wept away, so that the boatmen from the sands below can no
longer behold the immense vivid representation of the Last Agony which was
wont to greet their upturned eyes. Already Time's kindly hand has begun to
drape the scene of the catastrophe with a decent mourning veil of grey and
green, for the hardy succulent plants that can withstand the sun's fierce
rays and can thrive despite the boisterous salt sea-winds are already
sprouting from every crack and cranny of the riven earth. Perhaps it is as
well for us selfish and self-satisfied mortals to possess a _memento mori_
close at hand in a spot so teeming with the joy of life; yet somehow the
first sight of that mass of broken headland and the dark ominous fissure
in the hill-side, flung across the sunlit scene, is apt to send a slight
shiver through the frame of the beholder.

There are three indisputable advantages to be gained by turning a
suppressed religious house into a modern hotel, so a cunning old Italian
inn-keeper once confided to us; that is, of course, provided one is not
afraid of the proverbial curse that clings to the buying of any of the
Church's sequestrated property. These three things are good air, good
water, and lovely views; benefits that a layman is fully as competent to
understand as any cloistered ecclesiastic. And certainly the worthy Vozzi
are fully justified in offering these privileges to their guests at the
Albergo Cappuccini. Signor Vozzi! How many travellers in the South recall
with infinite pleasure their host's tall commanding figure, his snowy
drooping whiskers, the sun-shade that was rarely out of his hand, his
old-fashioned courteous manners, and his famous family of cats, whereof
the coal-black Nerone was the prime favourite, a feline monster almost as
tyrannical as his Imperial namesake of evil reputation. Signor Vozzi's
striking personality, the sable fur of agate-eyed Nerone, the eternal
sunshine, and the wide all-embracing views over sea and land, are somehow
all jumbled together in our perplexed mind, as it recurs to the many days
spent beneath the convent roof. Nay, not beneath the roof! For we were
wont to pass the whole day, even the short December day, in basking on the
warm sheltered terrace and peering over the busy beach and the dazzling
waters below, whereon the tale of Amalfitan fisher-life could be read as
it were from the pages of a book.

Somehow the old monastic buildings appear marvellously well adapted to
modern