ning white,
that stand out sharply against the lugubrious tints of the lava beds.
Above us, crowning a bosky hillock that juts forth from the mountain
flank, stands one of the many convents of the monks of Camaldoli, whose
houses are scattered throughout the breadth of Southern Italy. The
position of their Vesuvian settlement is certainly unique, for the rising
ground on which it is perched appears like some verdant oasis amid the
arid fields of sable lava. Secure in its commanding site, the monastery
has many a time been completely surrounded by burning streams, which have
invariably left the building and its woody demesne unscathed. More than
once have the good brethren, who wear the white robe of St Romualdo of
Ravenna, looked down from their convent walls upon the work of destruction
below, and have watched the waves of liquid fire surging angrily but
uselessly round the rocky base of their retreat. Hard manual labour,
prayer, solitude and contemplation: these are the chief duties enjoined by
the famous Tuscan order, and surely no more suitable place for carrying
out such precepts could have been chosen by the pious founder of this
Vesuvian convent. For what scenes on earth could be deemed more beautiful
to contemplate, we wonder, than the wide stretches of heaven and ocean, of
fertile plain and of rugged mountain, that are ever before the eyes of the
brethren; or more instructive than the constant spectacle of disappointed
human ambition and energy, which is afforded by the barren lava beds and
the ruined cities close at hand!

Descending from the slopes of Camaldoli, we cross a tract of country
wherein black lava alternates with patches of rich cultivation and of
thriving vineyards, and gaining the high road we soon reach Torre
Annunziata. Here it is evident that the manufacture of maccaroni forms the
chief industry of its population, for on all sides are to be seen the
frames filled with the golden coloured strings of _pasta_ that have been
hung up to dry in the sunshine. Every flat roof in the place, moreover, is
covered with smooth concrete and protected by a low parapet for the
spreading of the grain, and on the beach are laid huge cloths of coarse
brown material that are heaped with masses of the crude corn, whilst men
with their naked feet from time to time turn the grain so as to dry the
whole bulk. Torre Annunziata and its inland neighbour, Gragnano, are in
fact the two chief local scenes of this industry w