affairs outside of their
dwellings. Sellers of macaroni, oranges, grapes, fish, vegetables,
flowers, and hawkers of every sort fill the air with their shrill cries.
Common-looking men fling thin, greasy, tattered cloaks over their
shoulders, with a proud air and inimitable grace; groups of half-cl