to meet them with courtesy and kindness, remembering that they have not been brought up with ideas like our own. They may have much to learn from us—we, much to learn from them. The French immigration into England, after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, was one of the most important events in our history.
I have purposely avoided in these remarks all reference to Foreign Political Refugees—the real ones, and the impostors. Amongst the first are to be found some of the noblest men; amongst the second, perhaps the greatest scoundrels in Europe. They deserve a notice apart.
SUMMER DAYS IN ISCHIA.
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Castle of Ischia.
“Signori miei,” said Michele, looking back at us from the driving-seat of his calessino, “if we meet any men with Ischia cherries, shall I stop for you to buy some?”
We were bowling along the dusty road to Pozzuoli, after passing through the Posilipo tunnel, under a burning Midsummer sun; and the idea of cherries rose refreshingly before our minds. Besides, we made a point of attending to Michele’s suggestions, which generally proved to be valuable: so we readily acceded. Michele was a treasure of a hackney-man: the best driver in Naples (where the best whips in Europe, next to the London cabmen, are to be found), and perhaps the only Neapolitan who did not grumble at his fare, or his gratuity: with a good carrettella and a fast-trotting horse, he added to these virtues those of intelligence, good-humour, and a punctuality hardly to be found out of England, and by no means universal there. What wonder that, having chanced upon such a Phœnix, we cheerfully gave ourselves up to his guidance? even in such serious matters as the purchase of a basket of Ischian cherries.
The wished-for opportunity soon occurred. Michele pulled up, and after a short debate in a to us nearly unintelligible language, consisting principally of gesticulation and double mm’s, he concluded a bargain for us, and the cherries were handed in. Such cherries! fair and rosy, plump and smooth as the cheek of a cherub! tender, juicy, and luscious to the taste as they were lovely to the eye.
“The Signori have never been in Ischia,” resumed Michele, who generally kept up a running fire of conversation over his shoulder as he drove along. “I wonder they do not go! they are so fond of fine views and of drawing. They would find so much to draw. Artists often go there. And there is such a good inn. And it is not so hot as Naples. And then the fruit! Why the apricots at Ischia are twice as big as those at Naples, ‘e d’una sugosita!’” And here he wound up with one of those ineffable grimaces and gestures with which men of his nation are wont to intimate that words fall short to express their enthusiasm.
We had intended making an excursion to the island in question, taking passage by the little steamer which in summer daily toddles over from Naples at the rate of four or five knots an hour; but now, after taking counsel with our guide, philosopher, and friend, Michele, we decided on proceeding thither on that same evening by a sailing boat from beyond Miseno, after going through the proper routine of sightseeing on the Pozzuoli shore. The day was splendid; there was a good breeze to carry us over, and we had per-