nd red valerian. Mesembrianthemums--I must be pardoned this
word; for I cannot omit those fleshy-leaved creepers, with their
wealth of gaudy blossoms, shaped like sea anemones, coloured like
strawberry and pineapple cream-ices--mesembrianthemums, then, tumble
in torrents from the walls, and large-cupped white convolvuluses
curl about the hedges. The Castle Rock, with Capri's refined
sky-coloured outline relieving its hard profile on the horizon, is
one of those exceedingly picturesque objects just too theatrical to
be artistic. It seems ready-made for a back scene in 'Masaniello,'
and cries out to the chromo-lithographer, 'Come and make the most of
me!' Yet this morning all things, in sea, earth, and sky, were so
delicately tinted and bathed in pearly light that it was difficult
to be critical.

In the afternoon we took the other side of the island, driving
through Lacca to Forio. One gets right round the bulk of Epomeo, and
looks up into a weird region called Le Falange, where white lava
streams have poured in two broad irregular torrents among broken
precipices. Forio itself is placed at the end of a flat headland,
boldly thrust into the sea; and its furthest promontory bears a
pilgrimage church, intensely white and glaring.

There is something arbitrary in the memories we make of places
casually visited, dependent as they are upon our mood at the moment,
or on an accidental interweaving of impressions which the _genius
loci_ blends for us. Of Forio two memories abide with me. The one is
of a young woman, with very fair hair, in a light blue dress,
standing beside an older woman in a garden. There was a flourishing
pomegranate-tree above them. The whiteness and the dreamy smile of
the young woman seemed strangely out of tune with her strong-toned
southern surroundings. I could have fancied her a daughter of some
moist north-western isle of Scandinavian seas. My other memory is of
a lad, brown, handsome, powerfully featured, thoughtful, lying
curled up in the sun upon a sort of ladder in his house-court,
profoundly meditating. He had a book in his hand, and his finger
still marked the place where he had read. He looked as though a
Columbus or a Campanella might emerge from his earnest, fervent,
steadfast adolescence. Driving rapidly along, and leaving Forio in
all probability for ever, I kept wondering whether those two lives,
discerned as though in vision, would meet--whether she was destined
to be his evil genius,