eale. Or it may be that our more
active feet may entice us to mount the winding flights of stone steps
leading to the heights of Sant' Elmo, where from the windows of the
monastery of San Martino there is spread out before us an entrancing view
that has but two possible rivals for extent and interest in all Italy:--the
panorama of the Eternal City from the hill of San Pietro in Montorio, and
that of Florence with the valley of the Arno from the lofty terrace of San
Miniato. We can while away many hours leisurely in wandering on the
bustling Chiaja or Toledo with their shops and their amusing scenes of
city life, or in the poorer quarters around the Mercato, where the
inhabitants ply their daily avocations in the open air, and eat, play,
quarrel, flirt, fight or gossip--do everything in short save go to
bed--quite unconcernedly before the critical and non-admiring eyes of
casual strangers. Pleasant it is to hunt for old prints, books and other
treasures amongst the dark unwholesome dens that lie in the shadow of the
gorgeous church of Santa Chiara or in the musty-smelling shops of the
curiosity dealers in the Strada Costantinopoli, picking up here a volume
of some _cinque-cento_ classic and there a piece of old china that may or
may not have had its birth in the famous factory of Capodimonte. All this
studying of historic sculpture in the churches and of antiquities in the
Museum, this observing the daily life of the populace, and bargain-hunting
in the Strada de' Tribunali, are agreeable enough for a while, but of
necessity there comes a time when the mind grows weary of yelling people
and of jostling crowds, of stuffy churches and of the chilly halls of the
Museum, of steep dirty streets and of glaring boulevards, so that we begin
to sigh for fresh air and a change of scene. Nor is there any means of
escape within the precincts of the city itself from the eternal cracking
of whips, from the insulting compliments (or complimentary insults) of the
incorrigible cabmen, from the continuous babel of unmusical voices, and
from the reiterated strains of "Santa Lucia" or "Margari" howled from
raucous throats or strummed from rickety street-organs. Oh for peace, and
rest, and a whiff of pure country air! For there are no walks in or around
the City of the Siren, where there is nowhere to stroll save the narrow
strip of the much-vaunted Villa (which is either damp or dusty according
to weather) or the fatiguing ascent amidst walled