is not very attractive and soon
exploited walk, there are only the _vicoletti_, the narrow steep rocky
paths running up hill, which make rough going and give little pleasure,
for they are almost all bounded on either side by high stone walls that
jealously exclude the view. So much for Sorrento in its winter dress. But
when the spring comes, here truly is a transformation from cold and
torpor! The soft warm air is redolent of the penetrating fragrance of
orange blossom, of stocks, of jessamine, of wallflower, and of a hundred
odorous plants and shrubs from each garden and grove behind the many
obstructing walls. The balconies and gate-pillars are draped in scented
masses of the beautiful wistaria, which in Italy produces its long pendant
bunches of purple flowers before putting forth its bronze-coloured leaves.
Cascades of white and yellow banksia roses fall over each confining
barrier, or else their stems may be seen climbing like huge serpents up
the trunks of pine and olive, to burst forth amidst the topmost boughs
into floral rockets against the cloudless sky. The ravines with which the
whole of the Piano di Sorrento is intersected are filled with a perfect
jungle of fresh spring foliage, amidst whose varied tints of green appear
here and there the bright red shoots of the pomegranate trees bursting
into leaf. In the heavily perfumed air at dusk, or when the bright
moonlight is flooding the whole scene and is turning the Bay into a mirror
of molten silver, the song of the innumerable nightingales can be heard
resounding from all sides; alas! too often sweet songs of sorrow for nests
despoiled by the ruthless hands of young Sorrentine imps, as in the days
of the Georgics.

"Qualis populea maerens Philomela sub umbra
Amissos queritur fetus, quos durus arator
Observans nido implumes detraxit, at illa
Flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen
Integrat, et moestis late loca questibus implet."

("At nightfall hear sad Philomel upraise
Her mellow notes amid the dark-leaved bays,
Mourning her babes and desecrated bower,
Which some rough peasant robbed in evil hour;
She tells her story of despair and love,
Until her plaintive music fills the grove.")

All is fragrant, warm, genial, and peaceful, save for the melancholy notes
of poor ill-used Philomel, who is foolish enough to visit a cruel country,
wherein every bird is merely regarded as a toothsome morsel for the family
pot. We bird-lovers of