WE spent a day at Amalfi. From La Cava, a pretty town in an extensive vale shut in with the most picturesque chains of mountains, we took an open carriage for the three hours’ drive. It soon struck the seacoast and wound all the rest of the way around its headlands, doubling its promontories, retreating into its bays and inlets and dropping almost to the water’s edge, and presently mounting upward into almost Alpine heights. The headlands and cliffs were frequently broken into every imaginable form of rock sculpture—columns, cones, pyramids, grottoes and castellated walls of defense and fantastic ruins. The sea beat the shore, here, a sheer precipice, and there a white sanded beach, then rolled away a tangled mass of the most exquisite and innumerable shades of blue, green, purple, black, gold and silver. The coast stretched around in a vast semi-circle of silver till it lost itself in the misty horizon. Little villages lay at our feet, ran up the hill-sides with their terraces of orange-groves, or clung to the cliffs far overhead like martins’ nests in winter. A long range of snow-capped mountains reared themselves above Salerno, and sent us an icy blast now and then. There had been quite a snow the day before. We rattled up to our “albergo” at eleven. This was at the foot of the hill; our destination was an old monastery of the Capucins, now a hotel, of which this was the porter’s lodge. The same proprietor conducts both. He met us with the welcome accorded to favored guests, and gave us a guide, and we were off at once.

The practical should not be neglected entirely for the picturesque, so, we “took in” on our way, a macaroni factory. We saw the flour, then the kneading, last the moulding. The kneading is quite peculiar, and a long and fatiguing part. There is a flat, round table with a beam that works on and around it, the dough being placed between. Six youths of eighteen or twenty were on the end and worked it up and down and back and forth. The whole had a joint resemblance to a grist-mill and the game of see-sawing. The boys were bare-legged and looked very clean and cool. When the dough is sufficiently kneaded, it is transferred to the mould. This is a cylindrical-shaped machine, filled with the small cylinders through which the dough is forced to convert it into the little tubes with which we are so familiar. The dough is placed on one end and the pressure applied, which forces it through. The several squads of workmen are very eager to show off at their best, their palms tingling, no doubt, in expectation of the accustomed fee.

Leaving this factory, we began climbing steps. The monastery is the hollow of a rock, which rises abruptly from the sea, has cloisters, a veranda, a “terrace-walk,” a kind of collonade, and from innumerable points the most charming views. Longfellow had been there ahead of me, for which I “returned thanks” on finding in the guest-book his poem “Amalfi.” As I read it my eyes went wandering over all therein so felicitously described. The salon was the refectory of the monks, and each window, glazed to the floor, opened on a veranda. I shut myself out on one, and, leaning on its solid stone balustrade, gave myself up to the dreamy fascination of the “enchanted land.” Do read the poem, and try to picture each feature with your mind’s eye. The description is perfect. After lingering till the very last moment, we found our guide, and took another route to the albergo, where we had left our carriage.

Whether the descent to Avernus is easy or not depends upon the grade of descent. That was not many degrees removed from “sheer.” Believe me, it was not “easy.” It dropped us on the beach, and the “white-caps” gave us close chase here and there. Nothing to compare, though, to that of a battalion of little beggars who became so importunate, we had to turn our umbrellas into weapons of both defense and attack, whereupon they yelled and shouted with laughter. So we parted “merry foes,” if neither side could boast a triumph.

The earth never saw a more perfect morning than the following. That was to be our Paestum day. Our host, a number of countrymen and countrywomen, even the station porter who carried our lunch basket to a carriage on the train which was to take us part of the way—one and all exclaimed: “How fortunate you are! You could not have a more splendid day to see the ruins.” Fourteen miles by rail and then a carriage again for a drive of two and a half hours. The sea was “radiantly beautiful,” a wide expanse of flashing wavelets. Leaving it, the route crossed marshy plains, occasionally dotted with small herds of buffaloes and other cattle. The mountains kept along with us, gradually diminishing in height until they sank into the low coast. After awhile the first glimpse of the temples. That was a sensation! It is said of these temples that they were built in the ancient Greek style, and are, with the exception of those at Athens, the finest existing monuments of the kind. The temple of Neptune is the largest and most beautiful of the three. Its magnitude, massiveness and grandeur, added to the purpose for which it was erected—the worship of a deity—make it the most imposing ruin I have seen. This last makes the wide difference between it and the Coliseum, for which, had it that consecration, there would be no words. I wandered round, through it, gathered wild acanthus from crevices in its columns and clefts in its floor; gazed at the near sea at one end, passing an arm round one of its mighty symmetrical columns, not encircling it, you may be sure, as the diameter is seven and a half feet; followed the slow grazing of sheep on those once-sacred grounds; sat down on the broken and half-buried steps inside, and looked up at

the intense blue of Italy’s noon-day sky; went to different points around it to get every aspect of

and felt it impossible to sufficiently admire it. The Basilica near by is also of great magnitude, but less and not so majestic in its proportions. The third is the Temple of Ceres. It is comparatively small, but full of simple majesty. As I looked at these wonderful ruins, what most strangely moved me was an appreciation of the power and glory of man, and the recognition of what an element worship has been in the history of our race.

Another was my Sorrento day, which meant one of those ideal drives called “Cornichean,” because of the road’s projecting like a cornice from the headlands and precipitous hill-sides. In some places, the road is cut out of the solid rock; in others, it pierces it, forming beautiful arches, but always keeping the sea in view. This kept also Ischia, Capri and Vesuvius before the charmed gaze. No other point commands such fine and complete outlines of Vesuvius—its perfect gradual upward sweep and swell from the water’s edge to its cone, with the ever-rising column of smoke. Part of this drive takes its way through orange and olive groves and mulberry trees, figs, pomegranates and aloes, mingled in delicious suggestiveness. The town itself is small, and situated amid these delightful groves, rather orchards, on rocks rising abruptly from the sea, with deep ravines on the other side. It was the birthplace of Tasso; and it is said, the house in which he was born and the rock on which it stood have been swallowed up by the sea, and that the ruins are still visible beneath its clear blue waters. Nearly the entire sea-front is occupied by hotels, situated in gardens, with steps descending to the sea; and bathing establishments commanding magnificent views. We visited its shops, celebrated for their inlaid and carved wooden work and silks.

My second trial of Naples was as unsatisfactory as the first. It rained in torrents, and then I “gave up in despair.” The trip from Naples back to Rome almost made me forget my grievance. It was full of historic interest and association. We passed “ancient Capua,” where Spartacus led in the war of the gladiators. Just this side of it is a district so productive it yields two crops of grain and one of hay in the same season. We had a splendid view of the celebrated monastery of Monte Casino, situated on the top of a lofty hill. It is founded on the site of an ancient temple of Apollo, to which Dante alludes in his “Paradiso.” Thomas Aquinas was educated there. Varro’s villa was near, and it is to one of its abbots that the world is indebted for the preservation of his works. Its library is celebrated for its manuscripts, and some of them suggested to Dante his great works. In sight was Aquino, the birthplace of both Thomas Aquinas and Juvenal.

Rome. Here, in the “Eternal City.” Every day is one to be chronicled. The day after I came was Palm Sunday. I went to St. Peter’s to see both it and the ceremonies of the distribution of consecrated palms. I will not describe St. Peter’s. Had I not already seen Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s and all the other most celebrated English cathedrals, no doubt the impression would have been overwhelming. The ceremonies were very unimposing; the music was not extraordinary; high mass was performed in one of the chapels, which dwarfed it to a very commonplace performance; and the distribution of palms was done by children, poor, forlorn-looking friars and licensed peddlers, the consecration having been previously done by one of the cardinals.

While the services were being performed in the chapel, people were walking and rambling all over the rest of the vast temple, and unless quite close to it, might have been quite unaware that anything was going on within. As no seats were provided, I went out and joined the ramblers. Presently I came upon the bronze statue of St. Peter, the toes of which are being worn away by the kisses of the devout. I found a seat and sat down to look on. Every class and grade was represented, from prince and princess to pauper and villain, the former using their dainty perfumed handkerchiefs to wipe a spot before touching their lips to it; the latter, their ragged and tainted sleeves. One young priest wiped the side of the foot and kissed it, instead of the much-imposed-upon toes.

To the end of “Holy Week,” I devoted myself to seeing its various services. Each church has its special services. In that of St. Apollonari, the washing and kissing the feet of the disciples is done by a cardinal. I waited through a prolonged service of nearly four hours to witness it. There were thirteen youthful priests seated in a row on a bench raised two steps above the floor for the greater convenience of the rather too fat father. Each in succession thrust out a bare foot as he knelt, then washed, wiped, and, so far as I could see, gave an honest kiss. There was a crimson satin cushion for him to kneel on, which, however, the attending priests forgot to move along for him, so he had to use the bare floor. I was suspicious enough to think the omission was intentional. All his gorgeous vestments were removed while he was doing this, and he looked a very plain, humble creature indeed.

In another was high mass and the showing of part of the cross to which Christ was bound to be scourged. This church is opened but the once in the year, and then only to ladies. No man can enter under pain of excommunication. The other part of the cross is in Jerusalem. I urged a very agreeable elderly English lady to go to see it. For reply, she looked at me with a twinkle in her shrewd eyes, and said: “I am not going to spend my time in any such tomfoolery as that.” What a homelike sound her unvarnished English had!

In yet another there was a grand ceremony of showing the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul—a ghastly spectacle at best. But the glory has departed from Catholicism in Rome. “Holy Week” is a very tame period now-a-days. One could be here and not hear of it. Indeed, it was with great difficulty that we could get any accurate information of its program. In only one church was there a jam. The pope never shows himself; his seclusion is said to be absolute. All of the grandest spectacles and ceremonies are omitted, so “Holy Week” is rapidly ceasing to be an attraction.

We had a delightful drive on the Via Appia, that old Roman road, built three hundred and twelve years before Christ, that even to-day, is called the “queen of roads.” This is the finest of the near excursions in the Campagna, the ruins of the aquaducts, mountains and villages, while the remains of ancient tombs on each side of the road are a unique and singularly fascinating feature. We took it in to visit the catacombs of St. Callistus; the tomb of Caecillia Metella; the grotto and grove of Egeria. Stopping at the Catacombs, we were provided with wax tapers and guides and plunged down a precipitous stairway, and in a moment would have been plunged in Plutonian darkness but for these little lights that only served “to make darkness more visible.” Next came threading our way through narrow, tortuous passages,

single file, coming occasionally to tombs of some extent, containing the bodies of popes, saints and “other people.” In several of these were paintings, the subjects of which were still quite easily made out. Some of the decorative inscriptions date as far back as the fourth century, and the frescoes to the seventh and eighth. In one chamber are two sarcophagi still containing the skeletons of the deceased, which are seen through a glass cover; one looking like a mummy, the other very much crumbled. The guide hurried us, so the visit was rather confusing, and I came out. The tomb of Caecillia Metella was a fascination to me I was scarcely prepared for, notwithstanding my remembrance of Childe Harold’s famous description. To reach the Grotto of Egeria, we had to take a walk through some fields, and descend a hill into a ravine through which a little brook, the Almo, flows in an artificial channel. The Grotto is not large, but very beautiful, draped with ivy over the entire arch of the opening. On the wall facing the entrance is a mutilated statue. The fountain bursts from the wall to the right of it about four or five feet from the floor. A peasant was filling his vessels from it and he gave us a drink. It was clear, cool and of pleasant flavor. Thence a further walk along the brook and the ascent of not a very high hill, led to a grove of thick and striking ilex trees. They are of great size and evergreen. I went under every tree to be sure I did not miss that at whose roots Numa learned his lessons of wisdom.

L. G. C.

Rome, April 4, 1883.