ces of Sorrento are not so
dangerous, but are almost as marked. I do not wonder that the Greeks
peopled every cove and sea-cave with divinities, and built temples on
every headland and rocky islet here; that the Romans built upon the
Grecian ruins; that the ecclesiastics in succeeding centuries gained
possession of all the heights, and built convents and monasteries, and
set out vineyards, and orchards of olives and oranges, and took root as
the creeping plants do, spreading themselves abroad in the sunshine
and charming air. The Italian of to-day does not willingly emigrate, is
tempted by no seduction of better fortune in any foreign clime. And so
in all ages the swarming populations have clung to these shores, filling
all the coasts and every nook in these almost inaccessible hills
with life. Perhaps the delicious climate, which avoids all extremes,
sufficiently accounts for this; and yet I have sometimes thought there
is a more subtle reason why travelers from far lands are spellbound
here, often against will and judgment, week after week, month after
month.

However this may be, it is certain that strangers who come here, and
remain long enough to get entangled in the meshes which some influence,
I know not what, throws around them, are in danger of never departing.
I know there are scores of travelers, who whisk down from Naples,
guidebook in hand, goaded by the fell purpose of seeing every place in
Europe, ascend some height, buy a load of the beautiful inlaid woodwork,
perhaps row over to Capri and stay five minutes in the azure grotto,
and then whisk away again, untouched by the glamour of the place. Enough
that they write "delightful spot" in their diaries, and hurry off to new
scenes, and more noisy life. But the visitor who yields himself to the
place will soon find his power of will departing. Some satirical people
say, that, as one grows strong in body here, he becomes weak in mind.
The theory I do not accept: one simply folds his sails, unships his
rudder, and waits the will of Providence, or the arrival of some
compelling fate. The longer one remains, the more difficult it is to go.
We have a fashion--indeed, I may call it a habit--of deciding to go, and
of never going. It is a subject of infinite jest among the habitues
of the villa, who meet at table, and who are always bidding each other
good-by. We often go so far as to write to Naples at night, and bespeak
rooms in the hotels; but we always counterma