space, which is a rich garden, watered from capacious tanks, and coaxed into easy fertility by the impregnating sun.  Upon these roofs the brothers were wont to walk, and here they sat at peaceful evening.  Here, too, we strolled; and here I could not resist the temptation to lie an unheeded hour or two, soaking in the benignant February sun, above every human concern and care, looking upon a land and sea steeped in romance.  The sky was blue above; but in the south horizon, in the direction of Tunis, were the prismatic colors.  Why not be a monk, and lie in the sun?

One of the handsome brothers invited us into the refectory, a place as bare and cheerless as the feeding-room of a reform school, and set before us bread and cheese, and red wine, made by the monks.  I notice that the monks do not water their wine so much as the osteria keepers do; which speaks equally well for their religion and their taste.  The floor of the room was brick, the table plain boards, and the seats were benches; not much luxury.  The monk who served us was an accomplished man, traveled, and master of several languages.  He spoke English a little.  He had been several years in America, and was much interested when we told him our nationality.

“Does the signor live near Mexico?”

“Not in dangerous proximity,” we replied; but we did not forfeit his good opinion by saying that we visited it but seldom.

Well, he had seen all quarters of the globe:  he had been for years a traveler, but he had come back here with a stronger love for it than ever; it was to him the most delightful spot on earth, he said.  And we could not tell him where its equal is.  If I had nothing else to do, I think I should cast in my lot with him,—­at least for a week.

But the monks never got into a cozier nook than the Convent of the Camaldoli.  That also is suppressed:  its gardens, avenues, colonnaded walks, terraces, buildings, half in ruins.  It is the level surface of a hill, sheltered on the east by higher peaks, and on the north by the more distant range of Great St. Angelo, across the valley, and is one of the most extraordinarily fertile plots of ground I ever saw.  The rich ground responds generously to the sun.  I should like to have seen the abbot who grew on this fat spot.  The workmen were busy in the garden, spading and pruning.

A group of wild, half-naked children came about us begging, as we sat upon the walls of the terrace,—­the terrace which overhangs the busy plain below, and which commands the entire, varied, nooky promontory, and the two bays.  And these children, insensible to beauty, want centesimi!

In the rear of the church are some splendid specimens of the umbrella-like Italian pine.  Here we found, also, a pretty little ruin,—­it might be Greek and—­it might be Druid for anything that appeared, ivy-clad, and suggesting a religion older than that of the convent.  To the east we look into a fertile, terraced ravine; and beyond to a precipitous brown mountain, which shows a sharp outline against the sky; halfway up are nests of towns, white houses, churches, and above, creeping along the slope, the thread of an ancient road, with stone arches at intervals, as old as Caesar.