ether
undeserved; for having decided in a momentary fit of enthusiasm to forego
the usual basket of hotel food at the time of starting from Salerno, in
order to follow the advice of old Evelyn "to diet with the natives," we
had preferred to take our chance of midday refreshment at the solitary
_osteria_ within the ruined city wall. The good people of the inn did what
they could to regale the two _gran' signori Inglesi_, whose unexpected
presence had the effect of creating some stir within their humble walls.
No little time was expended in bustling preparations, before a flask of
red wine, some coarse bread, a dish of fried eggs and a plateful of cold
sausage were placed before us upon the rough oak table, well scored with
knife-cuts. Eggs, wine and bread are usually tolerable everywhere
throughout Italy, no matter how mean the inn that provides them; but the
Lucanian sausage, though interesting as a relic of classical times, is
positive poison to the Anglo-Saxon digestion. For the Lucanian sausage of
to-day is the _Lucanica_ unchanged; the same tough, greasy, odoriferous
compound, in fact, that Cicero describes as "an intestine, stuffed with
minced pork, mixed with ground pepper, cummin, savory, rue, rock-parsley,
berries of laurel, and suet." And we have only to add that mingling with
the above-mentioned condiments there was an all-pervading flavour of
wood-smoke, due to the sausage's place of storage, a hook within the
kitchen chimney. But if the fare was rough, it was cheap and smacked of
classical times, and our reception by the Paestani of to-day was most
cordial.

We left Poseidonia late in the afternoon, casting back many regretful
glances at the three giant sentinels of the plain, looming preternaturally
large in the rapidly fading light of a starless evening. At that hour we
felt we could understand and sympathise with the poor untutored peasant's
fear and avoidance of these lonely ruins, for superstition is often as
much the result of chance environment as of crass ignorance.

CHAPTER X

SORRENTO AND ITS POET

It has been said of more than one spot on this globe, that it was so
beautiful in summer the marvel was to think any one could die there; and
so wretched in winter, it was a miracle for its inhabitants to survive.
Sorrento may be said to belong to this class of place, for the climate of
its short winter is one of the most trying and