e spire at Strasburg, and stands
upon that temple's final crocket, with nothing but a lightning conductor
to steady swimming senses. Different indeed are the views unrolled
beneath the peak of Epomeo and the pinnacle of Strasburg! Vesuvius, with
the broken lines of Procida, Miseno, and Lago Fusaro for foreground; the
sculpturesque beauty of Capri, buttressed in everlasting calm upon the
waves; the Phlegraean plains and champaign of Volturno, stretching
between smooth seas and shadowy hills; the mighty sweep of Naples' bay;
all merged in blue; aerial, translucent, exquisitely frail. In this
ethereal fabric of azure the most real of realities, the most solid of
substances, seem films upon a crystal sphere.

The hermit produced some flasks of amber-coloured wine from his stores
in the grotto. These we drank, lying full-length upon the tufa in the
morning sunlight. The panorama of sea, sky, and long-drawn lines of
coast, breathless, without a ripple or a taint of cloud, spread far and
wide around us. Our horses and donkey cropped what little grass, blent
with bitter herbage, grew on that barren summit. Their grooms helped us
out with the hermit's wine, and turned to sleep face downward. The whole
scene was very quiet, islanded in immeasurable air. Then we asked the
boy, Giuseppe, whether he could guide us on foot down the cliffs of
Monte Epomeo to Casamicciola. This he was willing and able to do; for he
told me that he had spent many months each year upon the hill-side,
tending goats. When rough weather came, he wrapped himself in a blanket
from the snow that falls and melts upon the ledges. In summer time he
basked the whole day long, and slept the calm ambrosial nights away.
Something of this free life was in the burning eyes, long clustering
dark hair, and smooth brown bosom of the faun-like creature. His
graceful body had the brusque, unerring movement of the goats he
shepherded. Human thought and emotion seemed a-slumber in this youth who
had grown one with nature. As I watched his careless incarnate
loveliness I remembered lines from an old Italian poem of romance,
describing a dweller of the forest, who

Haunteth the woodland aye 'neath verdurous shade,
Eateth wild fruit, drinketh of running stream;
And such-like is his nature, as 'tis said,
That ever weepeth he when clear skies gleam,
Seeing of storms and rain he then hath dread,
And feareth lest the sun's heat fail for him;
But when o