of, some hours afterwards. He too is bruised and stunned, but has
broken no bones; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the
larger blocks of rock and stone, and rendered them harmless.
After a cheerful meal, and a good rest before a blazing fire, we
again take horse, and continue our descent to Salvatore’s house –
very slowly, by reason of our bruised friend being hardly able to
keep the saddle, or endure the pain of motion. Though it is so
late at night, or early in the morning, all the people of the
village are waiting about the little stable-yard when we arrive,
and looking up the road by which we are expected. Our appearance
is hailed with a great clamour of tongues, and a general sensation
for which in our modesty we are somewhat at a loss to account,
until, turning into the yard, we find that one of a party of French
gentlemen who were on the mountain at the same time is lying on
some straw in the stable, with a broken limb: looking like Death,
and suffering great torture; and that we were confidently supposed
to have encountered some worse accident.
So ‘well returned, and Heaven be praised!’ as the cheerful
Vetturino, who has borne us company all the way from Pisa, says,
with all his heart! And away with his ready horses, into sleeping
Naples!
It wakes again to Policinelli and pickpockets, buffo singers and
beggars, rags, puppets, flowers, brightness, dirt, and universal
degradation; airing its Harlequin suit in the sunshine, next day
and every day; singing, starving, dancing, gaming, on the seashore;
and leaving all labour to the burning mountain, which is
ever at its work.
Our English dilettanti would be very pathetic on the subject of the
national taste, if they could hear an Italian opera half as badly
sung in England as we may hear the Foscari performed, to-night, in
the splendid theatre of San Carlo. But, for astonishing truth and
spirit in seizing and embodying the real life about it, the shabby
little San Carlino Theatre – the rickety house one story high, with
a staring picture outside: down among the drums and trumpets, and
the tumblers, and the lady conjurer – is without a rival anywhere.
There is one extraordinary feature in the real life of Naples, at
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Dickens, Charles – Pictures From Italy
which we may take a glance before we go – the Lotteries.
They prevail in most parts of Italy, but are particularly obvious,
in their effects and influences, here. They are drawn every
Saturday. They bring an immense revenue to the Government; and
diffuse a taste for gambling among the poorest of the poor, which
is very comfortable to the coffers of the State, and very ruinous
to themselves. The lowest stake is one grain; less than a
farthing. One hundred numbers – from one to a hundred, inclusive –
are put into a box. Five are drawn. Those are the prizes. I buy
three numbers. If one of them come up, I win a small prize. If
two, some hundreds of times my stake. If three, three thousand
five hundred times my stake. I stake (or play as they call it)
what I can upon my numbers, and buy what numbers I please. The
amount I play, I pay at the lottery office, where I purchase the
ticket; and it is stated on the ticket itself.
Every lottery office keeps a printed book, an Universal Lottery
Diviner, where every possible accident and circumstance is provided
for, and has a number against it. For instance, let us take two
carlini – about sevenpence. On our way to the lottery office, we
run against a black man. When we get there, we say gravely, ‘The
Diviner.’ It is handed over the counter, as a serious matter of
business. We look at black man. Such a number. ‘Give us that.’
We look at running against a person in the street. ‘Give us that.
‘ We look at the name of the street itself. ‘Give us that.’ Now,
we have our three numbers.
If the roof of the theatre of San Carlo were to fall in, so many