of rosy vapour just caught the golden light here and there; then again the rosy clouds turned to the most vivid crimson, and glowed like jewels set in a golden ground, purple, gold, crimson, and softest blue, all blended together in one gorgeous mass. What a sight it was! The Tower of Amalfi is built on so steep a rock that the houses seem piled one on the other; the streets are narrow passages between tall houses; lanes with high walls of rock on either side intersect the streets; steps up, steps down, wonderful labyrinths of curious passages: such is the interior of the town. In most places lamps were burning; had it not been so, it would have been quite dark in the interior parts of the town.
We ascended to a small picturesque tower, from whence is to be seen the lovely bays of Majori and Minori; from the tower a narrow little path winds between aloes and myrtles: following it we were soon overshadowed by luxuriant vines trained over an arched walk, near which were some perfectly beautiful remains of ancient sculpture let into the stone wall, as is frequently the case in these old towers; there were wreaths of leaves carved in marble, most finished and beautiful, and a clasped hand, with part of the arm, the fingers holding a delicate spray of that lovely fern called Maidenhair, that was as perfect in the design and execution as any sculpture I have ever seen. There were other exquisite morsels also let into the wall, surrounding a small burial-ground.
On our return through the Val des Montins we stopped to see one of the largest macaroni manufactures that is to be found in Italy. Let no one fancy the exquisite scenery I have described marred by the unsightly buildings, the discordant sounds of a manufactory, such as we see it in England, as there is nothing of the kind to be found here, only a very extensive group of rather picturesque low buildings, where this much sought-after article of food is prepared. I was too much pressed for time to make any lengthened stay in the manufactory. The process seemed a very simple one; to a certain extent it is carried on in all southern Italian villages. It is made of the beautiful flour that comes from the Indian corn, and when first run off in the liquid state into the grooved trays where it assumes its pipelike form, it is of the most beautiful golden primrose colour; this fades by degrees as it goes through one process after another till it becomes the colour we see it as it arrives in England. In all the Neapolitan villages one sees wooden frames standing outside the doors, on which the macaroni is hung in all its different stages for the benefit of drying in the sun; some of the strips are two, three, and even four yards long—not only the macaroni, but vermicelli—so fine as to render the threads scarcely visible—is placed on these frames; and I was told by those conversant with the subject that it is the want of this drying process which has caused the failure of all attempts to produce macaroni in England. It is after it comes from the manufactory that it goes through this baking process under that burning sun. Even before the corn is ground it goes through this drying process. All
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