which bore very little resemblance to a _billet-doux_, either outside or in. Yet the contents were usually of a tender and complimentary nature, and surely never were love-letters more peculiar in their character. They were written by proxy in the large, full round hand of a secretary, very eloquent and very flowery, with a most affectionate yet respectful heading and ending, while at the bottom of the paper, in a little cramped and rather trembling hand, came the signature of my devoted admirer, “_Ruberti, Generale Commandante di Sant’ Elmo_.” Natural as was the pride I felt in the conquest of so elevated an adorer, it was nothing to the glory which awaited me. One evening I was bidden with my mother and the whole of the family to dinner, and a most excellent repast was served to us on the beautiful terrace, and when the purple shades of night deepened in the sky, the grim old Castle of Sant’ Elmo burst forth into brilliant illuminations—and all this in honour of Donna Marietta. I have never since gazed on a picture or drawing of Naples the beautiful, crowned with the old castle, without remembering that proud night in my life. Dear, noble old general! When King Bomba issued his commands that the Commandante should fire upon his countrymen from the heights above the town, the patriot refused, and, in spite of his previous services and advanced age, was cast into prison. A tribute is paid to this noble rebel in Ruffini’s pathetic tale of “Dr Antonio.” He outlived his captivity, and shortly before his death (which, I think, took place at Turin) sent me a letter with a string of coral beads, to entwine, as he expressed himself, in my golden hair, by that lover of Italian freedom, the Countess Belgiojoto, a connection, by the way, of our Poet-Laureate.[34] Footnote 34: Alfred Lord Tennyson. [Sidenote: FEAST OF MADONNA DELL’ ARCO] Naples, justly called the beautiful, appeared to us on another occasion under what might well be termed a miraculous aspect. It was the feast of the Madonna dell’ Arco, When the Neapolitans leave the city to purchase in some neighbouring district rural utensils of husbandry, such as rakes, pitchforks, baskets of various shapes, etc., they return at evening into the city with these implements crowned with flowers and decked with coloured ribbons a species of triumphal procession, which formed the subject many years ago for a charming little picture by the Italian painter, “Urvins,” which decorates one of the small rooms in Lord Lansdowne’s splendid collection at Bowood.