III. CUMÆ 287

purple shade, the snow behind them, first blazing-the only strong light in the picture-then in shade, dark against the pure sky; the grey above, warm and lurid-a little washed with rain in parts; below, a copse of willow coming against the dark purples, nearly pure Indian yellow, a little touched with red. Then came a lovely bit of aqueduct, with coats of shattered mosaic, the hills seen through its arches, and pieces of bright green meadow mixing with the yellow of the willows. At Capua, detained by a rascally Dogana,-we had one at Garigliano as well, howling beggars all about (Caffé del Giglio d’Oro), one ape of a creature clinging with its legs about another’s neck, and chopping its jaws with its fists. Hence a dead flat of vines hanging from elms, and road perfectly straight, and cut utterly up by a deluge of rain. I was quite tired as it grew dark, fragments of blue and amber sky showing through colossal thunder clouds, and two or three pure stars labouring among the dark masses. It lightened fast as we got into Naples, and we were stopped again, first by Dogana, and then at passport office, till I lost temper and patience, and could have cried like a girl, for I was quite wearied with the bad roads, and disappointed with the approach to Naples, and cold. I could not help wondering at this. How little could I have imagined, sitting in my home corner, yearning for a glance of the hill snow, or the orange leaf, that I should, at entering Naples, be as thoroughly out of humour as ever after a monotonous day in London. More so!”¹

¹ [The following section, § 50, was substituted on revision for the subjoined passage in the first draft:-

“I find that we were back at Mola on 16th March, having spent the early spring half at Naples, the rest at Castellamare, Sorrento, and Amalfi, and got as far south as Pæstum.

“I find my diary during this period made up for the most part of descriptions like the above-mixed with occasional Byronic references to my own unhappy destiny-(thus, on occasion of lunch among the cinders of Monte Somma, I find it remarked that the merry guides ‘little thought of the dark ashes my spirit was lying in!’) and with indignant snaps

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