where we stood, it
seemed to rise, not fall, to the sea, and all the white villages were
raised to the clouds; and by the peculiar light, the sea looked exactly
like sky, and the little boats on it seemed to float, like balloons in
the air. The illusion was perfect. As the day waned, a heavy cloud hid
the sun, and so let down the light that the waters were a dark purple.
Then the sun went behind Posilipo in a perfect blaze of scarlet, and all
the sea was violet. Only it still was not the sea at all; but the little
chopping waves looked like flecked clouds; and it was exactly as if
one of the violet, cloud-beautified skies that we see at home over some
sunsets had fallen to the ground. And the slant white sails and the
black specks of boats on it hung in the sky, and were as unsubstantial
as the whole pageant. Capri alone was dark and solid. And as we
descended and a high wall hid it, a little handsome rascal, who had
attended me for an hour, now at the head and now at the tail of my pony,
recalled me to the realities by the request that I should give him a
franc. For what? For carrying signor's coat up the mountain. I rewarded
the little liar with a German copper. I had carried my own overcoat all
day.

SORRENTO DAYS

OUTLINES

The day came when we tired of the brilliancy and din of Naples, most
noisy of cities. Neapolis, or Parthenope, as is well known, was founded
by Parthenope, a siren who was cast ashore there. Her descendants still
live here; and we have become a little weary of their inherited musical
ability: they have learned to play upon many new instruments, with which
they keep us awake late at night, and arouse us early in the morning.
One of them is always there under the window, where the moonlight
will strike him, or the early dawn will light up his love-worn visage,
strumming the guitar with his horny thumb, and wailing through his
nose as if his throat was full of seaweed. He is as inexhaustible as
Vesuvius. We shall have to flee, or stop our ears with wax, like the
sailors of Ulysses.

The day came when we had checked off the Posilipo, and the Grotto,
Pozzuoli, Baiae, Cape Misenum, the Museum, Vesuvius, Pompeii,
Herculaneum, the moderns buried at the Campo Santo; and we said, Let
us go and lie in the sun at Sorrento. But first let us settle our
geography.

The Bay of Naples, painted and sung forever, but never adequately, must
consent to be here described as essentially a parallelogram, wi