Peter's rising yonder in the
distance, or the green tops of the cedars and the dusky clumps of
olive groves on the hillsides beyond--you know you are in Rome.
To get the correct likeness of Naples we merely reduce the priests
by one-half and increase the beggars by two-thirds; we richen the
color masses, thicken the dirt, raise the smells to the Nth degree,
and set half the populace to singing. We establish in every second
doorway a mother with her offspring tucked between her knees and
forcibly held there while the mother searches the child's head for
a flea; anyhow, it is more charitable to say it is a flea; and we
add a special touch of gorgeousness to the street pictures.
For here a cart is a glory of red tires and blue shafts, and green
hubs and pink body and purple tailgate, with a canopy on it that
would have suited Sheba's Queen; and the mule that draws the cart
is caparisoned in brass and plumage like a circus pony; and the
driver wears a broad red sash, part of a shirt, and half of a pair
of pants--usually the front half. With an outfit such as that,
you feel he should be peddling aurora borealises, or, at the very
least, rainbows. It is a distinct shock to find he has only chianti
or cheeses or garbage in stock.
In Naples, also, there is, even in the most prosaic thing, a sight
to gladden your eye if you but hold your nose while you look on
it.
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