Our next object was the Solfatara, evidently the crater of an extinct volcano, or at least, of one so far extinct as to throw up no fire, and to make no eruptions, but it still smokes, or rather steams, for what arises is a vapour charged with sulphureous acid, which will moisten, and not burn, a paper exposed to it, but which deposits beautiful crystals of sulphur and alum on the borders of the opening from which it issues. The steam issues with considerable violence and a hissing noise. The Solfatara presents a plain, of a form nearly circular, surrounded by steep broken banks. The soil is of a whitish clay, without grass, but it supports bushes of chesnut, which also cover great part of the surrounding banks, and great abundance of the _Inula viscosa_. The ground sounds hollow, but this arises merely from the spongy texture of the soil, for in digging for sulphur they have proceeded, through a nearly homogeneous substance, to the depth of fifty palms, nearly as many English feet, when their further progress was stopped by the quantity of hot water. The sulphur seems more or less disseminated through the whole mass of this clay. In the part which is dug out, it amounts nearly to one fourth, and is purified on the spot. From the Solfatara I proceeded towards the lake of Agnano, and the Grotto del Cane, but the boy who had accompanied me insisted that these were not included in the bargain we had made, as they were close by Naples, and not near Pozzuoli, I stated my reasons for the contrary opinion, and offered to pay him in proportion to what he had already performed, but I found that I could not obtain attention, and that he still persisted in his assertion, that these were close by Naples, when therefore I had once made him understand me, I walked on without replying to his remonstrances. This was a new subject of grief, which made him quite forget the other, and he began to cry about it, “_Ma rispondete Signore, parlate, per l’amor di Dio, una parola, una parola sola_,” finding me inexorable, “_O sangue di Dio!_” he exclaimed, and many other exclamations and invocations familiar to a Neapolitan, and his tears flowed afresh in greater profusion than ever; but at last finding he could make no impression, he became quiet, and did not even grumble when I paid him; he would not have been an Italian if he had not asked for more. He was a youth of about fifteen, who called himself Giovanni. We parted very good friends, with a particular request that I would call for him when I came again to Pozzuoli, which I have done several times, and always have been perfectly satisfied with him. He is civil and intelligent, and if he cannot cheat me himself, seems quite to have made up his mind that nobody else shall.