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166 perfectly at one’s ease; but these moments were never of long duration, and the guides were always at hand to cheer and encourage one with the oft-repeated, “Va bene, signora, benissimo.”

At length we found ourselves at the highest point of the ascent, where stood a half-ruined tower which gives its name to the pass (Torre del Chiunse”)(“Torre del Chiunse”) [sic]. In the lower room lives a peasant with his wife; most picturesque-looking people; the woman’s dress (a snowy bodice, bright red petticoat, and blue jacket) was most becoming and pretty; and I found her very ready to converse in her soft Italian patois, and very proud of my notice of her little brown baby, with bright black eyes, which, according to the fashion of the country, was so tightly swathed up that it resembled nothing but an odd-shaped bundle, leaving only the bright eyes to testify to its natural liveliness. They brought out some deliciously cool wine, which was most welcome after the intense heat, and while we were resting she gave me some account of their winter-life in this lonely spot. They have to descend to Nocera, or more frequently to Majori, the village on the other side of the mountain, for all the small commodities they require; and, in winter, the path is almost impassable, owing to the frequent torrents which, rushing down from the heights, wholly obliterate every trace of pathway.

I asked her if she did not find it very dull. She looked surprised at the question, and had evidently not a wish for a change in her lot. She was a very pretty young woman in the first freshness of that very short-lived charm—Italian bloom. With women of that country it is gone while they are still in early youth, and they turn all at once into old women, and finally into something so hideous and repulsive that they resemble nothing but witches. I suppose it is partly owing to climate, and partly to the fact that they do all the out-door work which usually falls to the share of men.

My pretty friend, Caterina, told me that she cultivated their patch of ground; got in the crop of Indian corn; took care of the goats, and of the beautiful poultry we saw pecking about round the tower; dressed the vines, and so on; while her husband spent the greater part of his time at Majori, where he had a boat, which, in summer, was a source of profit to him, being constantly used by artists frequenting the neighbourhood for the sake of the beautiful scenery with which it abounds.

After a two hours’ rest, we remounted our donkeys and began the descent of the mountain; the heat was really intense, and it was with feelings of great satisfaction that we caught glimpses of the blue sea, and found ourselves entering the beautiful chestnut woods which cover this side of the mountain. The shade was most delightful: beautiful plants nodded here and there, as if dreaming under the deep shadows; huge fig trees, of the most picturesque forms, sometimes bent right across our path, plainly proving how little it was frequented; the ground was carpeted with beautiful mosses, studded with the deep crimson flowers of the cyclamen, with their white-veined leaves; pink and white rose trees climbed from branch to branch of the large trees; the ferns were rare and beautiful, convolvuli of every shade of pink and purple lent their aid to brighten the brilliant scenes, while the distant view increased in loveliness at every step.

At length a sudden turn brought us within view of Majori, nestled in a deep ravine between two wooded hills, the sea forming a very deep bay, while on the shore the peasants and boatmen were assembled, watching an English cutter which had just glided into the bay. I was the first to arrive, and, quickly dismounting, I turned back to gaze at the scene; the wooded heights we had descended forming the background, their summits seeming lost in the soft summer haze (the mountain we had just crossed was of considerable height), a silvery stream falling from one of the high rocks, glittered and sparkled in the sunshine, the long cavalcade of donkeys winding down the hill, with all their picturesque accompaniments, the ravine studded with cottages, the bright golden Indian wheat hung all over the front, as is the custom in all this country; and what could be wanting to make the picture perfect?

The boatmen assembled on the landing chanted in low tones the Ave Maria, or evening hymn,—a universal practice. A good-sized boat was in readiness, in which we embarked for Amalfi. Most delightful was the change from the uneasy motion of the donkeys, and the oppressive heat, to the repose of sitting in the boat, gliding along, refreshed by the cool evening breezes, and with every sense gratified! The moon rising over the wooded cliffs, fire flies flitting about everywhere, and the phosphoric lights shining on the water with a bright unearthly splendour.

When we arrived just opposite Amalfi the boatmen told us that we could not get close in shore owing to the rocks under the water, and they proposed to carry us the short distance, which they did with great dexterity, and no discomfort even to the ladies of the party.

As we were to remain two nights at Amalfi, we deferred all sight-seeing till the next day, when we were out at a very early hour, as we wished to see the sun rise. When we left the inn the whole scene still lay buried in as much of darkness as ever visits these favoured regions at any part of the night; but just as we arrived at the entrance of Le Val des Montins, the first faint tinge of rosy light appeared in the east, and gradually as we advanced it deepened and spread till the whole sky was one mass of rose-coloured clouds. The valley in all its loveliness lay around us, bright with the beautiful light, the sound of rushing waters falling on the ear: every leaf and tiny blade of grass glittering with the abundant dew that is so grateful to the thirsty vegetation in these hot countries, acacia trees filling the whole air with their perfume, while now and then a glimpse of the sea completed the matchless charm of the scene! Such colouring as can only be seen in southern skies was now displayed; no painter would dare to imitate it, even were it possible to catch the delicate tints; the singular half-rosy, half-golden clouds looked like floating islands from the Garden of Paradise, while the soft masses