who had been reinforced at Capri, and were inspired either
by the wine of the island or the beauty of the night, pulled with new
vigor, and broke out again and again into the wild songs of this coast.
A favorite was the Garibaldi song, which invariably ended in a cheer and
a tiger, and threw the singers into such a spurt of excitement that
the oars forgot to keep time, and there was more splash than speed. The
singers all sang one part in minor: there was no harmony, the voices
were not rich, and the melody was not remarkable; but there was, after
all, a wild pathos in it. Music is very much here what it is in Naples.
I have to keep saying to myself that Italy is a land of song; else I
should think that people mistake noise for music.

The boatmen are an honest set of fellows, as Italians go; and, let us
hope, not unworthy followers of their patron, St. Antonino, whose chapel
is on the edge of the gorge near the Villa Nardi. A silver image of the
saint, half life-size, stands upon the rich marble altar. This valuable
statue has been, if tradition is correct, five times captured and
carried away by marauders, who have at different times sacked Sorrento
of its marbles, bronzes, and precious things, and each time, by some
mysterious providence, has found its way back again,--an instance of
constancy in a solid silver image which is worthy of commendation. The
little chapel is hung all about with votive offerings in wax of arms,
legs, heads, hands, effigies, and with coarse lithographs, in frames,
of storms at sea and perils of ships, hung up by sailors who, having
escaped the dangers of the deep, offer these tributes to their dear
saint. The skirts of the image are worn quite smooth with kissing.
Underneath it, at the back of the altar, an oil light is always burning;
and below repose the bones of the holy man.

The whole shore is fascinating to one in an idle mood, and is good
mousing-ground for the antiquarian. For myself, I am content with one
generalization, which I find saves a world of bother and perplexity: it
is quite safe to style every excavation, cavern, circular wall, or arch
by the sea, a Roman bath. It is the final resort of the antiquarians.
This theory has kept me from entering the discussion, whether the
substructions in the cliff under the Poggio Syracuse, a royal villa, are
temples of the Sirens, or caves of Ulysses. I only know that I descend
to the sea there by broad interior flights of steps, which