MAIORI.

“That in the colors of the rainbow liveAnd play in the plighted clouds,”

till afar off it strikes that line of mountains, with their top lost in great masses of tossing, seething storm-clouds, or veiled in depth after depth of bluest mist. It seems as if he had wrenched the reality itself from the out-door world, and flung it on the canvass. The gazewanders from one easel to another with long pauses at each. How I wish I could do them the faintest justice with any words of mine. I can give the subjects and the features, but those miracles of atmospheric effects wrought apparently with as little effort by this artist’s brush as if by enchantment—it is those that are unutterable, indescribable, and must be seen by one’s own eyes. I consider myself most fortunate in having secured two of his smaller canvasses “to be a possession forever.” The larger is a Capri scene of coast and cliff; the white-crested waves are rolling in gently, and breaking upon the former; the ruins of the palace of Tiberius crown the latter. It is a picture of striking individuality and specially characteristic of this foreign world. The other is a subject of pathetic interest, which he calls “Shelley’s grave.” It represents the coast near Spezzia, where the body of the poet was washed ashore, found and interred for a time. A simple cross marks the grave. A somber sky, the low coast, a little strip of beach, the grass and weeds and sedgy growth peculiar to such a spot, with a rude cross, that is all. But what a story it tells! So anxious am I that others may have an opportunity to see and appreciatethis home artist, I shall make a special point with my old friends of the book-store of The Robert Clarke Company, Cincinnati, of having these placed in their windows as soon as they reach the United States. One so gifted in his profession, and of such high worth in every phase of character as Mr. Benton, should have most ample recognition from his fellow-countrymen.

L. G. C.

Rome, May 2, 1883.

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DO not trouble to tell me: I know I have been delinquent. But then that is not one of my “too many and too-tedious-to-make-mention of feelings.” So the one time can be blinked at. Especially if you remember the scripture injunction. If you are like me you never do unless you want to.

Of course your letter came and I had my habitual “good intentions,” but well, to be honest, I am sure I do not know what became of them. I only realize that the days “shod with silver speech,” and muzzled with golden speechlessness, have slipped away and given no warning, till I should be afraid to try to count them. Let them go, and be magnanimous enough to bear no malice. That comes so easy to me I can recommend it without any tinges of that inward monitor yclept conscience. It would be the 13th labor of Hercules to attempt to fill up this interval. My brain reels at the mere mention. But I will just give you a mosaic of random tiles. You will like it just as well.In any case you would feel called on to groan critically and perhaps cry aloud: “The old flippancy! What a butterfly she is.” You know I do not mind.

One of the party, the “lord of creation,” you may be sure, had the fever at Rome, to his supreme disgust, not the Roman, but typhoid. He was sick two months. This, of course, was a cloud. But he is a darling, and just to get him well again was our supreme anxiety. As soon as he was well enough to travel without risk, he was ordered here to escape Roman lassitude and be “built up.” Last Monday we started, “coming by easy stages.” Naples was our first resting-place. We remained till Saturday. By that date the invalid through much eating and drinking shed even the rôle of a convalescent, and “Richard is himself again,” was asserted in every look and act. But we have come on here all the same. I wish you could spend just one day if no more with us. Such a dream-place as it is! Words can never picture it to you, but the cousins in chorus, declared I must write and tellyouall about it. As if I could! Whyyou? They did not say. I did not ask. Isupposebecause they are ready to hear another of your letters read. You seethey have not such a funny, audacious correspondent as you on their list.

But to this “castle in Spain,” this “Palace Beautiful,” this “stately pleasure dome,” this “Dream Perch,” this “Hotel Torre di Mezzacapo,” on the “blue Meditterranean’s” loveliest inlet, the Gulf of Salerno. Oh, dear. How to put it into words! It is an ancient castle, built on and out of, and into, a lofty cliff, hanging right over the water. I could cast my lines into its clear depths andangleto no end of capture, if they were long enough. They would have to measure 90 meters (300 feet) though to touch water. Who would help me land my whales? A Cornichean road, the ideal highway of creation, winds past its base to Amalfi. I hope you know Longfellow’s poem of that name. Sheer down the solid rock drops to the wavelets’ foam-tipped caress. I canhearthem when I bend over the parapet of my terrace so high above them in the air. From that highway, superb-macadamized, the ascent to our doorway is a tortuous, devious, steep climb. A little donkey-cart does it. Two at a time inside, outside the driver alongside the poor beast and with a desperate clutch of its loose hide to help it to keep its feet, and like poor Joe, “keepmoving on.” As I caught sight of that grip, a flash of memory gave back a description read long ago, of an exceedingly high-bred aristocratic, “black and tan terrier—its skin was at least two and one-half sizes too large for it.” Poor little donkey! I can fancy him braying his loudest that dying refrain of the woman,

“Glory! hallelujah! I am going whereThere’s no more hard work to do.”

After he landed the four of us “safe and sound,” he dragged up with equal faithfulness our four “Saratogas.” When I saw that, I cowered into a corner and hid my eyes. How I hated that trunk of mine! I think that particular donkey ought to be canonized and made a “constellation” in one of the unoccupied places of honor in the sky. Up here we see “an inclosed world of beauty.” The vague distance of the sea, where the eye gets lost directly; the long, low promontory or cape, where Paestum lies stranded in blue mist; mountains that lift themselves up so high they win crowns of snow for their temerity; great, soaring, jagged, curiously rent cliffs, many with their sheltered sides fashioned into terraces set in fruitful lemon and orange groves; the indented coast, withmany a pretty bay and baylet and little stretches of exquisite beaches; and countless villages in the tenderest tones of white, gray, drab, etc. It is a wonderful scene, and so soporific I could fall asleep this very instant. It is Sunday all the time. The town of Maiori lies far below us on the northeast, with a population of six thousand, an exquisite bit of harbor and lovely beach. I see pretty little craft, of many styles and sizes, run up on the last. Now and then, out on the water, a microscopic sail attached to a little black speck, or a lazily propelled row-boat, breaks up “the death in life” of the scene. They tell me as a fact that can be verified, of otherbreaksof the following ilk,ifone chooses to hang by the hour over the parapet of the different terraces or esplanades: a rattle-trap of a wagon, with a team of three animals abreast, mixed horses and donkeys, or oxen and cows, but each one close kin to my poor “Raffaello” (that is our donkey’s name); a tourist carriage or donkey cart; or a procession of “beasts of burden,” with immense baskets, heaping full, or casks of wine and water, or some miscellaneous burden, borne on top of their heads, and heavy enough to bend them half-double at least—in theshape ofwomen. Oftentimes men walk beside, but never seem to share those burdens.

Maiori lies at the mouth of a gorge, the Val Tramonti. This runs (I don’t know how far) back through a volcanic district. There is an ascending drive that is singularly unique and interesting. On both sides, a jumble of rent mountains; upheavals of beautiful knolls, that would themselves be mountains elsewhere, in the center of vast basins and deep valleys. Capping many of the highest peaks are lone, picturesque, gray old churches, with tall, square towers. The sides of the mountains are laid out in terraces, covered with lemon groves or orchards. Continuous chains of quaint old towns nestle in the depths or perch at different altitudes, so varied in their styles of architecture, combination of colors, and situations framed in such a novel ensemble, one is kept in a glow all the way. All this region abounds with such drives.

Verily, if this modicum of a world is so full of wonders, it is crushing to try to grasp the stupendous creation of which it is so small a fraction.

We shall stay here, exploring, perhaps a fortnight; and then to “fresh fields.”

There is talk of Sicily and Africa, if it continues cool enough.

And to make last week one to “set apart,” my “good brother,” Mr. W——, reached me with one of his letters. There are a sacred few who keep us at our best. The angel—not the demon—in us answers to their summons. Just to be with them seems to banish whatsoever is unworthy. Heaven—the All-good—seems not far away, hedged off from entrance by this and that device of man; but all about us, with its paths ready and free to our treading, and its true life not withdrawing and making conditions of acceptance, but enfolding and making us feel it is our own inheritance and we can enter into it.

I hope the little book is growing or quite grown. It interests me to hear of it. Do not give it up, whatever you do.

I noted the recovery of your peculiar and pretty penmanship the moment I saw your letter. Blessed be the potato, henceforth and forever!

L. G. C.

Maiori, April 5, 1886.

Image not available for display: Naples, General View.Naples, General View.

ITHINK I told you Sicily was being talked of for our next objective point. Well, we had a beautiful drive to Salerno; from there by rail to Paestum, where I enjoyed the grand old temples for the second time, the others for the first time.

We lunched in the temple of Neptune, and I gathered again the acanthus and wild flowers. The trip was charming, through a continuous garden with orchards and farm lands.

At the temple, an incident occurred I do not like to recall. I was looking at some curios surrounded by a throng of boys of all ages. While deciding about purchasing a very peculiar terra cotta head, they pressed closer and closer to me. Presently I wanted my glasses; they were gone. I could not linger. Before we reached the station, they were brought to me; had evidently been taken from my pocket for that very purpose, with the certainty of getting a reward. This was the only instance of the kind that happened to me in all my wanderings.

Back to Salerno, and from there to Pompeii. The whole route was a revel of spring beauty. Deep valleys, mountains, wide-spreading plains—“how beautiful and wonderful all this little earth!” We spent the time till train hour for Naples in the exhumed city. Nothing more marvelous than its frescoes so fresh and well-preserved.

Naples and shopping next day. Some friends who had just returned from Sicily and Tunis came to tell us about it. One brought many Tunis purchases to show us. Another gave a description of a Tunis wedding, which, by a happy chance, they witnessed. The bride did not see her husband for eight days! The display of presents was most gorgeous.

At 4 p. m., we went to the steamer for Sicily. A storm was brewing as we boarded it, and by the late dinner hour it was upon us in all its fury. One by one the passengers left the table till I alone remained. The effect on me was not ordinary sea-sickness, but a kind of torpidity; once in my birth I could not lift my head, though I was not unconscious. The storm lasted all night, but the morning broke brilliantly clear and invigorating.

Palermo at noon; we had to stay aboard

Image not available for display: Peasant Cart, Palermo.Peasant Cart, Palermo.

till 3 p. m., to be put through a process of disinfecting. All sorts of officers came to examine. Barges ran alongside with great tubs of disinfectant water to put soiled clothes through. Then the dogano, and such a racket of talk and cries! Hotel des Palmes from the steamer. It was pleasantly situated and very comfortable, and has a lovely garden. Before going to bed, Tunis was given up. The cousins could not risk the sea-sickness.

We spent several days in Palermo and its environs. I think it might be called the City of Mosaics. Its cathedrals, chapels, palaces, walls, everywhere were a mass of this ornamentation. We went from one to another till my brain was in a buzz. The gorgeousness and beauty and exquisite execution of the extraordinary subjects were beyond description. Only seeing can grasp such wonders. There was anEnglish gardenfull of flowers and familiar and unfamiliar trees and shrubbery. Indeed, Palermo can boast many gardens. In our drives on the Marina, a very brilliant feature was the carts peculiar to the country. The body of the cart, the two wheels, the shafts and the trappings of the donkey were covered with pictures and designs in the gaudiest colors—blues, reds, greens,orange, etc. The peasants in them were arrayed in garb to match, with faces alight with the most good-humored smiles.

The palaces we were most interested in were those of La Zisa and La Cuba, of Saracenic origin. The feature of the former was its fountain bursting from the wall in the vestibule facing the entrance door, and descending over a succession of steps to the floor, where it took the form of a simple rectangular cross. Above the fountain was a painted arch, below which were three pictures in Mosaics. This was very curious. La Cuba had nothing but a discolored honey-combed vaulting in a small court. A pavilion formerly belonging to it had been removed to the center of a garden on the opposite side of the street. We tramped to it. It had a dome in the roof and an arched doorway, and was built of massive stones, but otherwise was not especially interesting.

To Monreale was a drive of several miles, to see its Cathedral and Abbey and fine views. Its Mosaics are celebrated, but I did not dream of anything like the wonderful Cloisters of the Abbey. The Mosaics on the walls of the Cathedral cover an area of 70,000 square feet,

Interior of Museum (Metopes), Palermo.Interior of Museum (Metopes), Palermo.

representing scenes from both the Old and New Testaments. I could only look and exclaim.

The Cloisters are all that remain of the original Abbey; they are quadrangular and the pointed arches supported by 216 columns are covered with mosaics, all of their capitals and many of the shafts being different. I could not even faintly grasp the amount of labor required for the execution of such elaborate work. We had haze, showers and rain every day, but lost no time from our sight-seeing. One day we went in the rain to the Museum, where are the famous Metopes, “the most ancient of Greek sculptures except the lions of Mycene.” These are from the temple of Selinus, where we were to have gone, but a party of English, who had just returned, gave such a disenchanting account of the hardships of the trip, we gave it up. These Metopes are on a sublime scale representing the contests of gods and goddesses and heroes, and are indescribable. One is that of Perseus slaying Medusa.

Not tiring of beautiful Palermo, but of the rain, we left one afternoon for Girgenti, “the most beautiful city of mortals,” according to Pindar. The railway must have been the work of friendly genii, taste, labor and abundance ofthe “coin of the county,” for it ran for miles between triple hedges of roses, geraniums and cacti, planted in the order I have named them one above the other.

In Holland the hedges are of poppies, and “Out West” in our own country, of sunflowers, both such a blaze of color, the one red, the other orange, as to almost scorch the eye.

The number of ruins of temples on a grand scale in and around Girgenti keeps the sightseers “on the wing;” and at bed-time, the second in the little day-book reads: What a full and interesting day! I wish I had time to tell of these in detail. But Syracuse and the Fountain of Arethusa! Thither the route was of the most varied. Hills and wide-spreading vales like our prairies; cities crowning mountains; sulphur-works and great blocks of it piled at the stations ready for shipment; orchards, exquisite gardens and vineyards, but no forests, only a few trees here and there, principally eucalyptus that have been recently set out. Wild flowers by the acre in countless varieties, one being a species of clover, the head three, four and five inches long, and blood-red in color. We stopped at Catania for lunch at the station, ordered it, and when it was served with oneglance let it “severely alone.” Whereupon the waiter fell into a deep dejection. We reached Syracuse at 9:30 p. m.

The night drive through the streets to the hotel was beautiful, and we slept the sleep of those who knew the good things of this world were awaiting us next morning. What a day we made of it! We rambled through the Roman Ampitheater; sat where the nobles had in the Greek Theater; visited the quarries—quarries are one of the most famous characteristics of Syracuse—Euryalis, the fountain of Arethusa, indeed, leaving nothing unseen. In the quarry of Paradise is the famous Ear of Dionysius. You may be sure we tried its extraordinary echoes. In another, that of Latonia de Cappuccini, quarry of the Capuchins, we lunched. The manager of our hotel was our cicerone, a refined and gentlemanly person, but we could not induce him to join us, so strong was his feeling of the difference in our positions. He served us with gloved hands, and when we had finished withdrew from sight to take his lunch. We walked around the ruined fort atop of it, and descended into the depths of its subterranean fortifications. From the top, Mt. Etna was a sublime spectacle—its vast mass of snow-coveredvolcano seemed lifted bodily into the loftiest heights of air while its base was enveloped in an impenetrable white mist. Anything more ideally ethereal could not be imagined.

The Fountain of Arethusa is inclosed in a circular basin, and can be gazed upon from above standing on a platform with a railing. I looked and longed to get nearer. The custodian was at hand with key ready to unlock a gate. I entered and found the familiar quotation a truth, “Facilis est discensus.” The water was edged with a thick growth of the papyrus, its long, slender stalks topped with a kind of palmlike tuft. There was a most enchanting walk from our hotel to the fountain, and an irresistible fascination found me repeating my visit to it. It took in one of the finest views of the harbor and Mt. Etna. I often stopped as I wandered to wonder if perchance I trod in the footsteps of Archimides, if my glance rested on the same points in both land and water view, and wished—how I wished!—my brain might burn with his momentous thoughts and calculations.

Exquisite views await and arrest the traveler everywhere in Sicily. There are some barren stretches, but these seem to be forgotten

Image not available for display: Archimedes.Archimedes.

as soon as lost sight of. As our train swept on, these were unrolled before us. Afar off, nestling on the side of a mountain, we caught a glimpse of Meliti, where the Hybla honey of the poets was made. Once more at Catania—it seemed almost a miracle—we were ushered into a Pullman palace car! We could hardly credit “the evidence of our senses.” No cars are comparable for comfort, convenience and elegance with those of our own native land. It was really amusing to see how soon we adjusted ourselves to the accustomed luxuries. We ascertained on inquiry that this was a special train placed at the expense of the Pullman Company as an experiment. It was hoped and thought it would be a success.

Directly there was a chorus of exclamation. The seven rocks of the Cyclops! The rocks the blind Polyphemus hurled so impatiently after “the crafty Ulysses.” They rise at no great distance from the shore, and from the size of some of them the strength of the giant must have been indeed taxed.

Speeding over the plain of Catania took me back to school days and my mythology. For to a part of it belongs the touching story of Proserpine and its harrowing pictures of Plutocarrying her off, her arms outstretched for rescue, and her lovely face furrowed with such terror, horror and agony as fixed itself indelibly upon memory. “The Vale of Enna,” with its flowers bedewed with the tears of the tortured mother and lighted by the burning torch in her hand, as she sought hither and thither for her lost child—how strange to think I was recalling all the story right there upon the ground.

We made but a short tarry at Messina, and then came our reluctantaddioto beautiful, historic Sicily. Trinacria of old, so called because of its triangular shape. Not anywhere was flaunted that hideous coat of arms—the head of Medusa, the Gorgon with locks of wreathing serpents and the three legs springing from it as a center, representing a triangle, and the haunting countenance of horror that turned one into stone but to look at it. Yet, I put the picture of it into my album of Sicilian photographs!

How the heart aches over the good-byes that we know mean forever.

Good-bye, O lovely Sicily.

L. G. C.

Naples, May 1, 1886.

Image not available for display: Head of Medusa, Coat of Arms of Sicily, Palermo.Head of Medusa, Coat of Arms of Sicily, Palermo.

YOURS of 15th received yesterday. May 17th was the date of receipt of your last previous favor. May 23d I mailed a reply from Florence. Yet you say you have had no letter for three months. What does this mean? I am “wrought up,” I can tell you; becausethatletter was the quintessence of myself. No use to go into details about it.You, who so adequately wreak me upon expression, “witty, wise, brilliant, great head and good heart”—dear me! were I the most egotistical instead of meek and lowly minded of women—impossible to compete with you indoing justiceto myself—you would resent such “poaching in your preserves.” So I leave you to gnash teeth over the loss you can so fully comprehend. I shall never get over it myself, never. I think I must mention two items. There was a poem by myself and another by my cousin, Mrs. O——. I sent the latter to prove that I do not “monopolize the family genius.” You will remember you put that query. Please make a note of mymagnanimity in not withholding an evidence of its being possessed in even a higher degree by another member. Do you think many—not women, but—fellow-beings would be equal to that? Oh! I groan to think of that lost scintilation! And shall every time I think of it. How you would have enjoyed it! And more—how you would have flashed back again! Being the cause of wit in others is almost better than being witty myself. No; come to think of it, I have to “own up” to preferring to being the possessor at first hand, and even in the overtopping degree. There’s the milk and meekness of human coveteousness, of which I am “a bright and shining light.” Not much of the goddess in such a confession. But—“I can’t tell a lie,” you know, any more thanyouor the rest of my brethren and sisters. Oh! oh!—oh—h—h! that letter!

I am so glad you had “a good time” with Miss B——. How near she is to my heart you must know by this time.

I have had a letter since you saw her. She wrote after her return home in a glow of fine spirits. What a “triumphal progress” she and Mrs. K—— had! Everybody, everywhere, seeming to have vied in the kindliest courtesies,hospitalities and affectionate attentions. It did me as much good to hear of it as if I had myself been a recipient. Mrs. K—— deserved the hospitalities in a special degree, her pleasant home in Covington having always been a real Kentucky “open house.” As for Miss B——, her extraordinary powers of entertaining—that big head of hers so stuffed full of everything that adds to the feast and festival and highest enjoyment—she honors her welcomes. Some day I count on seeing the work you are giving so much time to. The “aim” must be indeed “a difficult thing to attain,” as you say. But why not write unconscious of “the aim?” Would notthe aimbe attained, and more happily? I ask, not to give, but to gain, information.

You hope companions are kind. These are favorite cousins. What a lovely spot this is! We are making a little sojourn of a week “in the beautiful valley.” The Staubach is shimmering its long, filmy length in the sunlight to my right: the Jungfrau lifting just opposite its sun-struck dazzle of snow, and beautiful as she is reported, which cannot be said of all Jungfraus. The village is prettily scattered along the glacierstream “tearing like mad” through the depths of the valley; mountains hem it in, some snow-covered the year round; others, bare rock; lower ones are covered with trees and grass. Many show only precipitous walls, down which tumble and foam countless cascades. One long, wide reach of the mountain side is a vast meadow, here and there broken into knolls outlined by rows of trees, but the meadow part is mantled with the velvetiest green eyes ever fastened upon, and it is all dotted with little huts and barns, the lower half white and the upper, the richest reddish brown, under its roof of the same hue projecting into the deep eaves, we know so well from our ornamental “Swiss châlets.” Nothing could be lovelier or more unique and picturesque. I have seen nothing equal to it, anywhere else. Words cannot picture it, and I do not believe any artist could paint it.

L. G. C.

Lauterbrunnen, July 29, 1886.

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YOU will have to take jostle instead of penmanship; but I have a comforting conviction that will be preferred to nothing at all, especially as I am giving you my best.

This is my third day’s steaming up the Nile. The most enthusiastic tourists consider this prosaic in the extreme, and that thedahabeahis the only method by which to take the Nile. As for me—is it my accumulating years, I wonder?—I am more than content to be prosaic. We are about 125 or 130 miles from Cairo. Such a strange, kaleidoscopic, fascinating experience as this is! I think I have quite lost my head. I am totally unequal to putting it into words. But I shall try to toss you bits of it—Esterhazy scattering diamonds as he passes, if you choose! First, the thrilling episode. We steamed away from Marseilles “in the teeth of a storm,” which rapidly grew into such violence even Miss B—— got to her prayers. For myself, I was in my berth, too sick—i. e., dizzy—to care for anything. A tremendous waveburst through my door, flooding everything; the floor looked the very sea itself. I could lift my head only long enough to ask if the door was gone.

This was a dangerous storm indeed. No vessel left Marseilles for two days after ours on account of it. But we weathered it, and lived to enjoy the beautiful Mediterranean, the exceeding wonder of its blueness and its lovely sunrises and sunsets. Also, we made acquaintance with many pleasant fellow-passengers, and Miss B——, as is her wont, had a lively flirtation with a distinguished fellow-citizen from the Hub, now an appointee of government at Alexandria, “an associate justice of international law,” or something like it.

We had a day at Alexandria. Saw one of the “seven wonders” it boasts of—the Pharos, Pompey’s Pillar, the Serapeum, some of its bazaars, and had two charming drives to its famous quais and one garden. Everywhere all the phases of oriental life greeted us. Anything more exciting is inconceivable. Any enumeration would be absurd, as you know just what they must have been.

At dark the judge saw us off and looked a “Melancholy Jaques” indeed, asmy detective eyes saw his parting pressure of Miss B——’s hand.

We came by train to Cairo. Such a charming young Englishman sat beside me, a naval officer. We fell into the friendliest talk at once, and kept it up until I was breathless. I saw him once again. We shook hands and parted. I do not know his name, but I shall remember him forever. I have come to think young English naval officers a class set apart; for at supper, on reaching the hotel, another sat beside me, and we talked till both forgot to “do justice to the fare before us.”Wemet several times, and I have the most precious little good-by note which I shall never part with. At the second interview we merrily introduced each to the other. Do you know it makes my heart sore to think we shall never meet again?

The above is proof that after all the living human interest is paramount. The Cairo life into which I plunged, or maybe it swallowed me up, did not dim the tenderness of this experience.

At the Pyramids I would have written to you, but I found myself in the hands of the Philistines—Beduoins, and never did I enjoyanything more. Beyond all the wonder, sublimity of feeling and unutterable admiration for them, the Pyramids, another of the seven—came a curious thrill of bond and blood that made me sit down with and walk about with, “that throng of importunate vendors of spurious antiques,” and try to get at them. Shrewd, amiable, bright, ready, handsome, picturesque-looking fellows—we were soon on the best of terms. Wegrippedhands at parting. No, the devil is not as black as he is painted! They made Miss B—- nervous. But I hope I shall see them again.

Also we saw the lone pillar at Heliopolis, a garden in which is the “Virgin’s tree”—I have leaves and a ball from it; it is a sycamore—anostrich gardenwith 600 of the bare-legged bypeds strutting round and now and then flapping their $300 apiece matchless feathers. The Museum, where mummies “are a drug,” and genuine scarabea too, but you could not buy one of them for “a mint of money.” The island of Rhoda, where Pharaoh’s daughter picked up Moses. The indescribable mosques, tombs of the Khalifs, Bachas and Marmelukes, and just a thousand or more wonders that seemed to have been handed down from the “ArabianNights.” Camels, donkeys, turbaned Turks, Nubians blacker than night, veiled women—I can more easily tell you what was not than what was there. I am only sorry I cannot go back and stay “ever so long.” Six days—that is only an aggravation!

The steamer lands at every point of interest, and arrangements are made for us to see them. Donkeys and camels where too far to walk. We went on donkeys to see the site of Memphis, Tombs of Apis and the Serapum, etc. My donkey and its little sixteen year old driver were jewels. The first was as well gaited as any horse, and the latter was proud to show him off—too proud to take any account of his own sixteen mile trot. All we saw at Memphis was the site of some fragments of statues and temples. The shifting sands sometimes bury it from sight; sometimes, but rarely, leave a little bare. The tombs are in splendid order for seeing; long avenues, the floor a perfect level, and everybody carrying a candle. You can fancy how unique and beautiful the flitting glimmer of the moving throng—now peering into the dark recesses in which are the great, massive tombs, or again running their lights along the walls to see the exquisite picturestones, or gathering in groups to discuss them. But oh! how I wish all I care for could see with their own eyes!

As we glide along, we see many characteristic features of this “twelve miles wide” strip of wonderland. Long trains of camels; Bedouin encampments; stately fellows in white turbans and flowing draperies, sweeping past on their fleet steeds; vast green fields; mud towns and villages; the tall, beautiful palms in groves and avenues; sugar plantations, with their stacked canes and great factories; long tongues of sand fringed with pelicans; flocks of herons winging their way in the blue sky; and—there is the luncheon gong!

After that interesting collation, how tiresome eating is! I wish we could live on air, perfume of flowers, sunbeams and the like. Everybody nearly is English, and they come out strong as trenchermen and women. One, Canon Farrer, notthecanon of Westminster, eats and drinks to—well, it is none of my business. I need see nothing. I do not wish to. The “guests” of this steamer number ex-members of Parliament and their families, canons, curates, and plenty of people with “handles to their names;” but they are not specially interesting.Mr. Cook owns these steamers and is himself aboard—a large, rather fine-looking man, but far from being a model of deportment; simply seems quite deficient in good manners.

The river, the land, the people, the animals, the ruins and their history, and legends with books, books forever! furnish my daily food. But I like companionship, and if the whole truth must be told prefer that of some really “splendid man” to this of my own sex. One can live too much in books, I fear. Do not they unfit for

“Living in common ways withCommon men?”

But why should I complain of anything under the sun?

Well, good-bye.

L. G. C.

On the Nile, December 30, 1886.

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NOTHING like agreeable surprises, is there? I ought to be on the broad Atlantic, but am not. Let Miss B—— go without me several days ago. I am going to linger here for several weeks longer. There is the woman for you! I wonder if I can go back to where I left off. What did I tell you? I wish I could recall. But don’t you call my young naval officers “infernal.” I cannot allow that. If only you could have seen and known them, you would go down on your knees to take that back. You cannot even know how sore it makes my heart to think I shall never see them again. Ah! woe is me!

No, I did not, “of course, take a run over to Jerusalem.” Yet two more weeks would have accomplished that. The other two, Miss B—— and her friend, would not even consider it. I could not go alone. But indeed Egypt was enough, had we only stayed long enough. What we had was for me that “first taste of blood that makes the tiger.” Did I not tell youI had found out what it was to be a “lotus-eater?”

No need of anything but sitting still to be borne by that invisible, noiseless steam-power up and down the Nile—that wonderful, mysterious, enchanted stream. How its waters—your warning came too late; I had already quaffed deep and long of it—thank the Lord if that take me back!—slipped away from beneath us; how the banks studded here with its picture-villages built of mud, there with groves of stately palm trees, or yonder with some famous ruins, sped by carrying the enraptured gaze with them into the distances that dimmed and melted into the sky; how the unfolding scenes ahead won it after a time of dreams, revery, ecstasy, to behold great hills gliding towards us with lengthening chains of grottoes hewed out of their solid rock, and wrought and carved into stately monuments for dead kings or their mighty subjects; how the day wore on to sunsets of inexpressible glory, succeeded by intervals of curious grey, and then—the sudden afterglow that made sky, air, water and earth an ethereal commingling of “all the tints that in the colors of the rainbow live and play in the plighted clouds!” Ah! mere existence therewas bliss, more than akin, beyond that of lotus-eating. But alas! how to give you any idea of it!

There was a comical side, or else I must have become a slave to the enchantment of such a life. The contact with the natives. They came in swarms the moment the steamer landed, to beg if there was no excursion; with their donkeys to act as “guides” if there was. Here is an instance: We were to go to the rock tombs of Beni-Hassan. At seven in the morning, behold me mounted on a miserable little scrap of a donkey, for which my English saddle even more than myself was a world too large. The road varied from sharp inclines to steep ascents. How was I to stick to my steed, was scarcely queried before I found myself clasped in the dirty arms of my tall Arab and firmly pinioned. No use to squirm. That only made him tighten his embrace. My only comfort was seeing all my sisters in the same plight. I do not know what I did not dread; but certainly hosts to which your Holy Land of “f——s” would have been welcome guests. Once at the tombs, I forgot my terrors. Spacious chambers hollowed out of the solid rock, with ceiling and walls decorated with biographicalpaintings; all the details of the history of the life of the occupant. And in front those magnificent columns “that have preceded our era, notwithstanding their Doric appearance, by some 3,000 years,” says Mariette Bey. Theyareperfect Doric style, and imposing as magnificent. One of the pictures is that of a body of emigrants, “the most ancient-known example of the hordes attracted by the proverbial fertility of Egypt.” Its date is 4,800 years ago. Three days and a half at Luxor and Karnak and Thebes. Temples, kings, tombs, palaces, Colossi-obelisks, all carved in intaglios and reliefs, and covered with those brilliant paintings that defy time, weather, everything but the profaning hand of man. I rode to melodious Memnon on a donkeyin a shower. Rain in Egypt! And it was afternoon! Bah! how I detest doing the right thing at the wrong time. I thought of you and the letter I meant to have written on that lofty knee. I had my music, though!

All the way to the limit of my trip, Assuan, “ancient Syene,” there was repetition of landings, donkeys, guides, rides and ruins. I never tired. Each had its special attractions. I lived in a daze. Ah! I wish every time I think ofthem to be back and doing it all over and over again. Yes, when I come, youmustlisten andlook. For I shall have pictures to help me tell their story—those beautiful, sublime monuments of a mighty people and civilization, vanished from the face of the earth these thousands of years ago.

I am growing eager to see that “Venture on the Sea of Literature.” Have I told you I like the title amazingly? I shall be astonished and disgusted if it is not a happy hit. It shall be! Those—

Your friend,L. G. C.

Paris, February 10, 1883.

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YES, I went to Cuba, and it was a ravishing experience. Not quite an Eden, but so near to being! There was not an American (i. e., a Yankee) of us all who did not fully believe itwould be, once “Uncle Sam” held it in his sturdy grip. To the last man and woman and the best, we defiantly broke the commandment and coveted our neighbor’s possession with our whole hearts. It is the most unreal reality, the most dream-like substantiality, the most vision-like, sure-enough scrap of earth imaginable. I feared to shut my eyes, lest on opening them it would have vanished. It looked as magical an isle as that. Oh—h! Just writing about it makes me catch my breath and widen my eyes to get it all back again.

The unspeakable splendors of its tropical vegetation—not only avenues and groves of “lofty palm trees,” but vast forests of them; not only “lofty palm trees,” but countless others, gorgeous in a burst of bloom without foliage—not a suspicion of green mingled with that blazeof richest rose, scarlet, purple or white, as it happened to be; not trees only, but clambering vines, all aflower with such lily bells as made me rub my eyes to make sure there was no illusion; and oh! such vistas and vistas of “the wonders of creation” as made me marvel what surpassing them could be possible in any other sphere!

I wish you could have seen the sunrise as we steamed into the harbor of Havana, the city itself seeming to rise out of the water like “beautiful Venice,” and like it, fashioned by the cunningest conjury out of sunbeams, the colors of the rainbow, the ethereal elements of the blue empyrean, the crystalline layers of the atmosphere, the tints of time and the films of earth! Yes, and have stood, as I stood later, on the ramparts of the fort, taking in such a spectacle of “the kingdoms of this earth” as swept me into thinking it almost equaled that of the Great Temptation on the Mount!

I am forgetting to tell you of the trip. We took the steamer Niagara at St. Augustine. It was fresh and clean and very comfortable. Among our fellow-travelers were several who proved very companionable and courteous. The weather was bright, mild, delightful. Therewere several young Cubans, quite attractive in appearance.

Next morning I rose early and went on deck in time for the sunrise. It was wonderful. The “First Officer” said, “It is a rare sunrise,” which made me more than thankful to see it. After breakfast, I stayed on deck to see the gulf sights. Saw jelly-fish in great numbers; they looked like fungi. The coast of Florida was in sight all the time; also an occasional vessel, ship or steamer. At night, Cape Farewell light-house, the long wake of gleaming, flashing phosphorescent waves; Orion, in all his glory overhead, and the stars more brilliant than I had ever seen them. Remained up so late did not undress, as I wished to be on deck again at the earliest possible hour. At 5:30 the moon was in its last quarter; the sky a lovely glow. Just as the sun rose above the horizon, we were steaming into port. The spectacle was indescribably beautiful and unique. Fort Morro Castle, on its not high bluff, the circular sweep of the shore line, the city as it were rising out of the water, with its buildings so varied in size, style and color; the harbor filled with shipping and innumerable little craft shooting hither andthither, and the dazzling sunlight firing it all into a glory no words could catch!

We were quickly passed into a rude kind of gondola, and skimmed over the liquid interval between the steamer and quai.

What a medley of fellow-beings awaited us on landing! What a jargon of sounds! Everything so new and strange to us. A procession of cabs and victorias bore us our several ways. We went to Hotel Quinta Menida, kept by a young fellow-countryman in conjunction with some Cubans. The building is in the Moresque style, round a triangular court, arcades on this court to two stories. The entrance on the ground floor is under an arcade that goes round the entire exterior, into a lofty vestibule like those seen all over Europe. This ground floor is paved with great slabs of stone! the stairways and all the other floors with white marble. The ceilings are from eighteen to twenty feet high. Windows and doors are also very high and broad. On the halls there are double doors, a massive inside one, and a glazed outside one of half its height. This is for ventilation and privacy. The same massive doors open on the balconies with which every room is provided and the outer withmarble slats, for adjusting the light. The two middle panes of the inner doors are on hinges, making them movable for the same purpose. There are no glass windows such as we have, but there are transoms in ornamental devices of stained glass, generally white and blue. The house has three stories, and a flat roof with a balustrade that can be used for promenading or sitting. The laundry is on one corner, and Chinese, blacks, children and dogs seem to be perfectly at home there. The view was fine and extensive.

We went over the whole edifice, peering into the rooms, corridors, etc., getting that “firstlastingimpression.” The parlor is an immense room, furnished peculiarly, one-half being in cane seat, sofas and chairs placed in the wall! Rows of flowers all around; a central rug, with a geometrical square of rocking chairs inclosing it, and a table in the center. In the exact center of the spacious room, another table, with a fixed number of chairs packed up close to it. On the opposite side, the same arrangement is reproduced in upholstered furniture, covered with white Holland. From the ceiling depended chandeliers and brackets of tropical blooms and vines, while the side walls were covered withgreat mirrors. The entire interior is white. As a room, it is certainly unique. I have never seen anything like it. The arcades on this parlor floor are full of small tables, where the meals are served, of which there are two, breakfast at 9 a. m. and dinner at 6 p. m. The dishes are the same for both, except the addition of soup for dinner. Oranges caught on a fork and peeled—it takes both practice and skill to accomplish this—are sucked, the pulp not being swallowed. Fried plantains are a disappointment, tasting as if they had soured before or in the process of cooking. A small panfish is exceedingly delicate and appetizing, and a very petite banana is delicious. Coffee is only tolerable. Can any anywhere compare with our own “home coffee?” Ice is manufactured and the supply is abundant.

One of the first things to do was to take an orientation drive. The temperature was perfect; a breeze, just warm enough, just cool enough, blowing steadily. The sky was tinted in pinks, green and gold. The city seemed an enchanted one. I half feared to close my eyes, lest it would vanish. The houses had caught the sky tints, being “in all the colors of the rainbow;” are painted so. The most of themare but one story or two stories. Arcades are the rule, some with columns of different color from the house. The windows, almost without exception, are unglazed, having instead a light iron grating. This is a most singular and curious feature. The inmates chat through them with friends on the outside, looking as if in prison. Mischievous or “venturesome” urchins clamber up and cling to the inside like birds in a cage. The Prado, quite recently laid out, and many of the squares, are beautiful and light up brilliantly in the very superior quality of gas. The streets were not thronged, as I expected them to be. There was a glorious “afterglow,” which gave us as long a drive as we wished. I got up at 2 a. m. to look for the Southern Cross, that same “First Officer” having told me it did not rise till after midnight. I saw it, to my great gratification. This was the second time. The first time was on the Nile.

One morning, we went out early “to go to market,” this being “a thing to do” in all cities of note. The walk was short, leading past one of the public squares, with few trees, but pleasant looking. There was a most miscellaneous crowd of people and “beasts of burden.” Horses (very small) and donkeys with immensepanniers filled with every conceivable product and commodity;towsof them fastened to each other by their tails, and so covered up with their burdens only their feet were visible. Fancy the spectacle. The women were of the common and lowest classes, dark-yellow and black in color, wearing no bonnets, of course, but only some light veil over the head. Very few of either men or women looked clean. The market building was a large structure, well lighted, and exhibiting every known vegetable as well as all the delicious tropical fruits.

I had an experience worth chronicling. My watch was in its little outside breast-pocket attached by pin and chain, but in full view. A fine, open-countenanced man at one of the stalls touched me gently on my arm and warned me to put it out of sight. This was done in pantomine, as he spoke no English and I no Spanish, but was as “plain as words could say it.” I never felt or gave warmer thanks. The dirt and odors soon became unbearable, and we returned to our hotel just in time for breakfast.

We tried a shopping expedition with some other ladies and an interpreter—a very pretty Cuban—but it was not a success. Saw nothing characteristic but the mode of shopping.The goods were brought to our carriages and shown to us by the interpreter and a clerk.

One afternoon we went to the Cathedral; it was grey and rather picturesque, but what we wished to see was not shown, so we soon left. Thence we drove to the Gov.-General’s country-seat to see its noted garden, which went beyond expectation. We walked through avenues of stately palms, and saw tropical trees in bloom of which we had never read or heard. One, the Carolinas, had fringe-like tassels of blossoms in Magenta color, graduated from very deep to the faintest tint. The threadlike fringe was tipped with the deepest red and gold. This was one of those “without foliage or a suspicion of green.” The house is unpretending indeed, and the grounds only fairly kept up. Brought away several flowers and pressed them.

After our 6 o’clock dinner and a short reunion in the parlor, a party of us went to one of the most frequented of the public squares to hear the band and watch the crowd. The party consisted of a German gentleman from Chicago, of political and journal prominence, a Catholic priest from New England—his tongue shot with such arrows of wit and flashes of eloquenceone could hardly keep back a “hurra! for old Ireland!” and two ladies beside myself. I fell to the care of the priest, and made merry over having a priest for a cavalier, as I took his arm. But indeed it was a curious experience.

We found seats and watched the kaleidoscopic show. One feature claimed special attention—the way the men and women kept apart. This is not more pronounced in a Quaker meeting-house. The priest pointed out the son of the Duke of Leeds, a tall, large, striking-looking man and a count. Indeed, the graphic, lively loquacity of the good “Father” added so much to our entertainment, we included himnolens volensin all our after movements. At 9:30 we went to a grand café and had lemonade, milk punch and wine. Oh! I must not forget to tell you my gallant escort presented me with a bouquet.

Next day we went to Cerro, a suburb of fine private residences with an “aristocratic convent.” We drove up to one of the handsomest places, and got permission to walk through it. This proved to be the residence of the Senator to Spain. His young son escorted us, as well as the gardener, and both were models of courtesy. They presented us with flowers and leaves,among the latter being that of the guava, which I have pressed. We could only drive around the Convent of the Sacred Heart, not having provided ourselves with any introduction. We gained admission to another residence, that of a Senor de la Costa. It and its grounds were a dream of beauty. But I must to other excursions, or I will never get away from Cuba.

One to a great sugar plantation—a charming drive from the city. This was under the auspices of the German gentleman, who had letters of introduction to everything worth seeing in the island. When we reached the entrance gate, admission was most decidedly denied. It took talk and time to obtain even an interview with the owner. Finally he came—a very handsome, young, distingue-looking man. At first he was most haughtily courteous and immovable—could not grant entrance. A recent experience with some ill-mannered fellow-countrymen finally explained this. In the absence of the family, they had gone into the house, invaded every part of it, despite the remonstrances of the servants. At last he gave way and at once became the most gracious of hosts, treating us as if we were specially invited guests. He went with us himself through allthe works, showing and explaining, and we saw the full process of the sugar-making, from the feeding of the stalks to the mills to where it came forth in beautiful glittering crystals of golden-brown sugar. On parting, he presented each with a cornucopia of it, filled by himself in our presence. I shall keep mine intact as long as I live.

Another took in two plantations—one of bananas, the other of pineapples. We had the privilege of gathering from each for ourselves. A very small bunch of bananas sufficed, and we had them put in our carriages while we walked some distance to the pineapple plantation. None of us had ever seen one. It belonged to some native Cubans who had a cottage at the entrance. One went with us as guide. The plants were in regular rows, averaging from four to five feet in height, one apple to each rising in the center of a large cluster of stiff leaves that curve like those of the aloe, and have much the same appearance and coloring. The guide invited us to pluck for ourselves, each took one. We little suspected what “a big contract” even one was, as we gayly and proudly started on the return tramp, after having tried to see which could findthe biggest oneto pluck. Shifting back and forth, first one hand and then the other, began almost immediately. This did not help long. In a very few moments I was lagging and panting, and next, possessed with a fright and dread that the arms could not hold out and that I would have to drop my treasure. Then such a jump of my heart! A quick step by my side, a relieving hand slipped between mine and that stem held by such a despairing clutch, and voice and words that might have been those of my own special “good angel:” “Allow me to carry your apple.” But didn’t I! At the cottage, a feast of pineapples awaited us—peeled, sliced and laid in sugar-besprinkled layers. “Fit food for the gods” indeed! I wonder if they ever had such.

Just one more excursion, and I will have to sing:

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