his Rosencrantzes and Guildensterns, with poor mortified Burrus, applauding but grieving for his royal master's shame, and I wondered what new faith shall be worshipped here after the tide of two thousand years to come had swept over this spot. Now how can one return home and sit down leisurely, and in cold blood to hunt up dates and parcel out historical information from books to fit this church, or that statue, this palazzo or that fountain? The labor would be wearying in the extreme; moreover, I should not enjoy as I do now this delightful half-dreamy feeling which steals over me while listening to the conversation of such a man as Luigi Luini. In nervous, picturesque language he tells me the history of each spot or work of art which attracts my notice or admiration, and much better, too, than I could find it in books. Then he revives, as by a magical touch, all my own knowledge, and has that happy faculty, not often possessed by clever men, of drawing out from his companion, by his own suggestive remarks, the most delightful talk. This is a feminine gift, by the way. Men generally are monologists, they deal only in large bills and notes of language. Some witty Frenchman has said that an intelligent woman can always seize the thoughts of a man, and give him back immediately the small change. Blessed little word-brokers it makes of us to be sure, but how could society get on without such bewitching bankers? The streets of Naples are becoming so thickly thronged to me with old historical memories that sometimes, as I lean back in the barouche and gaze up at the palazzos or churches, I fancifully compare them, as the carriages sweep by, to the rapidly turning leaves of a gorgeously illuminated missal, or some brilliantly decorated Pugin Glossary, whose vivid colorings of old diaperings and monograms. flash on the eye with a painful pleasure; therefore it is a luxurious relief to have such a person as Luigi Luini beside me, to hold down as it were, one of these stone pages, and shade its brilliant past by the calm recital of its history, so that I can look and learn, or remember without bewilderment or confusion. "CASA DELLA SIRENA." UST as we were starting out on our afternoon drive to-day, Luigi entered the court-yard. He helped us into the barouche, then stood for a few moments talking, and resting his delicate, graceful hand on the low door of the coach for he is not large, nor is he under size, but he is slender, and has all the patrician marks of form, - small hands and feet, suppleness of limb, and grace of motion. 66 ; Why cannot you go with us, Mr. Luini ?" asked Janet, as he bid us good day, wishing us a pleasant drive, for, Janet attends to all the inviting and etiquette business of our little community, Venitia being too young, and I now-a-days am too dreamy and forgetful. "Should you really like to have me?" he answered, with a bright smile, which lighted up finely his handsome face. "I should not ask you, I am sure, if I did not,” replied Janet, with a natural abruptness, which is always softened by her musical laugh and cultured voice; "and as for Ottilie, I know I can answer for her gratification." He opened the door of the coach without saying another word, and took his seat beside Venitia, thus giving me a chance of enjoying the good looks of both, for he is as handsome for a man as she for a woman. I repeated to myself his name as I looked at him, and recalled what Poe had written of a beautiful Italian woman's name, "Two words, two foreign soft dissyllables, But I thought "Luigi Luini" sounded best when pronounced by waking, loving, human beings, in their sincerest, most cordial tones. Our carriage swept out the Strada Nuova along the fine, broad road that skirts this picturesque coast, in and. out its various little indentations, which shows the skill that has been displayed in the making of this grand route, the broad pathway of which has been gained in many places from the rocks themselves. High up in air, on our right, rose gracefully the green hills of Posilippo, crowned with elms and beautiful villas; and as we came around the Punta di Posilippo, the setting sun shot brilliant rays on the beautiful old ruins of the Palazzo della Regina Giovanni, as it is called, which lay to our left. The sparkling sea flowed into its marble-paved court, and plashed restlessly up against the foundations. "Casa della Sirena," said Luigi, "should be its name. It is not known certainly that it ever belonged to either of the Queen Joannas, although both were unhappy and unlucky enough." This led us to talking of the beautiful unfortunate granddaughter of Robert the Wise, Joanna I., the tombs of whose father and grandfather in Santa Chiara I have already mentioned. She was also great-great-granddaughter of that bold adventuring brother of St. Louis of France, Charles of Anjou, Count of Provence, and is the Mary, Queen of Scots, of Neapolitan history (1343 – 1345). No matter what may have been the shortcom ings of this unhappy queen, one thing should be remembered of her When her bitter enemy, Charles of Durazzo, her cousin, was besieging the poor lady, she shut herself up in one of the fortified palaces of her city. The people came clamoring at its gates for admittance, praying for protection and food. 66 'Open the gates," said the weeping, beautiful woman. "No, your Majesty!" replied her counsellors, "that cannot be done, for, added to our having only enough food for ourselves, barely sufficient to last until aid comes, if we open the gates the enemy may also force an en trance." "And they are to suffer and starve!" she cried. "O no, there are women and young children among them; open the gates and let them enter! I cannot leave my people in danger to preserve my own safety." The gates were opened, and while the populace rushed in, clinging with tears around their beloved queen, the enemy did indeed force an entrance; the poor woman was seized by her cruel kinsman and brutally murdered. But the mangled remains of that once lovely form, the queenly presence of which glows down upon us from the ceiling of the Church of L' Incoronata, made immortal by Giotto's pencil, found rest at last in the same stone coffin where lay her dead mother beside the high altar of the Church of Santa Chiara. After we had dwelt on her history tenderly and charitably, we talked of the second Joanna, the weak, vain daughter of this cruel Charles Durazzo, almost as beautiful and almost as wretched as the first one, for fate seemed to wish to avenge on her the wrongs and cruelties her father had inflicted on her predecessor (1414 |