becoming expanded, as if by a miracle, reveals—in the far distance, across the Sea there!—Naples with its Islands, and Vesuvius spouting fire. Within a quarter of an hour, the whole is gone as if it were a vision in the clouds, and there is nothing but the sea and sky.
The Neapolitan Frontier crossed, after two hours' travelling; and the hungriest of soldiers and custom-house officers with difficulty appeased; we enter, by a gateless portal, into the first Neapolitan town—Fondi. Take note of Fondi, in the name of all that is wretched and beggarly.
A filthy channel of mud and refuse, meanders down the centre of the miserable street: fed by obscene rivulets that trickle from the abject houses. There is not a door, a window, or a shutter; not a roof, a wall, a post, or a pillar, in all Fondi, but is decayed, and crazy, and rotting away. The wretched history of the town, with all its sieges and pillages by Barbarossa and the rest, might have been acted last year. How the gaunt dogs that sneak about the miserable street, come to be alive, and endeavoured by the people, is one of the enigmas of the world.
A hollow-cheeked and scowling people they are! All beggars; but that's nothing. Look at them as they gather round. Some, are too indolent to come down stairs, or are too wisely mistrustful of the stairs, perhaps, to venture: so stretch out their lean hands from upper windows, and howl; others, come flocking about us, fighting and jostling one another, and demanding, incessantly, charity for the love of God, charity for the love of the Blessed Virgin, charity for the love of all the Saints.
