and twinkle, or keep gliding, as the
boat moves, down the craggy sides. Stars are mirrored on the marble
of the sea, until one knows not whether the oar has struck sparks
from a star image or has scattered diamonds of phosphorescent brine.

All this reads like a rhapsody; but indeed it is difficult not to be
rhapsodical when a May night of Amalfi is in the memory, with the
echo of rich baritone voices chanting Neapolitan songs to a
mandoline. It is fashionable to complain that these Italian airs are
opera-tunes; but this is only another way of saying that the Italian
opera is the genuine outgrowth of national melody, and that Weber
was not the first, as some German critics have supposed, to string
together Volkslieder for the stage. Northerners, who have never seen
or felt the beauty of the South, talk sad nonsense about the
superiority of German over Italian music. It is true that much
Italian music is out of place in Northern Europe, where we seem to
need more travail of the intellect in art. But the Italians are
rightly satisfied with such facile melody and such simple rhythms as
harmonise with sea and sky and boon earth sensuously beautiful.
'Perche pensa? Pensando s' invecchia,' expresses the same habit of
mind as another celebrated saying, 'La musica e il lamento dell'
amore o la preghiera agli Dei.' Whatever may be the value of Italian
music, it is in concord with such a scene as Amalfi by moon-light;
and he who does not appreciate this no less than some more
artificial combination of sights and sounds in Wagner's theatre at
Bayreuth, has scarcely learned the first lesson in the lore of
beauty.

There is enough and to spare for all tastes at Amalfi. The student
of architecture may spend hours in the Cathedral, pondering over its
high-built western front, and wondering whether there is more of
Moorish or of Gothic in its delicate arcades. The painter may
transfer its campanile, glittering like dragon's scales, to his
canvas. The lover of the picturesque will wander through its aisle
at mass-time, watching the sunlight play upon those upturned
Southern faces with their ardent eyes; and happy is he who sees
young men and maidens on Whit Sunday crowding round the chancel
rails, to catch the marigolds and gillyflowers scattered from
baskets which the priest has blessed. Is this a symbol of the Holy
Spirit's gifts, or is it some quaint relic of Pagan _sparsiones_?
This question, with the memory of Pompeian _graffiti