You find by this time that my way from the inn to the Toledo lies through a sort of market, but it is merely a short street of shops and stalls. “_Carità, signore, carità, pell’ amore di Maria santissima._” “_Signore, ps, signore_,” says the shoeblack, and he points to my shoes, requesting I would permit him to black them. They have just been cleaned; no matter, he is ready to clean them again. “_Andiamo_,” cries a vetturino, or rather callessiere. I ask where we are to go, and he runs over the names of half a dozen places in the neighbourhood, Portici, Pozzuoli, Baia. I take shelter from all this in a coffee-house, endeavouring to choose one where they are not roasting coffee at the door, or preparing cakes of chocolate within; and where they do not permit the customers to have their boots cleaned in the room. Perhaps after breakfast I wish to go to some place in the neighbourhood, and I have no difficulty in finding a conveyance. “How much,” I ask, “must I give you to take me to Pozzuoli?” “_Tre piastre, va bene?_” “No,” I reply, “it is too much.” “Well, how much will you give?” “Five carlines,” is my answer. “Oh Sir! five carlines to go seven miles, and stay there all day, and bring you back again?” things, by the by, which he did not at all intend to include in his first bargain. “But I do not want you to stay, or to bring me back, but merely to take me there.” “_Una piastra, va bene?_” “No.” “Including _buona mano_ and every thing.” I walk on. “_Ps Signore, otto carlini?_” “No.” “_Sette?_” “No.” “_Sei?_” “Well, including the _buona mano_.” “Oh! you will give me a bottle.” “Not a grain more, six carlines and nothing beside.” “_Andiamo._” He brings up his little one-horse chaise, in which two people can just sit. I get in, and he seats himself at the bottom, or perhaps gets up behind, offering me the reins, which I never take, but retaining himself the whip. This he smacks, and we set off at a round trot, or perhaps at a gallop. At the end of the journey, he affects to be very much surprised that you pay him no more than his bargain. The next contest is with the Ciceroni of the place, who are ambitious of the honour of serving you for half a dollar, or for less, if they are rather thin of visitors; and last again with the vetturini in returning. With all this, whether they succeed or fail, they are never uncivil. You have to bargain at the shops almost as much as with the vetturini. “Amongst so many,” said a French gentleman to me, soon after my arrival, “it is not possible that there should not be some honest man; I can only say, that during a residence of eight years, I have not had the good fortune to meet with one.” “It would be very uncharitable to suppose,” observed an English gentleman, who had equal, or superior opportunities of knowing, and the conversation happened on the same day, “that among a population of six millions, there should be no honest man; and it is possible that one or two whom I know may be men of honour, but the