And the place seemed all changed: its fine distinction was gone: the old Certosa exposed to the hurried gaze of every passing tourist; and stern-faced Brother Agostino, footsore and weary, degraded to the _rôle_ of a common, obsequious guide. * * * * * [Sidenote: MORNING AT CASTELLO October 30] The morning’s breath tastes cool and clean. The distant hills seem yet asleep, tranquil and dark—a long, low, wavering wall. Above the plain floats a lingering, pearly film, and the air grows busy with a vague rumour of awakening life—the rumble of wheels, the cracking of whips, the plaintive whistling of far-off trains.... On its way to Florence the early train swings by; hordes of brown-skinned, barefooted children sprawl noisily along all the street; the men lean idly watching the ceaseless tale of lean _barrocci_, lumbering, jolting over the crooked flags; and before every open doorway the women group their chairs, to sit at their straw-plaiting the long day through.... Beyond, across the dusty-green of countless olives, you can see the glittering roofs of Florence, the _Duomo’s_ burly dome, and the pale outline of Giotto’s tower; but it is rather the sense of old-world slowness, the continual accumulation of friendly, trivial incident, that makes the intimate charm of this suburban street.... [Sidenote: IN THE CAMPO SANTO AT PERUGIA November 1] The young moon hangs amid a steely sky; the land, empty and darkening, rolls like a billowing sea towards the Western orange glow; and high behind us the tall hill lifts Perugia’s ragged silhouette. Down the steep road they came—grave _bourgeois_; bands of brown-faced youths, chewing thin cigars; aged peasant-women, with faded, wrinkled eyes; chattering country-girls, gaudy handkerchiefs around their hair; toddling children; uncouth men from the mountains, sullenly wrapped in fur-trimmed cloaks, while, posted in rows on either side, the crippled beggars offer their dusty hats, and whine for charity in the Virgin’s name. Before the red gate of the Campo Santo the crowd surges; within, every alley is black with the press of people. It is the day of the dead. To visit the dead all the town is come. ... The pale specks of a myriad, tiny lamps; the glow of garlands against the crowding slabs of snow-white marble, that mark the children’s graves; the glitter of every small, spruce mortuary chapel; and the glad scent of freshly-scattered flowers.... Death loses its squalor; and becomes something demure, sociable, almost gay.... [Sidenote: NAPLES IN NOVEMBER _Late afternoon in the Strada del Chiaja_ November 9] Up the squalid, ill-paved street, lumber the great landaus—an interminable, toiling stream, carrying home from the _corso_ the morose, sallow-faced ladies of the Neapolitan nobility, and crushing on either side the hedge of gaping hobbledehoys that line the niggardly pavement.