or waiting for it. The variety of subjects they have to discuss is of course almost infinite; but as people are never more inclined to write than when they are in love, and as the poor Italians are a very loving and (be it said to their honor, and the shame of their rich and noble countrymen) a very virtuous people, these scribes have perhaps love-letters to write more frequently than any other kind of epistle.

The grave, dignified, and sagacious-looking old man represented in our engraving, is engaged on that tender subject, which contrasts singularly with his years, his long white beard, and wrinkled appearance. The fair contadina,* kneeling by the side of his table, has placed upon it an open letter, in the corner of which we read the endearing words "anima mia," or "my soul," and it is doubtless to this she is dictating an answer, counting the periods, in true Italian fashion, on her fingers, while the venerable scribe is mending his pen and catching his theme previously to beginning his flourish.

To all travellers, or investigators of popular manners and feelings, we would recommend the stalls of the public letter-writers at Naples, where, owing to the people being still less educated than in the states of the pope, and the population being more than double that of Rome, they abound much more than in the "eternal city." In a vico, or lane, by the side of the postoffice at Naples, they generally "plant the desk," as they are at hand not only to write answers, but to read the letters as they arrive-for the accomplishment of reading is almost as rare as that of writing among the poor Neapolitans. There, close to the iron-grated windows of the postoffice through which the letters are delivered, the patient scrivani sit from eight o'clock in the morning till the dusk of evening. In the lane there is an archway, some few yards in length, formed by a building that permits a passage beneath; and here part of them draw their tables to be protected from the scorching rays of the sun in summer, and partially from the cold in winter. Those who can not avail themselves of this shelter fit out a piece of sail-cloth or canvass above their tables when the day is very hot. In winter (and there are many cold wintry days even at Naples), they wrap themselves in tough old tabarri or cloaks, and furnish themselves each with a little earthern pot of ignited charcoal, the whole fuel of which might very well be contained in a soup-ladle.

As their customers are, of course, confined to the poorest classes-to soldiers and sailors their wives or sweethearts-to sheep-drivers from Apulia or buffalo-herds from Calabria-to servant-maids, nurses, and such sort of people-their calling, it will naturally be supposed, is not a very lucrative one. For a letter of ordinary length their charge is about five Neapolitan grani, or five cents; but this is propor

tionably increased to ten or even to fifteen grani; while, for petitions to the king or government, which they also write, and which the poor, sanguine Neapolitans are fond of sending in, though it does not appear they get much by the practice, they charge as much as two or three carlini (or thirty cents). Yet with these trifling gains the scrivani contrive to live, and, for the most part, to keep a family. They eat their macaroni when they have had a good day's work; and now and then drive about in a corribolo or a calesso on holydays.

THE CANTA-STORIA.-The molo of Naples is a strong, well-constructed stone pier, jutting far into the sea, giving security to the harbor, and having at its extremity a goodly lighthouse. In the warm seasons of the year (that is to say, for nearly seven months out of the twelve) it is the favorite promenade and lounging-place of the Neapolitan bourgeoisie and poorer classes of citizens, who are but too happy to escape from the hot, pent-up air of their narrow and tortuous streets and lanes. On the molo they can hear the cooling plash of the sea upon the rocks, and inhale the pure evening air. And, as if this were not pleasure and bliss enough, under that glorious sky, and with the fairest view upon earth spread before and around, hither resort singers and conjurers, mountebanks and improvisatori, men with learned pigs, and men with dogs that can tell fortunes, to afford amusement to the promenaders and loungers. The vividness of our impressions, which lays the whole scene before our eyes, makes us use the present tense when we ought rather to use the past. We are told that the busy and merry molo has been almost ungarnished, of late years, of the men and things which made its merriment; and that a police far more ruthless than that which sometimes wages war against Punch, has swept away Policinella, Canta-Storia, Ciarlatano, pig and dog, together with every other object that used to raise a boisterous laugh. But we can only think of the molo as it was in its pristine glory, and when, as Forsyth observed, it was an epitome of the town, exhibiting the most of its humors-a theatre where any stranger might study, for nothing, the manners of the people. For mixed fun, it was assuredly the richest theatre in the world. With the very few strangers who thoroughly understood the rich Neapolitan patois, nothing in Naples could rival it except the theatre of San Carlino, or the Little St. Charles, on the nights when the great living Policinella was in full force and playing one of his best pieces, such as " The Ninety-nine Misfortunes of Punch," or "Punch and the Man of Biscegla."

The canta-storia, literally the story-singer or history-singer, is one that sings some tale or romance in rhyme, in a sort of measured recitativo style, to the accompaniment of a mandolina or guitar, which is played sometimes by himself and sometimes by an assistant. The greatest professor in this line that we knew-the man that was called par excellence, in their idiom, lo canta-storia in 'ccoppoo molo-never played himself, being somewhat lamed and maimed, and needing the only arm and hand he could use for his gesticulations and explanations. He was a short, lean, wizened old man, with an enormous three-cornered hat on his head, and with nose and eyes like those of a hawk. For fluency of speech, and for smart and sharp repartee, it was a wondrous old creature. Some complained that his voice was cracked, and his singing not what it had been; but all confessed that for explaining a difficult passage, and making flowery poetry intelligible in plain prose, there was none like him. He ought to have been a commentator, for, in his own way, he could explain everything, allowing no obscurity or difficulty whatsoever to stand in his way, and never seeming to entertain a doubt as to the correctness of his illustrations. The only story-singer that rivalled his fame was a handsome, well-made mariner, with a clear and resonant voice; but though people, particularly the women, loved to listen to his singing and to his mandolina, they preferred going to the elder for the commentaries and gloses.

The stories thus sung to the sailors and poor citizens of Naples were almost invariably about the battles and loves of their great national idol, the crusading Rinaldo, as described by Tasso in his "Jerusalem Delivered." To have recited Tasso in his pure and exquisitely refined Italian would have been to throw away time and labor, as very few of the auditory would have understood it. But the old canta-storia had a Tasso of his own, all turned into Neapolitan language and rhyme-or rather he had a rifacciamento, dressed up in his vernacular, of all the cantos and stanzas which referred to the exploits and adventures of the national hero, and from which were dismissed, as unworthy of any notice, the pious Godfrey, the hero of the Epic, the bold Tancred, and all the other Christian heroes of Tasso. The popular admiration

for Rinaldo amounted to a passion, to an enthusiasm of the most unaffected and ardent kind. When the old minstrel would sing how the Christian hero with one cut of the sword or one thrust of the lance slew a score of pagans or put thousands upon thousands to the rout, there would be a shout of “Eh! viva Rinaldo nuostro!-Long live our Rinaldo!" When the tone and story changed-when the sage old man in the three-cornered hat would represent the hero in some disastrous adventure exposed to the malice of witches and magicians, and beset by a host of cruel pagan foes, tears would stand in the eyes of many of the listeners, or now and then drop from them, like large summer rain-drops, upon the hard flags which paved the molo; and there would be a muttering of wo, as if a real and visible calamity had befallen some dear relative or friend: "Ah! povero Rinaldo! Ajutati Dio-Ah! Streghe maledette, Saraceni infami, il diavolo vi avră tutti!—Ah! poor Rinaldo, may God help thee! Ah! cursed witches, infamous Saracens, the devil will have ye all !"

Not only these poor fellows appeared to have no doubt as to the real existence of Rinaldo, or the authenticity of the moving adventures they were listening to, but they also seemed to feel as though Rinaldo were still living and actually engaged in his dolorous misadventures-there! right before their eyes, yet where they could not reach him or give him help. We have seen the magic of the stage as exercised by Kean; but we never saw people so carried out of themselves and the material exist ing world around them by that great actor and the spell of the greatest of poets whose characters and creations he was imbodying, as we have seen the poor Neapolitans wrapped and transported by the rude verses monotonously chanted by that wizen old man in the three-cornered hat.

In those days, before the glories of the molo had begun to depart, there were some sets of men, for the most part young, and mariners or fishermen, who were called gli appassionati di Rinaldo, or the impassioned or enthusiasts for that hero and darling.

Evening after evening, week after week, these fellows would gather round the canta-storia, and devour his strains with an avidity of appetite, and an earnestness of expression on every countenance, which proved how much they relished what he sang. Fine athletic fellows were some of them, and sun-browned the faces, long and black the hair, and black and flashing the eyes, of all of them. And there they gathered in groups round the old bard or minstrel, as the somewhat more refined Greeks may be supposed to have done round the itinerant Homer, some of them standing with their arms crossed on their almost bare chests, some sitting on the stones which capped the parapet of the pier, some on wooden stools, and some crosslegged on the pavement. In this fashion they would often stay from long before sunset of a summer evening until well on to the midnight hour, listening over and over again to the same parts of the story; for the sage old man, like the professional story-tellers of Egypt and Turkey, never began and ended his tale on the same night, generally breaking off at some point where the narrative was most interesting, and telling his auditors that he should conclude his story on the morrow. This little ruse was calculated to insure the attendance of those who had been interested to-night. But with the appassionati-with the real enthusiasts for Rinaldo-it was scarcely called for: they were sure to be to-morrow night where they were to-night. By the setting sun or by the broad moonlight the scene was eminently picturesque and poetical.

On one side of the mole, in the not oversweet harbor, lay huddled together merchant ships and coast traffickers, emitting no very savory smells; on the other side were the starch, monotonous walls of the Castello Nuovo, the back of the royal palace, and the entrance to the arsenal; but behind rose the fine-shaped hills of St. Elmo and the Vomero, the one crowned by a bold castle, the other by a magnificent monastery, with a Moresque-looking face; and behind and above these hills, and stretching far away, towered the heights of the Camaldoli, with another convent on their brow, and the heights of the Arienella, in whose white village, half hid among trees and tall-growing vines, was born Salvator Rosa, the fittest painter to paint the half-naked enthusiastic group. And then in front, or by turning a little on the molo so as to vary the point of sight, the eye could rest upon the broad flank and forked summit of Mount Vesuvius, with smoke or fire issuing from the nearer of the two copes; upon the long, white walls of Castellamare, and the sublime peak of Mount St. Angelo behind them; upon the old town of Sorrento, standing immediately over