pily, the musicians errant still strum their mandoline as you dine.
The old trattoria in the Toledo is as good as ever, as bright, as
comfortable. I have found my old corner in one of the little rooms, and
something of the old gusto for _zuppa di vongole_. The homely wine of
Posillipo smacks as in days gone by, and is commended to one's lips by
a song of the South. . . .

Last night the wind changed and the sky began to clear; this morning I
awoke in sunshine, and with a feeling of eagerness for my journey. I
shall look upon the Ionian Sea, not merely from a train or a steamboat
as before, but at long leisure: I shall see the shores where once were
Tarentum and Sybaris, Croton and Locri. Every man has his intellectual
desire; mine is to escape life as I know it and dream myself into that
old world which was the imaginative delight of my boyhood. The names of
Greece and Italy draw me as no others; they make me young again, and
restore the keen impressions of that time when every new page of Greek
or Latin was a new perception of things beautiful. The world of the
Greeks and Romans is my land of romance; a quotation in either language
thrills me strangely, and there are passages of Greek and Latin verse
which I cannot read without a dimming of the eyes, which I cannot
repeat aloud because my voice fails me. In Magna Graecia the waters of
two fountains mingle and flow together; how exquisite will be the
draught!

I drove with my luggage to the Immacolatella, and a boatman put me
aboard the steamer. Luggage, I say advisedly; it is a rather heavy
portmanteau, and I know it will be a nuisance. But the length of my
wanderings is so uncertain, its conditions are so vaguely anticipated.
I must have books if only for rainy days; I must have clothing against
a change of season. At one time I thought of taking a mere wallet, and
now I am half sorry that I altered my mind. But----

We were not more than an hour after time in starting. Perfect weather.
I sang to myself with joy upon the sunny deck as we steamed along the
Bay, past Portici, and Torre del Greco, and into the harbour of Torre
Annunziata, where we had to take on cargo. I was the only cabin
passenger, and solitude suits me. All through the warm and cloudless
afternoon I sat looking at the mountains, trying not to see that
cluster of factory chimneys which rolled black fumes above the
many-coloured houses. They reminded me of the same abomination on a
shore more sacred;