Cava dei Tirreni, March 8th.

We have spent the day in the streets and houses of Pompeii, living over again in the buried city the thrilling scenes of Lord Lytton's novel. His descriptions are still marvellously accurate, although so much has been unearthed since he wrote "The Last Days of Pompeii" that the ruins as they stand to-day are much more extensive than those pictured by the novelist. The house of Glaucus is called by the guides the House of the Tragic Poet, but the mosaic of the dog, with its inscription, "Cave canem," apparently as perfect as in the days when Glaucus thus whimsically greeted his friends and enemies, serves to identify it.

Lord Lytton was in Naples during the winter of the most important excavations at Pompeii, and his romance doubtless took form and shape as he walked through these deserted streets, where the ruts made by the chariot-wheels of the two rivals, Glaucus and Arbaces, are still to be seen. The houses, as he tells us, still undespoiled of their exquisite decorations and rich furniture, were much as their unfortunate owners left them. Even now, despite the fact that many of the beautiful frescoes, statues, busts, and other ornaments have been taken to the Naples Museum, much is still left of the interior of the houses, enough to give one a very good idea of how these luxurious Pompeians lived. The lower floors of some of these houses, as that of the Vettii and the Faun, are complete, with their vestibule, dining-room, parlor, bedrooms, and kitchen. These rooms are all rather small, according to our ideas, as the wise Pompeians lived out of doors, spending their days in the large central court of their houses or in the gardens. Of the gardens we saw the most perfect examples in the house of the Vettii. The restoration seems to have been made most carefully here as elsewhere; even the graceful bronze statuettes are not wanting, as excellent replicas have been put in the places of the originals, which are in the Naples Museum.

Nothing brings the reality of that old life before us more forcibly than to walk along the streets, where the bakeries and the wine and oil shops are still to be found. In the latter are many great jars, which are, as Zelphine says, not unlike those in which Morgiana entrapped her Forty Thieves.

Turning a corner, we were startled by seeing a roughly drawn sketch upon a wall, such as any street gamin of to-day might draw upon a tempting blank surface. Further along the same street we beheld a still stronger evidence that the life of Pompeii was not altogether different from that of our own time. Something corresponding to a modern poster announced in red letters the name of a favorite candidate for the next municipal election. We lingered long in the vast amphitheatre, in which the Pompeians were wont to take their pleasure, protected in sunny weather by an awning, whose usefulness we could appreciate to-day, as the sun of March is intensely hot in this region. The barracks for the gladiators, near the theatre, are not unlike the casemates for soldiers in a fort, and are quite complete. Zelphine, who is sitting near me, poring over Bulwer's novel, has just read me Pansa's lament over what he considered an infamous law, that forbade a man to send his own slaves to the wild beasts in the arena. Having seen the houses of Glaucus and Pansa, one can more readily understand the point of view of these luxurious, pleasure-loving ancients, who were probably not more cruel than many of their contemporaries.

We left Pompeii late this afternoon and came to La Cava, a pretty town in the mountains, where we are stopping on our way to PÆstum. Zelphine has just been talking to the padrone, who speaks excellent English, about the excursion to-morrow. Our tickets, which we bought of the concierge at the Hotel B., entitle us to a drive or a railway journey. The padrone strongly advises the former. He says the trains are so slow and the waits so long that we make almost as good time by driving, and then it is much more interesting. The drive is between forty and fifty miles, but by starting at eight o'clock in the morning, and changing horses at Battipaglia, we shall have two hours at PÆstum and get back to this hotel in time for dinner. Another party of American travellers, of the inconvenient number of five, go by coach to-morrow. The padrone asks us, in case we decide to drive, whether we will give a seat in our carriage to the odd number. Having concluded to drive, we are hoping that the fifth wheel of the other coaching-party may prove to be Mrs. Coxe, a charming old lady who talks most picturesquely of a drive to PÆstum forty years ago, when the roads were so infested by brigands that it was necessary to travel with a mounted escort.

"Could anything be more delightfully romantic?" exclaims Zelphine, on hearing this.

"Or more horridly uncomfortable?" adds Angela.

These exclamations drew from Mrs. Coxe a detailed and spirited recital of her adventures, which Zelphine heard with the great wide-open eyes of a child listening to a fairy-tale. Women of Mrs. Coxe's age delight in a sympathetic listener. The members of her own party have doubtless heard all of her contes de voyage. She will certainly elect to go with us, and have the advantage of a new and appreciative audience.

March 9th.

I opened my windows this morning and stepped out on the marble terrace to enjoy a view of the mountains, which had looked so enchanting by moonlight and were no less beautiful by day. In the garden below a blue gown flitting about among the orange-trees attracted my attention. Angela had evidently brought her charms to bear upon the heart of the padrone, as I heard him say, "Here are scissors for the signorina to cut all the oranges she wishes. In the signorina's own country the oranges do not grow up to the doorstep as with us. Is it not so?"

"No, indeed," said Angela, deftly snipping off a golden ball. "This is a great pleasure. I never cut an orange from a tree but once in my life, and that was in Granada."

Being possessed of an inquiring turn of mind, the padrone asked many questions concerning Granada, and so talking and working industriously Angela soon collected a fine dish of oranges for our breakfast—an unwonted luxury, as in this land of abundance they never give us fruit for our early dÉjeuner. The carriages were at the door before we had finished our breakfast, and in ours, as though in answer to our desires, sat Mrs. Coxe, provided with a guide-book, lorgnette, lunch, and all the equipment of a good traveller for a long day's drive.

The proprietor announced that he would accompany us as far as Salerno, occupying the seat on the box beside the driver and his little brother. Mrs. Coxe evidently considered this her opportunity for informing herself with regard to the country, its inhabitants, and its productions. She had added not a little to her already large store of information, gained in many lands, when the padrone, to our great regret, left us, with many bows, smiles, and wishes for a "bel giro."

We had the very tip-top of the morning for the beginning of our drive, as we set forth at eight o'clock. The air is soft and clear like that of a May day at home. We can scarcely believe that it is March, and that our friends across the water are still in the grasp of winter, as we left all that behind us when we sailed from New York six weeks ago.

Our way lay between green meadows dotted with purple cyclamen and a small yellow flower much like the English primrose, and in some places through groves of orange-trees covered with golden fruit.

Fortunately for those who take this long drive, the roads are excellent. We drove slowly through the old town of Cava, with its narrow, precipitous streets, and through Salerno, which is upon a bluff overlooking the bay, and commands a noble panorama of sea and shore. When, however, we reached the plain, our horses set forth at a brisk pace. There was not much to be seen here except acres of fennel, artichoke, and a bean, now covered with white blossoms, which I believe is used chiefly for feeding the cattle. Even this road through a flat country is not without a touch of picturesqueness, as it is in many places bordered by gnarled sycamores twisted into the most weird and grotesque shapes. Between these trees a peasant woman was walking, bearing upon her head an immense brush-heap, which was probably her winter firewood. Zelphine and Angela had their kodaks with them, of course, and begged the driver to stop and allow them to get a snap-shot, which he did, crying out, "Ecco, ecco, signora!" The woman stopped obediently, and stood like a statue, in a natural pose full of grace and strength. She was evidently pleased to have her picture taken, as these peasants always are, especially if a few soldi are thrown in to seal the contract. If the picture is good you shall have one, as it will give you a characteristic bit of this Southern Italian life.

Here women young and old are to be seen working in the fields with the men, driving ox-carts, walking beside them, and bearing burdens that seem far too heavy for any woman's shoulders. Although the land seems fertile, the people are evidently very poor, the villages small, and the houses comfortless.

We should have liked to ask the driver some questions about the products of the soil, the peasants, and their lives, but neither he nor his little brother, who was on the box beside him, adapted themselves gracefully to the restrictions of our vocabulary—there is, we find, a great difference in drivers in this respect. At Battipaglia, a railroad station and the most considerable town on the route, we changed horses and drivers also. This latter substitution we found was to our advantage, as the second vetturino proved to be a better linguist than his predecessor, which enabled us to continue our interrupted studies in agriculture and political economy. The new driver was serviceable also in other respects. When we came upon a field of narcissus, he stopped the carriage in order to allow us the pleasure of gathering the fragrant blossoms, besides bringing us handfuls of flowers, the largest bunch of course being laid at Angela's feet. We are quite sure that he considers her the living image of the pictures of the Blessed Virgin, although he is too discreet to say so.

Angela was charming to-day, in a blue suit and a white shirt-waist, but the March sun was so hot that by the time we reached PÆstum it had taken all the color out of the crown of her pretty blue hat.

As there is no inn at PÆstum we ate our luncheon by the roadside, stopping under the shade of a tree where a peasant was enjoying his siesta, his oxen being tethered near by. Zelphine is enthusiastic over the beauty of these gentle creatures, with their soft, kindly brown eyes, and says that she is sure that Homer, when he wrote of his ox-eyed maidens, had just such a one in mind as she was feeding from her hand. She made so pretty a picture as she stood beside the great white ox, feeding him daintily with bean-blossoms, that Angela tried to get a snap-shot of her, but that provoking ox—the slowest of all animals—took it into his head to move at the critical moment.

The country seemed more level and marshy as we drew near PÆstum, although on the left there rose the spur of a mountain range, on one of whose heights are the ruins of the hillside fortress of Capaccio Vecchio. This town was founded by the inhabitants of PÆstum when they were driven from their city by the Saracens in the ninth century.

To our surprise, we saw herds of buffalo grazing in the fields, much smaller and different in other respects from the American bison. Our driver told us that this small black buffalo is to be found near the coast in many parts of Italy, and is often seen on the Campagna near Rome. From the number of calves in some of the fields we are inclined to think that the young buffaloes are used for food. I noticed several of the well-grown animals drawing carts, sometimes harnessed with the white oxen.

We caught a glimpse of the old wall and gate with the sea beyond, and then in a moment the temples were in full view. Nothing could be more impressive than those magnificent ruins on that lonely plain, sharply outlined against the blue sky. The Temple of Neptune, with its thirty-six fluted Doric columns, its double columns inside, and its noble, almost perfect faÇade, is a superb example of Greek architecture of the fifth century B.C. The stone of which the temple is built is a kind of travertine, to which the passing years have imparted a creamy, mellow tone. The Temple of Ceres is less complete than that dedicated to Neptune, although it belongs to the same period. The gate of the town opening out toward the sea and the old wall adjoining it are wonderfully preserved. These with the temples of Neptune and Ceres and the so-called Basilica are all that remain of this settlement made by Greeks from Sybaris about 600 B.C. Two days we have passed with the ancients, yesterday in a city where "the earth, with faithful watch, has hoarded all," and to-day in a town not much older than Pompeii, where the conquering Saracens and Normans and the devastating elements have left nothing to tell the tale of the daily life and habits of the Greeks who made their home upon these shores.

We climbed over the ruins of the old temples and sat upon the town wall overlooking the sea, while Angela made a fairly good sketch of the temples. Zelphine and I bought coins and pottery from children who, being without visible habitation, seemed to have literally sprung from the soil. Finally our vetturino warned us that we had better set forth at once if we wished to reach Cava before nightfall.

At Battipaglia we resumed our former horses and driver. Zelphine whispered something to me about his face being rather red. I quite agreed with her, but as the mention of the fact could not be of any especial advantage, the other carriage being already far in advance and no person at hand to take the reins, there was nothing to do but to set forth on our homeward journey, despite some misgivings upon Zelphine's part and mine.

We had not left Battipaglia before I realized that our gravest fears were fulfilled. Our driver was what you men picturesquely call "gloriously drunk"—we practical women would use a less dignified adverb. He was as happy as a lord, cracking his whip and dashing through the streets of Battipaglia in fine style. We soon passed the other coach, containing Mrs. Coxe's friends. They called after us, but must have seen that we had no time for conversation en route; indeed, like Cowper's citizen "of credit and renown," we passed everything on the road. Zelphine and I were on the front seat, facing Mrs. Coxe and Angela. They, happily, did not grasp the situation at once, but when they did the terror written on that dear old lady's face was something never to be forgotten. Angela, with resolute cheerfulness, chatted away about anything and everything, especially about Mrs. Coxe's experiences in Honolulu, her favorite subject of conversation. I shall never hear of that island kingdom of the Pacific without seeing before me Mrs. Coxe's agonized face.

Remembering that there lay before us a long stretch of road overhanging a sharp declivity, Zelphine and I made a desperate attempt to stop our hilarious vetturino in his mad career. Finding that our remonstrances excited him to more strenuous exertions, Zelphine tried the effect of her few available words and many eloquent gestures upon the small boy, urging him to make his brother drive more carefully, telling him that the old lady of the party was very much alarmed, and advising him to get the whip into his own hands. This, however, proved to be impossible; the boy, well frightened himself by this time, only succeeded in getting hard words and a shaking. Give up his whip! Not he. As well ask a soldier to lay down his arms. The whip was his pride and joy, his piÈce de rÉsistance, so to speak, with which he awoke the echoes of these slumbering old Italian towns, bringing the inhabitants, men, women, children, cats, dogs, and chickens, to the sidewalk to witness our rapid transit. Even those among our own countrymen who pride themselves most upon their skill in annihilating space could not have made better time than we did as we rattled over that Calabrian highway. Fortunately, the horses were well-trained and steady enough to balance the driver's eccentricities. Perhaps they were accustomed to them by long experience. Be this as it may, we proceeded on our way without any accident, passing the dangerous part of the road before darkness overtook us.

We clattered through Salerno at a tearing gallop, and as we neared La Cava the whip-cracking was resumed with renewed vigor, bringing the citizens to their doors and windows. Some of them, indeed, followed the carriage, crying out, "Prima donna! Prima donna!"

"What can they mean?" asked Mrs. Coxe, looking as though she expected to be attacked by a furious mob. Zelphine reminded her that as we drove by the theatre in the morning we had noticed a poster announcing that a grand opera was to be given in Cava that evening. In our gay morning spirits we had even thought that it might be pleasant to assist at the function. Now the most that we dared to hope was that we might reach the hotel in safety. Troops of children ran after us, repeating the shout of "Prima donna! Prima donna!"

"We are honored by being mistaken for a part of the opera troupe," said Zelphine, laughing, "and Angela is evidently the leading lady, as they are all looking at her."

Angela, sitting erect on the back seat, her costume as crisp and immaculate as if she were on her way to a horse-show, her jaunty hat at the most stylish angle even if the crown was off color, looked indeed like a leading lady, albeit a trifle pale and in need of the aid of the rouge-pot of the greenroom.

When we reached our hotel we were all exhausted by the fatigue of the day and the long strain of the afternoon; but Mrs. Coxe showed herself the thorough-going traveller that she is by stopping not for rest or refreshment until she had laid a detailed account of our experiences before the proprietor.

He came to us later, after a visit to the driver's home, and reported him as covered with confusion and filled with remorse. "Ecco, ecco, he is the penitent one now!" exclaimed the padrone. "His parents have scolded him soundly, and have threatened to beat him with a stick. He is in tears, the sorrowful one! It is the first time, and it will never happen again!"

"All of which would not mend our bones if they had been broken!" said Mrs. Coxe, stoutly. "It is your duty to give your patrons good, safe drivers."

The padrone then called upon the saints to witness to the fact that he had never known an accident to befall any of his patrons, repeating that this was Antonio's first offence, and that he must have been drinking some bad stuff at the tavern, as good wine would never so set the brain on fire. The proprietor has a frank manner that gives one the impression that he is speaking the truth; we are inclined to believe him, although we have been warned not to allow ourselves to be deceived by appearances in this land of ready eloquence. Our valiant countrywoman having made her protest for the party, and this disagreeable duty having been taken off our shoulders, we went into dinner with high spirits and famous appetites.

Zelphine and I are so wide awake after our exciting drive that we are devoting the evening to letter-writing, both of us being sadly in arrears. The other guests of the Hotel S. have betaken themselves to their slumbers, and we enjoy undisturbed possession of the only warm room in the house. A wood fire blazes on the hearth, and as we bask in its genial warmth we shiver at the thought of our rooms upstairs, which, with their stone floors, are of about the temperature of refrigerators.

Sorrento, March 11th.

We left Cava on Wednesday, and made the tour from there to Amalfi in the brilliant morning sunshine. This is another "Cornice Drive," and far finer, I think, than that along the Riviera. The road winds above, beneath, and beside rugged cliffs of great height, always with the sea in full view. Often from airy summits we looked down upon fishing villages and towns built around bays and inlets, as Cetara and Atrani, while upon projecting headlands are many watch-towers, now used chiefly as dwellings.

We needed not to be told that the making of macaroni is one of the chief industries of Amalfi. As we drew near the town many yards of it were to be seen hanging upon lines like a wash or spread upon the grass to dry.

Amalfi is charmingly situated at the entrance to a deep ravine, surrounded by mountains and rocks of the most picturesque forms. We climbed up the sixty steps of the Cathedral of St. Andrew. Mrs. Coxe and some of her party were carried up in chairs by two stout Calabrians, but we preferred to walk, turning every now and then to gaze upon the enchanting view spread before us. At the top of the slope is a spacious garden terrace full of flowers, with roses climbing all over its walls.

We stopped overnight at the old Capuchin monastery, which is now fitted up as a hotel, and yesterday drove here, the greater part of the way beside terraces of lemon-trees covered with ripening fruit—enough lemons to make lemonade for the whole world, one would think. As we drew near Sorrento orange-trees took the place of lemon-trees, groves and groves of them, with their dark, shining leaves and brilliantly colored fruit. Peasants brought oranges to the carriage for sale, clusters of them, with fruit and blossoms growing together, which they were glad to give us for a few soldi.

This morning we spent in the shops buying wood-carvings and silk, which is made here, and is consequently astonishingly cheap. We found Mr. Crawford's charming villa, and, to Zelphine's great delight, the house of Tasso's sister on the Strada San Nicola. Tasso's birthplace and the rock upon which the house stood have both been swallowed up by the sea; but the house of his sister Cornelia, to which the great Tasso came in 1592 disguised as a shepherd, is still standing, and there is a statue of Torquato Tasso in the chief square of Sorrento.

I am writing on a fine terrace overlooking the sea, where stone benches and tables are conveniently arranged for our use. The sun is like that of June, and roses such as belong to that month are blooming all over the wall beside me. The concierge has just brought me a handful of them, charming pink and white ones. We are equipped for a drive to the Deserto, which Mrs. Coxe, who visited the place forty years ago, tells us is most interesting. Within a few years the monastery has been suppressed, and the building is now used as a home for destitute children.

We should like to spend a week in Sorrento, which is so beautiful itself and from which so many excursions are to be made; but Capri beckons to us from across the bay and our time is limited, as Zelphine has promised to meet some cousins in Naples.

Capri, March 13th.

Our reception on the island of the Blue Grotto was sufficiently novel to please the most blasÉ traveller. As our boat drew near the rocky shore dozens of women, most of them young and handsome, hurried down to the wharf and seized our luggage, which they bore on their heads easily and lightly up the steep path to the hotel. It seemed strange enough to have women carry our dress-suit-cases and bags, but on our way to the hotel we saw a much more unusual sight—three women carrying two trunks and a valise, while a man, evidently the owner of the trunks, was walking quite at his ease beside them. He was, we were told later, a Caprian peasant on his way to America, and this delicate attention was a final act of devotion on the part of his Amazonian countrywomen.

Capri has not been as kind to us as other towns of Southern Italy. The mountains have had their heads buried in clouds all the morning, and when the donkeys arrived which we had ordered for a ride up to the Villa of Tiberius, a fine rain was falling, which prevented us from making the excursion. We sent the donkeys and their women drivers home, much to the disappointment of the latter.

"Women seem to do everything here!" said Angela. "Where are the men?"

"Gone to America," replied Mrs. Coxe, quickly. "The women ship them off, bag and baggage, and then have everything their own way."

Fortune favored us later in the day, as the clouds rolled off the mountains before noon, and the padrone informed us that the wind was in the right quarter for a visit to the Blue Grotto. We made our expedition satisfactorily, although the sea was high and we literally rode the waves in our small boats. The grotto is quite as blue as any picture of it that I have ever seen, and with an exquisite, luminous transparency that no brush or pencil can portray. When we were in the midst of the silvery blueness, watching with some apprehension a small boy who dives into the water to show off its wonderful color, our boatman suddenly became loquacious, and told us thrilling tales of unfortunate visitors to the grotto who had been walled in by the sea and were obliged to spend days and even weeks in this drear abode, living upon supplies which daring sailors, who contrived to get their boats near to the mouth of the grotto, handed in to them. The smallness of the opening of the grotto gave a semblance of reality to these MÜnchausen tales. Mrs. Coxe, who was in the boat with me, became very much alarmed and insisted upon leaving at once, calling to the other members of the party to follow. We were splashed a little by the spray as we emerged from the grotto, and those in the other boats were quite wet; but as we rowed away the mouth of the fairy cave was almost hidden by the waves. It seemed indeed as if there might be a grain of truth in the boatman's tales, which the padrone corroborated, adding, "But it does not often happen that travellers are shut up for any time in the Grotta Azzurra; we are very careful." "Not very often indeed! As if once would not be enough!" exclaimed Mrs. Coxe, who had interrogated the padrone after her straightforward fashion of getting at the truth of the matter.

Hotel B., Naples, March 15th.

We are glad to be in Naples again, and in this homelike hotel. Zelphine has met her cousins, and has been making some excursions with them, taking the famous drive to the monastery of Camaldoli and to the Solfatara, a half-extinct volcano which, she says, gives one an even more impressive idea of the Inferno than the DorÉ illustrations of Dante. Angela corroborated Zelphine's report, saying that it was quite the most unpleasant place she had ever seen, especially as they dropped a poor dog into the crater to try the effects of the sulphur upon his constitution. They pulled him out before he was quite dead; but who except these cruel Neapolitans would so persecute a helpless animal?

I, with my old habit of clinging to the skirts of the things I already know, declined to take that excursion, for the greater pleasure of spending a morning in the National Museum among the Pompeian treasures and another whole day among the ruins of the buried city. It is really much more interesting to examine the relics from Pompeii after one has been there, as one naturally fits the frescoes, furniture, and ornaments into just such rooms as one has seen. Some of the furniture was strangely modern; I noticed a red and gilt bedstead that looked as if it might have belonged to the First French Empire, rather than to the first century A.D. Among the kitchen furnishings were just such colanders, saucepans, and skillets as we use to-day—is there anything really new under this shining sun? The surgical and dental instruments exhibited in one of the cases caused me a genuine thrill of sympathy for those unhappy Pompeians; to have been smothered with hot ashes might really have been more endurable than to have lived at the mercy of those primitive dentists and surgeons!

We leave Naples to-morrow with regret, as we have grown very fond of this beautiful city. I wrote a week since to Ludovico Baldini, and also to the proprietor of a hotel that he recommended to me; but I have heard from neither. Ludovico may be in Florence on some army business, but it is very stupid of the proprietor of the Hotel L. not to answer my letter. We have telegraphed for rooms in a pension on the Via Sistina, which Mrs. Coxe tells us is delightful, and we are thankful to know that they will accommodate us, as Rome is full to overflowing now, all the world going up thither for Easter. When I told my maid that we were going to Rome to-morrow, she clasped her hands in ecstasy, exclaiming, "Bella Roma! Bella Roma!" These Italians have a natural instinct for beauty and a genuine pride in the wonders of their own country, both of which help them to endure the poverty and hardness of their lives, just as some people of your acquaintance and mine are supported through many trials by the uplifting sense of having been born in the purple.