compass out of his own
brain, at least it was the old Republic which first impressed the Western
world with its immense value, and this, too, at a far earlier period than
the date usually assigned to Gioja's "discovery." For a Christian bishop
of Jerusalem a hundred years before Gioja's day makes mention of the
compass as being in common use amongst the Saracens of Palestine, whilst
its existence was certainly known to Brunetto Latini, the tutor of Dante,
whom for certain moral failings upon earth his brilliant pupil somewhat
harshly places in the infernal regions. History has, in short, long
deprived poor disconsolate Positano of its vaunted glory in the production
of a medieval scientist whose very existence has now become a matter of
speculation.

As we thread our way along the road that curves round headland after
headland, and is carried over sheer precipices whose base is lapped by the
cool jade-green water, we begin to realize the essential difference
between the Sorrentine shores we have left behind us, and the marvellous
Costiera d'Amalfi we are now passing. Ever green and smiling are the
favoured districts that stretch from Castellamare to Massa Lubrense, with
the mountain tops acting as screens to protect the groves and crops from
the sun's ardent rays and with the fresh reviving breezes from the Abruzzi
ever breathing upon them. But here we seem to be under the very eyes of
the Sun-God, who stares fixedly from rising to setting upon the Amalfitan
coast. Welcome enough is this continuous basking in his smiles during the
short winter days; but oh! the long, long summer hours wherein King Helios
relentlessly pours down his burning glances upon the shallow soil that
covers the rocky face of the Costiera! We who visit the territories of the
old Republic in winter or early spring only perceive one aspect of the
picture. We rejoice in the gladdening warmth afforded by unbroken sunshine
and by the complete absence of cutting winds which Monte Sant' Angelo's
towering form excludes from these shores; we note with delight the
premature unfolding of buds and blossoms, and we marvel at the young fruit
of the dark-leaved loquat trees--the _nespoli_ of the South--turning to pale
yellow even in February. But we cannot realise the blinding glare and the
torrid heat of a July or August, making a perfect furnace of this
sheltered corner, where the thin layer of cultivated soil, that has been
scraped together painfully by human