lore the only feature of the Bay of Baiae, for though its
actual scenery cannot compare with the grandeur of Capri nor its
vegetation with the rich luxuriance of Sorrento, yet these shores have a
quiet beauty of their own. Vine, olive and almond abound on all sides, and
everywhere we see the groves of orange and lemon that in spring time scent
the air with their perfumed blossoms. And in the early months of the year
every patch of warm-coloured, up-turned earth is gay with sheets of that
beautiful but rapacious weed, hated of the peasant, the oxalis, with its
clusters of pale yellow flowers: a species of sorrel that is allied to our
own white-blossomed variety. From many a point on the little ridges that
rise behind Pozzuoli magnificent views can be obtained, whilst to those
who care to study the scientific results of volcanic action the Phlegraean
Fields afford endless occupation and interest. Every one of course visits
the Solfatara, that curious semi-extinct crater, the _Forum Vulcani_ of
Strabo, which has remained for over seven hundred years in its present
condition of languor. A strange experience it is to enter the heart of a
volcano that is still comparatively active, and to observe woods of poplar
and a large pine tree beneath which grow masses of spring flowers--bright
blue bugloss, the crimson vetch, starch hyacinths, purple self-heal, and
golden spurge--and to pass from these thickets on to a space of bare
white-coloured ground that trembles and sways under the feet like a sheet
of insecure ice. Beyond, one sees the little fissures (_fumaroli_)
emitting fumes of sulphur, and the guides take us to stifling caverns in
the hill-side where we are shown the beautiful primrose-coloured crystals.
The Solfatara, the Amphitheatre and the Temple of Serapis, these are the
recognised "sights" of Pozzuoli, which strangers visit to-day in the space
of an hour or two, and then return to Naples comforted with the feeling
that they have exhausted the attractions of the place. Certainly their
reception in the town is not likely to inspire them with a wish to return,
for the guides and touts swarm here more than in any other spot in Italy;
"until he has spent half an hour in Pozzuoli," says the author of _Dolce
Napoli_, "let no man say that he understands the signification of the verb
to pester."

Putting aside even the objectionable habits of so many of its citizens, it
cannot be said that the town itself of Pozzuoli to-day is