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Page 62
"I declare!" he added with a laugh as he shook back the wind-blown hair
from his forehead; "it is difficult to realize these days in what
century one is living. My mind has been so full of ancient history
lately that I feel quite like an antique myself."
"I know," answered his uncle with a smile, "how life widens and
lengthens as thought expands under the influence of travel through
historic scenes. One may study history from books for a lifetime and
never realize it as he would could he, even for an hour, be placed upon
the very spot where some important event took place. What a fact
Hannibal's army of two thousand years ago becomes to us when we know
that these very mountain tops which are before us looked down upon
it,--that its soldiers idled, ate, and slept on this very plain."
Thus talking, almost before they knew, they came out upon the beautiful
Bay of Naples. They saw the little island of Capri, the larger Ischia
crowned with its volcanic mountains, and, between it and the point of
Posilipo, where once stood Virgil's villa, the tiny island Nisida (old
"Nesis"), whither Brutus fled after the assassination of Julius C�sar;
where Cicero visited him, and where he bade adieu to his wife, Portia,
when he set sail for Greece.
"Looking out over this same bay, these same islands, Virgil sang of
flocks, of fields, and of heroes," said Mr. Sumner, following the former
line of thought, as he began to take from the racks above the valises
of the party.
Arrived at their hotel, which was situated in the higher quarters of the
city, they were ensconced in rooms whose balconied windows commanded
magnificent views of the softly radiant city, the bay, and, close at
hand, Mount Vesuvius, over which was hovering the usual cloud of smoke.
At the close of the afternoon Barbara and Bettina stood long on their
own window-balcony. The scene was fascinating--even more so than they
had dreamed.
"There is but one Naples, as there is but one Rome and one Florence,"
said Barbara softly. "Each city is grandly beautiful in its own
individual way, but for none has nature done so much as for Naples."
In silence they watched the sunset glow and the oncoming twilight, until
the call for dinner sounded through the halls.
"I fear to leave it all," said Bettina, turning reluctantly away, "lest
we can never find it again."
The next three days were crowded to the brim. One was spent in going to
the top of Vesuvius; another in the great Museum, so interesting with
its remains of antique sculptures, so destitute of important paintings;
the third in driving about the city, to San Martino, and around the
point of Posilipo, ending with a visit to Virgil's tomb.
Then came the Sabbath, and they attended morning service in the
Cathedral,--in the very chapel of San Januarius which is decorated with
pictures by Domenichino, Guido Reni, and Lanfranco, the completion of
which was prevented by the jealousy of the Neapolitan painters.
The next morning they went to Pompeii, where in the late afternoon
carriages were to meet them for beginning the drive through
Castellammare, Sorrento, and Amalfi to La Cava.
The absorbing charm of Pompeii, whose resurrection began after nearly
seventeen centuries of burial and is yet only partial, at once seized
them,--all of them,--for, visit the ruined city often as one may, yet
the sight of its worn streets with their high stepping-stones, its
broken pavements, its decorated walls, its shops,--all possess such an
atmosphere of departed life that its fascination is complete, and does
not yield to familiarity.
After hours of wandering about with their guide, seeing the points of
most interest,--the beautiful houses recently excavated, the homes of
Glaucus, of Pansa, of Sallust, of Orpheus, of Diomedes and very many
others; the forum, temples, and amphitheatre--they sat long amid the
ruins, looking at the fatal mountain, so close at hand, and the
desolation at its foot, and meditated upon the terrors of that fearful
night.
Malcom read aloud the story as related by Pliny, a volume of whose
letters he had put into his pocket, and Margery recited some lines of a
beautiful sonnet on Pompeii which she had once learned, whose author she
did not remember:--
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