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PROPOS of doctors, as I said before, many of the Neapolitan physicians had remained at their post from a sense of duty, whilst others had thrown themselves into the fray stimulated by a certain amount of scientific interest. But there is a third sort of physician out here, and it is impossible to include him in either the former or the latter series, i.e. the runaway. And he deserves a special mention, but I will spare him here. That society will bear him in mind for some time to come, I think I may safely venture to affirm, after what has just happened in the case of a Neapolitan gentleman of some standing in the town. Whilst all his colleagues had looked upon it as their duty to remain on the spot, and lend every possible assistance in their power, he had kept away, excusing himself in a public letter[5] from returning to the town, on the plea of family matters! He took this opportunity of mentioning that he was an excessively courageous fellow, and as a proof thereof, he modestly reminded those of his oblivious countrymen who dared to question his heroic attributes, that "alone with six bersaglieri he had taken a cannon from the Austrians at Villafranca." But this was not of much avail—time seems to have somewhat rusted the cannon—and the tide of popular feeling rose so high, that he was requested to resign his appointment without further delay. The matter grew so serious that at last he was compelled to put an end to his villegiatura. He came back on Thursday and found that it would be impossible to regain the people's confidence, unless he reported himself that very day as volunteer "infirmier" at the cholera hospital. As was to be expected, this new act of heroism was immediately advertised; the "Villafranca cannon" was again lugged out of its arsenal of oblivion, and dragged with rattling phrases across the columns of every newspaper in the town, pouring great broadsides into all those who dared to entertain a single doubt as to the worthy gentleman's courage,—and public opinion was again satisfied. Such are the galantuomini, the so-called better classes out here, ostentatious and ridiculous. I hold more and more to my poor lazzaroni, who are far more interesting as a study, and infinitely more sympathetic in themselves.

It irritates me to think that they actually complied with his request to be allowed to play the rôle of infirmier at the cholera hospital. No doubt it was a convenient platform on which to enact a reconciliation scene with his discontented fellow townsmen, but in my opinion far too solemn a place to desecrate by such a farce. (The director of the hospital is nevertheless a very able man, and a member of Parliament into the bargain; here, as in France, the medical faculty furnishes a number of representatives to the Chamber.)

The Villafranca hero (he is also a colonel of the Reserve Force) is now and again to be seen up at the hospital. He absolutely reeks of camphor, which is, I suppose, his ideal disinfectant. He often slips out into the corridor or into the garden, where fearless friends or newspaper reporters are to be found paying their tribute of admiration to his infirmier's costume. I wonder if it ever strikes him that he ought to be proud of being allowed to wear the simple gray blouse, which is perhaps more deserving of medals than the gold-laced coat of his colonel's uniform! I know some one who saw him the other day helping to put one of the cholera patients into a bath, and it seems that, according to all appearances, the gloved infirmier might have been handling nothing short of a fiery shell itself. . . .

If he would like to know how heroes conduct themselves in battles such as these, let him go into the next room where lies Sœur Philomène, the brave sister of charity, who, without flinching, has nursed the cholera patients day and night; she has fallen at her post, and now lies calmly waiting there for death.

It is a different sort of courage to that with which cannons are taken that is required here—the silent, unsung courage which Napoleon, the great taker of cannons, valued at so high a rate, the courage which he called, "le courage de la nuit."

As far as the municipal authorities are concerned they have certainly done their duty during these hard times, if not at the beginning, at any rate during the last period of the epidemic. And the work that had to be got through was gigantic, it was a case of beginning from the beginning, for Naples is absolutely innocent of anything like sanitary arrangements; I shall take some other opportunity of returning to the question of the sanitary conditions of Naples—it is interesting enough. There is no doubt that the king's visit during the worst days of the epidemic had a most stimulating effect upon the official authorities. But I am bound to admit that during these last times they have somewhat relaxed in their efforts, and I reckon this factor to be one of considerable importance in the discussions that are still going on as to the reason of the recrudescence of the epidemic last week. Fortunately the cholera did not wait for the doctors to finish their discussions, it took the matter into its own hands, and diminished rapidly. To-day the tramontana[6] is blowing, sweeping away a large quantity of cholera virus from amongst us, and in about a week it is my belief that the cholera returns will be no more numerous than they were a fortnight ago. And it is high time, for Naples is as near her complete ruin as possible.

I know for a fact that a petition has been sent up to the Home Office in Rome, for permission to discontinue the publication of the cholera cases, for it is a question of life and death to Naples that the epidemic should come to an end—officially at all events. A continued publication of these cholera cases will be enough to scare away all foreigners for the whole winter; and as foreigners are the only real source of income to Naples, it is an absolute necessity that silence should be kept on the subject of the epidemic, and that every endeavour should be made to forget all about it as quickly as possible.

But in such hotbeds of infection as the fondaci of the Mercato and Porto quarters—dark damp holes into which neither air nor light ever penetrates, and where so many people, reduced to the most frightful misery, are so closely packed together—the cholera may easily retain its vitality for many a day to come.

And it isn't much better in the suburbs of Naples than in the surrounding villages. I went again to-day to the Bagno di Granatello, the convict prison, situated between Naples and Portici, where the infirm convicts and those who are chronic invalids are kept. There had been several cases of cholera during the past week, but they had been hushed up, and nothing had been done for the poor prisoners, of whom the greater part are old and crippled. The cholera patients have not been isolated, but are obliged to lie with the rest in the terribly small room where 260 unfortunate wretches are huddled together. The cholera has cleared a space for them now, for many of their companions have died, and many will be dead ere long. These prisoners are human beings like ourselves, and are not ruffians at all, their crimes for the most part consist of smuggling, of having repeatedly deserted the coral fishing-boats, etc.—perhaps at one time when the blood was young and the quarrel violent, a knife may have glistened in one of the hands so withered now. One can imagine the despair of these chained witnesses of the cholera's invasion, as one after the other succumbs to the disease.

I went there to-day for no other reason than that of being present during the advertised inspection of the prison. I am still indignant at the remembrance of all I saw as I write these lines. Since yesterday there have been seven fresh cases, and four people died whilst I was there to-day. It would have moved a stone to have seen the despair of the poor captives as they kissed the clothes of the fine gentlemen around, and to have heard their agonised entreaties for succour and relief—it was well that I was no inspector of prisons, for I would have thrown the doors open to every one of them!

But the inspectors, more accustomed to the dark episodes of prison-life, were of a different opinion, and they were pleased to attest "that the sad condition of the locality itself and its overpopulation, had made isolation and disinfection impossible, rendering every other hygienic amelioration equally so."

And the long-looked for and anxiously-awaited deliverance was reduced to this, that one of the members of the committee very carefully and very solemnly filled a little flask with drinking water, drawn from the prisoners' well, to be taken up to Naples for analysis—and then they took themselves off!

But this, however, was no question of finding, or not finding microbes in the water next morning; the sick ought to have been removed that very day to the cholera hospital, and—as it was impossible to disinfect the miserable hole—all the rest ought at once to have been put under inspection in some other isolated place.

I am out of all patience with the heroes of the day, the wretched microbes, for human beings are being forgotten for microbes. As the actual returns were too inconveniently high to suit the inspectors and sanitary commissioners, it was thought desirable to take a middle course, and to advise the public of forty-two cases and thirty deaths—and these were the figures with which the morning papers reported the inspection of il Bagno di Granatello.

I heard in the meantime that the member for Portici had telegraphed to the Home Office for immediate assistance, and I only hope, for the poor prisoners' sakes, that the help will come soon, and will take a more energetic form than that of lax inspectors and microbe hunting chemists.

A good deal has come under my notice during these last times, but my experience of the Granatello prison was certainly dreadful. The most appalling stench all over, dark cellars, with damp, moss-covered walls—this last is not to be wondered at, considering that the prison is situated at the water's edge. There are not many people who have seen the Bagno di Granatello, for the old building cannot be distinguished from either Portici or Resina. When the sea is rough, as it was day before yesterday, when I was out there, the water runs down the walls, and an icy draught blows through the so-called gloomy halls, inside which several hundred of these unfortunate prisoners dwell. Even one of the Neapolitan newspapers admitted that the place was one which might be turned to account as a Scuola di piscicoltura,[7] but was altogether unfit to harbour human beings!

If you think that my description of an Italian prison is altogether too gloomy, just read one of the recently-published official reports concerning the penal establishments of Italy, by "Commendatore" Beltrani Scalia, a book which the newspapers speak of as "interessantissima," but which, in my opinion, is ghastly.

The book fell accidentally into my hands yesterday. I looked in vain for anything worthy of remark concerning the Bagno di Granatello, but on another page the following paragraph caught my eye: "The medical duties of the . . . prison are confided to a barber, who is a "bleeder" into the bargain."—Well, that is enough, is it not?

** *

I felt I must have a breath of fresh air after all this—I had become so embittered inside that wretched prison, and so depressed at the idea of all the misery one is obliged to witness in this weary world, and which one can do nothing to relieve. I went out to Resina, and came home on foot. And as I tramped along, I began to wonder whether, after all, there might not be something in the old legend that maintains that we shall all meet again in another planet, where a sort of mutual transmigration of souls is to take place, where all the rôles are to be reversed; where all those who have been unhappy here below are to be happy, where the poor are to feast whilst the rich stand looking on, where those who have had the lash down here are to hold the handle of the whip in their own hands, where the hard-hearted jailors of this world are to sit in the cells, whilst their former prisoners go round inspecting them! And in that promised land animals should be allowed to go about illtreating human beings, all the little birds and butterflies should fly about on free wings, and in their turn see the sportsmen sitting stuffed and shut up in enormous glass cases, and all the butterfly catchers in long rows dangling their legs, with long pins stuck through their bodies—but would they be half so good to look at as their former victims, the butterflies? And this planet's steep hills should swarm with all the broken-winded old cab-horses, who should also, in their turn, sit on the coach-box, returning every bloody stroke of the whip dealt out to them by their former tyrants, the cabmen of this world. . . . Except that animals are much kinder-hearted than human beings, and would not care to torture the "lords of creation" for very long.

But I myself, what would become of me up in this remarkable planet?

If, at this very moment, I were to find myself translated from this vale of tears and transported thither, and my future destiny were to depend upon what I had been doing during this last period of my earthly existence, I really don't know what I ought to expect! I don't think I have had much occasion to quarrel with my fellow-creatures just lately, but I am very much afraid I might be accused of cruelty to animals. For I do nothing but torture animals all day long. Either I "catch them alive," or I bring them up with every cunning precaution by means of cultivation-tubes, feed their little ones, in just the right degree of warmth, on what they most prefer, such as Pasteur's bouillon, gelatin, etc., and all that for the sake of illtreating them as much as possible later on, for the sake of fumigating, cooking, drying, poisoning them, and afterwards peering at them through the microscope, to make sure that I have really succeeded in torturing them to death, the poor unconscious (I had almost written innocent, but I dare not on account of Dr. Koch) microbes, who have no idea of my evil intentions towards them! Shall I, all things taken into consideration, be turned into a cholera microbe myself, to be tortured after the same fashion by one of that planet's physicians, who shall peer at me through his gray spectacles with the same sinister intentions?

A propos of doctors, I wonder what will become of them up there? Will they by any chance be made to exchange places with their former patients? That were a hard punishment!

But supposing I am not turned into a cholera microbe, what then? Perhaps I shall be condemned to sit and read in print, all the rubbish that has flitted across this poor, restless brain of mine—that would be rather too much of a good thing, I think I would vote for the microbe.