for buona mano, was a dirty little angel in rags, and her great soft black eyes will look somebody into the asylum or the drunkard’s grave in time, I have no doubt.  There was a stout, manly, handsome little fellow of five years, who established himself as the guide and friend of the tallest of our party.  His hat was nearly gone; he was sadly out of repair in the rear; his short legs made the act of walking absurd; but he trudged up the hill with a certain dignity.  And there was nothing mercenary about his attachment:  he and his friend got upon very cordial terms:  they exchanged gifts of shells and copper coin, but nothing was said about pay.

Nearly all the inhabitants, young and old, joined us in lively procession, up the winding road of three quarters of a mile, to the town.  At the deep gate, entering between thick walls, we stopped to look at the sea.  The crowd and clamor at our landing had been so great that we enjoyed the sight of the quiet old woman sitting here in the sun, and the few beggars almost too lazy to stretch out their hands.  Within the gate is a large paved square, with the government offices and the tobacco-shop on one side, and the church opposite; between them, up a flight of broad stone steps, is the Hotel Tiberio.  Our donkeys walk up them and into the hotel.  The church and hotel are six hundred years old; the hotel was a villa belonging to Joanna II. of Naples.  We climb to the roof of the quaint old building, and sit there to drink in the strange oriental scene.  The landlord says it is like Jaffa or Jerusalem.  The landlady, an Irish woman from Devonshire, says it is six francs a day.  In what friendly intercourse the neighbors can sit on these flat roofs!  How sightly this is, and yet how sheltered!  To the east is the height where Augustus, and after him Tiberius, built palaces.  To the west, up that vertical wall, by means of five hundred steps cut in the face of the rock, we go to reach the tableland of Anacapri, the primitive village of that name, hidden from view here; the medieval castle of Barbarossa, which hangs over a frightful precipice; and the height of Monte Solaro.  The island is everywhere strewn with Roman ruins, and with faint traces of the Greeks.

Capri turns out not to be a barren rock.  Broken and picturesque as it is, it is yet covered with vegetation.  There is not a foot, one might say a point, of soil that does not bear something; and there is not a niche in the rock, where a scrap of dirt will stay, that is not made useful.  The whole island is terraced.  The most wonderful thing about it, after all, is its masonry.  You come to think, after a time, that the island is not natural rock, but a mass of masonry.  If the labor that has been expended here, only to erect platforms for the soil to rest on, had been given to our country, it would have built half a dozen Pacific railways, and cut a canal through the Isthmus.