side, a similar
ravine on the south, which met it at right angles, and was supplemented
by a high Roman wall, and the same wall continued on the west to the
sea. The growing town has pushed away the wall on the west side; but
that on the south yet stands as good as when the Romans made it. There
is a little attempt at a mall, with double rows of trees, under that
wall, where lovers walk, and ragged, handsome urchins play the exciting
game of fives, or sit in the dirt, gambling with cards for the Sorrento
currency. I do not know what sin it may be to gamble for a bit of
printed paper which has the value of one sou.

The great ravine, three quarters of a mile long, the ancient boundary
which now cuts the town in two, is bridged where the main street,
the Corso, crosses, the bridge resting on old Roman substructions,
as everything else about here does. This ravine, always invested with
mystery, is the theme of no end of poetry and legend. Demons inhabit
it. Here and there, in its perpendicular sides, steps have been cut
for descent. Vines and lichens grow on the walls: in one place, at the
bottom, an orange grove has taken root. There is even a mill down there,
where there is breadth enough for a building; and altogether, the ravine
is not so delivered over to the power of darkness as it used to be.
It is still damp and slimy, it is true; but from above, it is always
beautiful, with its luxuriant growth of vines, and at twilight
mysterious. I like as well, however, to look into its entrance from the
little marina, where the old fishwives are weaving nets.

These little settlements under the cliff, called marinas, are worlds in
themselves, picturesque at a distance, but squalid seen close at hand.
They are not very different from the little fishing-stations on the Isle
of Wight; but they are more sheltered, and their inhabitants sing at
their work, wear bright colors, and bask in the sun a good deal, feeling
no sense of responsibility for the world they did not create. To weave
nets, to fish in the bay, to sell their fish at the wharves, to eat
unexciting vegetables and fish, to drink moderately, to go to the chapel
of St. Antonino on Sunday, not to work on fast and feast days, nor more
than compelled to any day, this is life at the marinas. Their world is
what they can see, and Naples is distant and almost foreign. Generation
after generation is content with the same simple life. They have no more
idea of the bad way the