h for me. Brown pointed up
towards Anacapri, far, far above Capri proper, on a horn of the
mountain, reached only by a narrow but splendidly engineered road
winding like a piece of thin wood shaving, or by steep steps cut in the
rock by the Ph[oe]nicians thousands of years ago. "No," said I sadly,
"we'll never drive up to Anacapri on the automobile. I shan't use it
once again while we're on the island, and all the horses had better be
warned indoors when we go down to take the boat."

But it was a beautiful drive up from the quay to the town of Capri and
our hotel. I couldn't help enjoying it a little, in spite of feeling
like an incipient murderess. I believe if I'd been on the way to
execution I would have enjoyed it. The road swept round to the left,
ascending loop after loop, to a saddle of the island lying between two
cliffs, crowned with the most picturesque ruins I ever saw. Everywhere
you looked was a new picture, and oh! the delicious colour of sky, and
sea, and the dove-grey of the cliffs! You can see next to nothing of
the town till you come on it; then suddenly you are in a busy _piazza_,
with an old palace or two and a beautiful tower, and everything
characteristically Italian, even the sunshine, which is so vivid that it
is like a _pool_ of light. Here we made a great deal more excitement
before we drove under an old archway and plunged down a steep,
stone-paved street filled with gay little shops, and ending with the
courtyard of our hotel.

I know you only came to Capri with the "trippers" to see the Blue
Grotto, and I feel sorry for you, you poor Dad, because, though the
Grotto is so strange and beautiful, it is the thing I care for least of
all. Just think, you didn't even stay long enough to see the sunset turn
the Faraglioni rocks to brilliant, beaten copper, standing up from clear
depths of emerald, into which the clouds drop rose-leaves! You didn't go
to the old grey Certosa, for if you had you would certainly have bought
it and restored it to use as a sort of "occasional villa," like those
nice heroes of Ouida's who say, "I believe, by the way, that is mine,"
when they are travelling with friends in yachts and pass magnificent
palaces which they have quite forgotten on the shores of the
Mediterranean or the Italian lakes. You didn't walk along a steep path
about twelve inches wide, hanging over a dizzy precipice, to the Arco
Naturale--and neither would I if it hadn't been for Brown. I was
horrib