outriders, disappear through it, with bated
breath, thinking of the ineffable splendours,
the untold gorgeousness, the unimaginable
luxuries that must have their being behind
those charmed doors. Now I pass through
the gate, whistling. I smoke a cigar in the
royal gardens. I pay sixpence to see a show
in the place where the great king dwelt:
where beauty has languished, and voluptuousness
has revelled, and pride has said to
itself, 'I can never die.' I pay sixpence,
and sit in my high-lows, in the rooms where
investitures have been held, knighthood
conferred, treaties concocted, peace and war
proclaimed, death-warrants signed. Twenty
years ago, how many a millionaire's wife
would have given her ears to be invited to
the Pagoda? Now I invite myself, and my
wife thinks the room but shabby.

I see breakers a-head that betoken the
squall of a sermon. The subject is too
enticing. Only this I must say: If any divine
wishes to preach a sermon upon vanity
and emptiness, and the mutability of earthly
things, let him make haste and come here,
and take the Pagoda of Capri for a text.

Out on the S., facing the Pagoda, the idol-
worshippers erected some years ago a statue
of their idol. It was, I believe, originally
cast in bronze; but either neglect or the
saline quality of the atmosphere, or some
yet more mysterious agent, have converted
it into the mournfulest, rustiest, verdigrised
old marine-store you ever saw. This is
Georgius—but ah! how changed from him!
The ambrosial wig seems out of curl. The
fine features are battered and worn away—
the royal nose has especially suffered. The
classic drapery hangs in dingy folds, like the
garments of a lean and slippered pantaloon.
Fuit, fuit, fuit is written everywhere. On
dark winter's nights, when the sea moans
fitfullest, and the wind howls among the
Moorish chimney-pots of the Pagoda, and the
rain whips the pedestal, I can imagine this
statue animated by a ghost, and the ghost
wringing its bronze hands and crying,
"Walla! Walla! Dogs and monkeys, twins
and clowns, in the house where I have
waltzed with Jersey and gambled with
Hertford; where I have entertained Polignac,
and made Platoff tipsy; where I have
suffered princesses to kiss my hand, and said
to sheriffs, Arise, Sir John; where I
compounded my inestimable recipe for
Champagne-punch; mixed my world-famous
Regent's-snuff, and cut out my immortal
white kid pantaloons!" Alas, poor ghost!

I meet occasionally in the Pagoda
Gardens, seldom early or late, or in doubtful
weather, but in the warmest, cheerfulest, most
genial portion of the day, sundry elderly
bucks, antediluvian dandies, senile old boys,
whom I cannot help fancying to have been
habitués of the Pagoda in the heyday of its
glory. I meet them, too, on the cliff, and
other places of resort; but the seedy purlieus
of this palace out of elbows, they especially
haunt. Seldom do they walk together, or
converse in groups. The Sphynx is solitary.
Marius had no companion when he sat among
the ruins of Carthage. Trotting, or toddling,
or creeping, or hobbling, or slinking along,
shall you see these damaged fops, these
battered and bygone beaux. The fur collar, the
hat with raised brim, and body curved slightly
inward, the double eye-glass, the tightly-
strapped trousers, and peaked high-heeled
boots, telling of padded calves and bunions;
the occasionally braided, always tightly
buttoned surtout, the never-failing umbrella, the
high satin stock, the curly wig, or purple-dyed
whiskers, the thousand crowsfeet on the face,
the tired, parboiled eye, weeping because its
owner is too vain to allow it the aid of
spectacles; the mouth, full of evidence of what a
capital profession dental surgery must be in
Capri; the buckskin gloves, the handkerchief
peeping from the breast-pocket, the oft-
produced snuffbox, the cough, the scintillating
suspicions of stays, and sciatica, and rheumatism,
and paralysis—these are the most
noteworthy exterior characteristics of the old beau
types I meet in the Gardens. They creep
about in the sunshine, tottering over their
old shadows, that seem like guides, showing
them the way to the grave. Now I meet
them elbowed by the noisy, healthful,
pleasure-seeking throngs by the sea; now they
crouch in the corners of Mr. Thruppell's
subscription reading-rooms; blinking over the
newspapers—during which operation you
may hear as many as forty distinct wheezes
and coughs in the course of one forenoon.
When it is cold, they come abroad in cloaks
and comforters, but are loth to lose an hour's
sunshine. Nobody seems to invite them to
dinner, you do not meet them in society, or
at theatres or concerts. Even in church-
time on Sunday they crawl about the shiny
streets. They never ride; they never
venture on the beach, or bathe. When they are
too old and feeble to walk, they subside into
Bath-chairs, and are dragged about the
Esplanade to pass the time till Mr. Tressel's
men have finished harnessing the black horses
to the carriage, and Doctor Bolus is satisfied
that he will get no more fees. Who are
they—these poor old boys? Alas! may they
not have been the strong men who lived
before Agamemnon came even to babyhood?
These fur-collared spectres lingering about
the scenes of their former triumphs, like a
dog about the grave of his master who is
dead: these, O vain and forward youth,
were once the gallant and the gay in that
prouder alcove than Clieveden—they were the
mimic statesmen who circled the merry king
that built Capri. They are old and broken
now; but the days have been when they
have seen the Regent bow, and Fitzherbert
smile, and d'Artois dance,—when they have
heard Sheridan laugh, and Brummell jest.
They have seen the tawdry rooms of the