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 112 believe in the evil influence that a visit to the cave exercises over the ill-fated person who is so rash as to penetrate into the witches’ domain. There is a very curious fish to be found in the beautiful silvery water, very small, and with an odd, square-shaped head; and there is one odd thing to be remarked in these fish, viz., that they are all blind; what makes this fact the more singular is, that in the water that runs through the wonderful caves of Adelsberg, in South Germany (which I may some day describe to my readers), there is also to be found a curious fish, and these fish are blind as well as those in the Blue Grotto, though the fish in shape, size, and almost every other particular are perfectly different. The superstitious Italians look upon these fish as the evil genii of the place, and if by any unhappy chance they should happen to kill one of them, it is looked upon as a grave calamity, and threatening every sort of misfortune to the unlucky individual. They catch them in a small net, and when visitors have satisfied their curiosity, they are carefully restored to their silvery home. A very pretty species of coral is found in the silver sand, only it is not really coral, though it resembles it; it is also of a bright orange colour, instead of the pinky red of coral.

But we have lingered long enough at this beautiful spot, and depart, however loth to leave so much loveliness. We made our exit in the same way in which we had entered; and as another proof of the wonderful brilliancy of colouring in the grotto, when we were again in the larger boat we could scarcely believe that we were on the same blue sea we had so recently left, though the sun was shining as gloriously, and the heavens were as cloudless. To our eyes the sea seemed to have lost every tinge of blue. I never saw so extraordinary a difference—caused, no doubt, by the vivid depth of colour our eyes had become accustomed to, so that every other shade of colour looked pale in the comparison.

Of our journey back to Sorrento it is needless to speak; we returned along the coast instead of going by land.

Wishing, I suppose, to crowd as much beauty into our day as was possible, we took an evening stroll to explore some of the beauties of Sorrento. This walk shows all the finest points of view, and it does not occupy more than two hours—at least, a good walker would do it in that time; but the ascent is very steep, and lasts for at least half the way. But who has time to think of fatigue or difficulty when every step brings out some fresh beauty. The path winds round the face of the high hill or cliff, on part of which Sorrento is placed. The most luxuriant myrtles in full flower embalm the air with their fragrant smell. The coronella, which with us is a green-house plant, mixes its bright golden flowers with the dark green of the myrtles. The varieties of the cistus tribe are innumerable; especially I noticed a rare wild one, with a very beautiful large lilac flower. The arbutus, the most ornamental of all that class of flowering shrubs, grows in profusion all along the coast. The pale silvery green of the olive shows well when mixed with the richer tints of other foliage; and everywhere the eye rests on a profusion of luxuriant vegetation that language would wholly fail to do justice to. It is indeed a land richly endowed by Nature; for the smallest possible amount of cultivation causes the teeming earth to put forth her abundance.

As we returned home the moon was rising, as it can rise in Italy,—looking like a solid globe of silver, so clear is the air; and the light, though soft, was most brilliant, spreading over all the beauteous scene her refulgent light. We lingered, and yet we lingered, so loth were we to turn away from a scene that one might perhaps see equalled, but assuredly never surpassed.

daylight, calm and noble, Failing in the purple west, Like the first and mightiest Cæsar Dying in his Tyrian vest!

Golden daylight, now descending Whither none of us can see; But we know ’tis not thine ending, For beyond there lies the sea;

And beyond the sea are rivers, Plains and mountains, lakes and lands, And the Placid Ocean severs These from India’s torrid sands:

Next on classic lands of morning Wilt thou shine before our morn; Then our morrow make, adorning With new beams our sphere forlorn.

Golden daylight, rich in blessing, Shall our life be like thine own? Shall it dawn anew, possessing What is now but half its own?

Are they dreams, those legends olden, Of an age of godlike men? Youth’s imaginations golden, Shall they e’er be truths again?

Shall the wisdom Time produces Still be ours, to live once more, Turning to a myriad uses Years we wasted and deplore?

But, to sight, our days are numbered; We must go, and others come; Children like us, sorely cumbered, Through a cavern passing home.

Happy trees, your leaf renewing, Gaining grace while growing old; Calm Perfection’s plan pursuing, Silent through the moons of cold.

Summer’s growth gives ampler beauty, Winter’s sleep anneals your strength; Nature’s Law is one with Duty, And the crown is gained at length.

Daylight sleeps, yet sleeps to waken; Leaves are changed, yet never cease; Must we envy, God-forsaken, Dayspring and the new-born trees?