We had to pass through the vestibule of the modern Hôtel Diomède to enter the domains of the past, and on our way back we had dinner there. I was glad to be out of the circle of the dead centuries and back into the world of living men. I had just read a French novel written by Georges de Peyrebrune in which the author described the wonderful beauty of Signorina Sofia Prospezi the daughter of the proprietor of Hôtel Diomède, and wanted to see if the reputation of her beauty was not exaggerated. It appeared to be quite true. Signorina Prospezi was beyond question endowed with great beauty: she was tall, slender, with a pure oval face, finely chiselled features and luminous velvety, brown eyes, shaded by curling black lashes. I asked her to give me her photograph, and she begged for mine in return. Her father was wonderfully amiable and attentive towards us. Instead of regaling us with diluted wine, which was usually served to his customers, he ordered the oldest and best wine in his cellars to be brought to us. Our host evidently meant to be complimentary, and said that he thought me very much like his wife—who appeared to be a compatriot of ours—when she was young and beautiful. On the following day we drove to Castellamare; a succession of villages lined the way. The tramway took up half the breath of the road, encumbered with huge waggons drawn by great powerful horses; I felt rather frightened. On approaching Sorrento we ran against a car drawn by a horse, a cow and a donkey as well! There was a local feast of Saint-somebody, I didn’t know who, at Sorrento, and flags were suspended from house to house across the narrow streets. We passed before the house which had been inhabited by Torquato Tasso transformed now into an hotel. Just in front of it stands the statue of the great poet. The distant sound of low chanting attracted our attention; it grew louder, and presently, far up the street, we saw a religious procession come in sight. At the head came a pilgrim holding a high crucifix. Behind followed a group of curates in white surplices, bearing a large grotto in which stood the statue of a saint dressed as a Franciscan monk, surrounded by a number of statuettes representing worshippers kneeling to him. A number of little girls, arrayed in white, with crowns of roses on their heads, carried an altar decorated with vases full of paper-flowers, in the middle of which stood the statue of the Virgin, clad in a rich brocade dress and a long blue mantle embroidered with silver stars; the Madonna’s long hair fell in ringlets on her shoulders. A large crowd of pilgrims came behind. We begged a constable to clear a passage for us through the throng and gained the high road by a back street. From afar we saw the lava running down Vesuvius. Our _vetturino_, turning round, said, “That’s my home,” pointing with his whip to a little village sheltered beneath the treacherous mountain.