This frolick was unusually absurd, as I was to go early with ye D. of Devonshire, etc. to dine at Belvedere[33] with the King. I was ready at seven, but ill and faint, and obliged to eat _diavoloni_ to keep alive. We arrived too late: the King waited _an hour_. The King was very pleasant and conversable; he shewed us the whole manufactory, the mechanical part I did not much comprehend. He was so gallant to me that they joked and said I should be sent to Calabria, the common way the Queen takes to remove her rivals, tho’ she allows him to _people_ his own colony of manufacturers. Before we quitted him he insisted on our promising to dine at Carditello, and the Sunday after at St. Leucio to see the wedding. From the Belvedere we went to the English garden, which is very beautiful from being in many respects unlike one. There is one of the prettiest thoughts for an ornament I ever saw; a large building representing ancient baths, supposed to have been dug out from a stratum of tufa which covered them. It is done with the best taste and judgment possible, and is as complete a thing as can be. I returned home at night more dead than alive from fatigue. [Sidenote: 1793 VESUVIUS] The next day after, we went to the mountain. I invited poor Italinski. I would not go higher than the Cross, that is, I would go no further than my mule could carry me; the others went to the running lava. We all wrote our names at the Hermitage, a retreat inhabited by a man clothed in a holy garb,[34] but whom report says is not sanctified in his deeds; many rendezvous are kept in his neat, trim cell, and but for his paying he would be expelled from his nominal solitude. Saturday was the last morning I passed in Naples. I quitted those scenes of tranquil pleasure and harmless gratification with unfeigned regret. But ah me! what can please or cheer one who has no hope of happiness in life. Solitude and amusement from external objects is all I hope for: home is the abyss of misery! I am but as a zero in society, attached to none, belonging to none I esteem. We passed the evening at Caserta with the Hamiltons; their house was not large enough to hold us all, and I lodged in Hackhert’s[35] house. _Mullady_ sang _Nina_, Paisiello’s music; her vile discordant screaming took off the whole effect of his simple melody.