y single creature should be deaf, blind, without heart to
feel, intellect and culture to appreciate, or with any exquisite sense
of apprehension wanting.

But there are Americans _and_ Americans; and some of our countrymen and
countrywomen who have been busiest at home, who have journeyed far and
wide, seem to find it the most natural thing possible to linger for
months in Capuan Ventnor--anywhere in the soft-aired, Sleepy-Hollow
Undercliff; and to pluck themselves away from the sweet peace, the calm
delights of sauntering and lying on the cliffs, watching "the wrinkled
sea" that "beneath _them_ crawls," breathing the air that has no
suggestion of ocean in it save its freshness, so entirely is all odor of
brine and sea-weed overborne by the fragrance of flowers, notably that
of the mignonette, sweet-pea and nasturtium, making little excursions on
foot or coach-top along the coast, or to the charming inland famous
spots,--a thing very grievous to be borne patiently.

Just above Ventnor, where the down is steepest, and almost at its top,
is a wishing well; but if one would have his wish fulfilled, made while
drinking its waters, he must climb to the spring without casting one
backward glance. A sure foot and a head not easily dizzied are
imperative necessities, and then one may climb, as I did, with
carefulest directions, scramble to the very brow and find no drop of
water on the way, get a superb view of the Undercliff and the Channel
for miles and miles, gather handfuls of the lovely heather that clothes
the down's top, then, plunging downward again, almost set foot unawares
in the milky little basin no bigger than a kneading-bowl, that on the
upward way would have been a very Kohinoor, and is now only glanced at
with spiteful aversion. The ancients were right: there _is_ a malignity
of matter.

At Ventnor died John Sterling, made known to the world through the
biographies of Carlyle and Archdeacon Hare. He was buried in the
churchyard of the old church at Bonchurch, a tiny Norman building, of
date 1270, which has been for years deserted. Graves fill all the
enclosure, ancient elms shade it, a noisy brook half winds about it,
then dashes down the sudden slope to the restless sea, whose mighty
murmur underlies the streamlet's plashes and gurgles and the ceaseless
tender bird-notes, and makes for this little burial ground, that is
only hidden, not widely removed from men, a wondrous sense of space and
solemn solitude.