Anacapri, is dusty. They must see all they can, and at four o'clock sharp the boat returns to Naples. No wonder their sigh of relief is deep when they are on Neapolitan ground again. Surely we do not blame a man without ears if he like not music, nor can we blame the man without rest if Capri toucheth him not. But let us be wary of him whose organs of hearing are intact, yet who "is not moved by concourse of sweet sound." His heart must be shut tight indeed who cannot fling it open at Capri's bidding!

Imagine, good reader, the dawn playing on the clouds that hang low on the Apennines and reflecting itself on the pale, smooth water broken by scarcely a sail; or again, imagine a deep expanse of dark sea, mirroring the stars and the moon, and twenty miles away the lights of many cities and the red, intermittent glow of the sombre, panting volcano, those are pictures that Capri gives you. Or paint to yourself the busy life of a broad beach, with the fishing boats drawn high and the good people chatting in the warm sunlight, dark men and pretty women-they are actually pretty-with hosts of gay bambini of every age and description tumbling about on the sand or playing games very much as other children will. That is Capri, and it charms you because you know that every human being there will give you a kind word or a smile as you pass, and even the donkeys will give you an affectionate bray if you stroke their manes or gently pull their ears.

The people of Naples and the people of Capri-they are as different as night and day. The good Caprians insist very loudly on their superiority, and with right. No man in his senses would care to claim blood-relationship with Naples. Historians and other people that know much, declare that the Neapolitans are Romans, but the Caprians are Phoenicians, which sounds excellent, but on closer inspection of the history of both the wicked old towns, appears a subtle distinction "twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee" which is interesting, but scarcely valid. Besides, the Caprians had a dose of Romanism when the Emperor Tiberius and his virtuous court spread themselves over the landscape in the early Christian era that must have snuffed out for a long time any beauty of spirit left by the chaste influence of the Phoenician mariners who are rumored to have originally settled there. However,

"Jew or Gentile, bond or free," the truth remains that the Neapolitans are the most red-handed blackguards that ever stabbed a neighbor between the shoulder-blades, and the Caprians are godfearing and respectable citizens, a fact which the inaccessibility of the islanders to the medieval schools of knavery, political and ecclesiastical, sufficiently explains.

Capri, one might say, leads a double life. From the time the steamer arrives from Naples, shortly before noon, to the time of its departure, four hours later, the island is given over to the tourist. On the Grande Marina you see him bargaining for corals, and paying the fair Margharita-she and her mother are the salt of the earth-three times as much as the clever girl would have dared to ask from any one but the restless "Inglese." On the road to the village you swallow his dust as he dashes along in a rickety cab; up on the market-place you hear his stentorian tones voicing his refusal to take a donkey to Tiberio, or drawing comparisons between the present landscape with that of Jefferson City, Idaho. If your tourist is German, you listen spell-bound to an enthusiastic flow of epithets or gaze with philosophic mind at his ill-matched and fantastically garbed spouse, who clings fearfully to his arm and murmurs: "Himmlisch, nicht wahr, Schatz?"

During these hours of unrest, you, who have sufficient respect for a great master-work of Nature to give it more than the tourist's careless glance, retire from the field and leave it in full possession of the invader. Capri is not itself—it is Mr. Hyde, and you wait patiently for the boat's shrill whistle at four o'clock, that shall herald the return of Dr. Jekyll. When you hear it finally, and know that your good friend is himself once more, you come from your place of retirement, and resume the delight of his pleasant companionship. Perhaps you walk to the cliff of Tiberio through the high-walled alleys, roughly paved, with some ragged boy who clings to you in spite of all remonstrances, and tells you all about himself and his family and his cousin—he wonders if you happen to know him?-who is laying railroad ties somewhere between New York and San Francisco. It is a long walk to Tiberio on a hot day, but there are good places to rest, none better than the pretty stuccoed houses where la bella Carmelina and her rival, la

bella Guiseppina, execute the Tarantella to perfection. The bella consideration is to be taken with a grain of salt, but the dance itself, rhythmic and graceful, leaves no room for criticism. Guiseppina's place is the nearest to the cliff, and from the wall of her little garden the rock falls sheer a thousand feet into the sea. They still call it the Leap of Tiberius, but it is important to remark that not Tiberius, but his servants or guests who happened to show themselves in any way superfluous, did the leaping. We may surmise that whenever the fastidious Roman was not pleased with his dinner he threw it over the cliff and sent the cook after it.

There are many things to see and do in Capri. If you wish, you can walk to the Grande Marina and up the two hundred and fifty-four steps that old Barbarossa built an æon or two ago, to Anacapri, where the view over the bay, to Ischia on one side, and then as you let your eyes wander to the right, to Posilipo, to Naples, to Vesuvius, and finally to Sorrento, and back to Capri again, is one that only the tourist forgets. If you are a mountain-climber, you can scramble over rocks of every degree of sharpness to Monte Solaro, but you will do it only once. Capri, like all paradises, is not a place of doing, only of living, and your day there does not seem ill-spent or incomplete if it contains nothing more stirring than a stroll to the Punta Tragara or the Piccola Marina, or merely a bantering talk in the shade with the pretty Margharita, or with old Pascharell, as she waits for a tourist, willing to risk a ride to Tiberio on her excellent donkey, Michel Angelo. In the evening, the "Kater Hiddigeiger" claims you, and over your glass of beer you listen to the old Italian songs, or from the open door watch the marionettes' show in the street outside.

Paradises! Sorrento, Ravello, Capri!

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,

(If our loves remain)

In an English lane

By a comfield-side a-flutter with poppies.

Mine, I am sure, will seek the Grande Marina at Capri!

Arminius.

ON THE FIRST MOVEMENT OF MAHLER'S FIFTH SYMPHONY.

I heard tempestuous rioting down the dale,
Where two hills blend in sweet tranquillity,
And through the tangled roses boisterously,
Along the wavering colonnade of pale,
Ethereal, vision-slender marble, frail
As amber, or as painted ivory,

Saw passionate streams of frantic revelry

Filling with bacchic rout the quiet vale.
With flickering torches and with music old
They seethed along, wave upon endless wave,
In hideous mask and spotted domino;

And silent over all, with flowers aglow,
And lingering drifted leaves of tarnished gold,
Bore one more weary dryad to her grave.

Harold Wilmerding Bell.

WHEN GRANADA CAME TO ALMERIA.

Some one is singing. It's a grocer boy in the street. The swing of the notes is familiar-it's a foreign tune-where have I heard that before? I have it; it's the Mattchiche. Let me see if I can remember the facts and the incidents—though at the time I was not in a remembering mood.

It was in Spain. The "Republic" was to stop at Almeria to load many barrels of grapes. The captain said that Almeria was the deadest of places, but captains don't know everything after all, or at least they don't always agree with us youngsters, and that's why I did not believe him. So I called out to my friend and said: "Rusty"-I called him Rusty because he had red hair and a speckled complexion, my friend, and did not like the name "Rusty," I said, "look here; we'll just go on shore and see for ourselves. If the place is interesting, it won't take you and me long to find the interest; and if it is dead, by gad, we'll liven it up all right, if only for a few hours, won't we?" for I had great vigor of health in my muscles, and my spirit wanted excitement, which is the foundation of pleasure. And Rusty winked his left eye and answered: "You bet!" for he did not talk much, but did things.

So we landed with a small boat, and walked through Almeria, the small coast town of Southern Spain. The houses were squatty and white; there were thin palm trees along the central street and in the squares; there were few people, and those ugly and sallow; and many donkeys with huge loads on their backs and bells clanging round their red bridles; and over all a silvery glare that heated the pavements. The place was without interest, as the captain had said, for there was no bull-fight, and all was quiet and hot. So I grabbed my friend by the arm and said: "Rusty, it's up to us; we've got to make the excitement and liven up this old town before the 'Republic' sails." And we began.