and
enlivening the dead herbage of winter with their gay plumage. _Che bel
arrosto!_ (what a glorious dish!) sigh the romantic peasants, as they
glance upward for a moment from their labour in the fields at the sound of
the larks carolling overhead; and though an educated Italian would
probably not give vent to so vulgar a remark, he would much prefer the
_bel arrosto_ to the "profuse strains of unpremeditated art" that so
entrance the northerner, who is in reality far more of a poet by nature
than the more picturesque dweller of the South. _Tantum pro avibus._

As summer advances, the delight of bathing in the limpid waters of the Bay
is added to the other attractions of Sorrento, whilst many pleasant and
profitable hours can be passed in reading or writing during the long
midday rest in the cool airy carpetless and curtainless rooms, where on
the frescoed ceilings there plays the green shimmer of light that
penetrates through the closed bars of the _persiani_, the outside heavy
wooden shutters that let in the sweet air, but somehow seem to exclude the
intense heat. With the approach of sunset and the throwing open of
casements to catch the westerly breeze, there comes a delightful ramble,
perhaps an excursion on mule-back to the famous convent of the Deserto or
some other point of interest; or else a row upon the glassy waters at our
feet, to explore "Queen Joanna's Bath," or some strange caverns beyond the
headland of Sorrento, well known to our boat-men. That is the true life of
_dolce far niente_, but such an ideal existence can only be indulged in
during summer time or in late spring; to pass a winter at Sorrento the
heaviest of clothing, abundance of overcoats and rugs, hot-water bottles,
cough drops, ammoniated quinine and all the usual adjuncts of a northern
yule-tide must be carefully provided before-hand by the traveller, who is
bold enough to tempt Providence by turning what is essentially a warm
weather retreat into a place of winter residence.

In early autumn also the place has its charms, in the days when the market
is filled with stalls heaped with glowing masses of fruit, many of them
unknown to us wanderers from the north. There are peaches that resemble
our own fruit at home, and there are also great yellow flushed velvety
globes, like the sun-kissed cheeks of a fair Sorrentina, that appear
tempting to the eye, but are in reality tough as leather, for they are the
_cotogni_ or quince-peaches of Italy