On the first day of April I set out for Rome. For ten or fifteen miles beyond Naples, the country appeared to be nothing but one great vineyard. The vines are not propped by poles, as I found them in Sicily, but are trained to poplar trees. I passed many wells by the roadside, furnished with water-wheels turned by oxen: these are used for irrigating the fields in summer, from which I judged that the country often suffers from drought. All along the road were guard-houses with gens-d’armes at regular intervals, a security against robbers, according to the design; but we generally found these valiant fellows fast asleep! We might have stolen their muskets and made them all prisoners before they were well awake. The roads in this quarter are covered with a fine white dust, which in the unclouded season of midsummer must have a bad effect upon the eyes. The great number of blind people we saw, confirmed the impression. About noon we reached Capua, famous for having once been the most luxurious city in the world, but now a decayed town, where everybody seems to be fast asleep. Beyond this place the road began to run among the hills. At night we stopped at the village of St. Agatha, where we found a tolerably good inn. We set out early next morning, and passed through fields covered with olive trees. The peasants whom we met had sprigs of olive stuck in their hats. This was the olive season, and we saw the women and children picking up the fruit under the trees. When the olives are ripe, they turn black and drop from the trees. The oil is squeezed from them by a common press. The olives used for pickling are taken from the tree before they are ripe.