I am sometimes in doubt what is the spell of Sorrento, and half believe that it is independent of anything visible.  There is said to be a fatal enchantment about Capri.  The influences of Sorrento are not so dangerous, but are almost as marked.  I do not wonder that the Greeks peopled every cove and sea-cave with divinities, and built temples on every headland and rocky islet here; that the Romans built upon the Grecian ruins; that the ecclesiastics in succeeding centuries gained possession of all the heights, and built convents and monasteries, and set out vineyards, and orchards of olives and oranges, and took root as the creeping plants do, spreading themselves abroad in the sunshine and charming air.  The Italian of to-day does not willingly emigrate, is tempted by no seduction of better fortune in any foreign clime.  And so in all ages the swarming populations have clung to these shores, filling all the coasts and every nook in these almost inaccessible hills with life.  Perhaps the delicious climate, which avoids all extremes, sufficiently accounts for this; and yet I have sometimes thought there is a more subtle reason why travelers from far lands are spellbound here, often against will and judgment, week after week, month after month.

However this may be, it is certain that strangers who come here, and remain long enough to get entangled in the meshes which some influence, I know not what, throws around them, are in danger of never departing.  I know there are scores of travelers, who whisk down from Naples, guidebook in hand, goaded by the fell purpose of seeing every place in Europe, ascend some height, buy a load of the beautiful inlaid woodwork, perhaps row over to Capri and stay five minutes in the azure grotto, and then whisk away again, untouched by the glamour of the place.  Enough that they write “delightful spot” in their diaries, and hurry off to new scenes, and more noisy life.  But the visitor who yields himself to the place will soon find his power of will departing.  Some satirical people say, that, as one grows strong in body here, he becomes weak in mind.  The theory I do not accept:  one simply folds his sails, unships his rudder, and waits the will of Providence, or the arrival of some compelling fate.  The longer one remains, the more difficult it is to go.  We have a fashion—­indeed, I may call it a habit—­of deciding to go, and of never going.  It is a subject of infinite jest among the habitues of the villa, who meet at table, and who are always bidding each other good-by.  We often go so far as to write to Naples at night, and bespeak rooms in the hotels; but we always countermand the order before we sit down to breakfast.  The good-natured mistress of affairs, the head of the bureau of domestic relations, is at her wits’ end, with guests who always promise to go and never depart.  There are here a gentleman and his wife, English people of decision enough, I presume, in Cornwall, who packed their luggage before Christmas to depart,