g in the lower
depth of my pocket _another purse_ also filled with Napoleons in
rouleaux! Then it all flashed upon me. Samuel, the careful, had left
_his_ purse lying on the table, and I had supposed it was mine! I felt
as wretched as if I had lost instead of won.

When I got to Naples I found a letter from my cousin bewailing his loss.
He implored me, if I knew nothing about it, not to tell it to a human
soul. There was a M. Duclaux in Marseilles, with whom we had had our
business dealings, and from him Sam had borrowed what he needed. I at
once requested Captain Olive, of the steamer, to convey the purse and its
contents to M. Duclaux, which I suppose was done _secundem ordinem_.

Poor Sam! I never met him again. He died of consumption soon after
returning home. He was one of whom I can say with truth that I never saw
in him a fault, however trifling. He was honour itself in everything, as
humane as was his grandfather before him, ever cheerful and kind, merry
and quaint.

The programme of the steamboat declared that meals were included in the
fare, "except while stopping at a port." But we stopped every day at
Genoa or Leghorn, or somewhere, and stayed about fifteen hours, and as
almost every passenger fell sea-sick after going ashore, the meals were
not many. On board the first day, I made the acquaintance of Mr. James
Temple Bowdoin, of Boston, and Mr. Mosely, of whom I had often heard as
editor of the _Richmond Whig_. Mr. Bowdoin was a nephew of Lady Temple,
and otherwise widely connected with English families. He is now living
(1892), and I have seen a great deal of him of late years. With these
two I joined company, and travelled with them over Italy. Both were much
older than I, and experienced men of the world; therefore I was in good
hands, and better guides, philosophers, mentors, pilots, and friends I
could hardly have found. Left to myself, I should probably ere the
winter was over have been the beloved chief of a gang of gypsies, or
brigands, or witches, or careering the wild sea-wave as a daring
smuggler, all in innocence and goodness of heart; for truly in Marseilles
I had begun to put forth buds of such strange kind and promise as no
friend of mine ever dreamed of. As it was, I got into better, if less
picturesque, society.

We came to Naples, and went to a hotel, and visited everything. In those
days the beggars and pimps and pickpockets were beyond all modern
conception. The pi