narrowing from
the base upwards. The pillars of the _Neptune_ are narrowed in a
straight line; those of the _Basilica_ and _Ceres_ by a gentle
curve. Study of these buildings, so sublime in their massiveness, so
noble in the parsimony of their decoration, so dignified in their
employment of the simplest means for the attainment of an
indestructible effect of harmony, heightens our admiration for the
Attic genius which found in this grand manner of the elder Doric
architects resources as yet undeveloped; creating, by slight and
subtle alterations of outline, proportion, and rhythm of parts, what
may fairly be classed as a style unique, because exemplified in only
one transcendent building.

It is difficult not to return again and again to the beauty of
colouring at Paestum. Lying basking in the sun upon a flat slab of
stone, and gazing eastward, we overlook a foreground of dappled
light and shadow, across which the lizards run--quick streaks of
living emerald--making the bunches of yellow rue and little white
serpyllum in the fissures of the masonry nod as they hurry past.
Then come two stationary columns, built, it seems, of solid gold,
where the sunbeams strike along their russet surface. Between them
lies the landscape, a medley first of brakefern and asphodel and
feathering acanthus and blue spikes of bugloss; then a white farm in
the middle distance, roofed with the reddest tiles and sheltered by
a velvety umbrella pine. Beyond and above the farm, a glimpse of
mountains purple almost to indigo with cloud shadows, and flecked
with snow. Still higher--but for this we have to raise our head a
little--the free heavens enclosed within the frame-work of the tawny
travertine, across which sail hawks and flutter jackdaws, sharply
cut against the solid sky. Down from the architrave, to make the
vignette perfect, hang tufts of crimson snapdragons. Each opening in
the peristyle gives a fresh picture.

The temples are overgrown with snapdragons and mallows, yellow
asters and lilac gillyflowers, white allium and wild fig. When a
breeze passes, the whole of this many-coloured tapestry waves gently
to and fro. The fields around are flowery enough; but where are the
roses? I suppose no one who has read his Virgil at school, crosses
the plain from Salerno to Paestum without those words of the
'Georgics' ringing in his ears: _biferique rosaria Paesti_. They have
that wonderful Virgilian charm which, by a touch, transforms mere
d