Upon the cliff by Pergola is a stone house, in front of which I like to lie, looking straight down a thousand or two feet upon the roofs of Meta, the map of the plain, and the always fascinating bay.  I went down the backbone of the limestone ridge towards the sea the other afternoon, before sunset, and unexpectedly came upon a group of little stone cottages on a ledge, which are quite hidden from below.  The inhabitants were as much surprised to see a foreigner break through their seclusion as I was to come upon them.  However, they soon recovered presence of mind to ask for a little money.  Half a dozen old hags with the parchment also sat upon the rocks in the sun, spinning from distaffs, exactly as their ancestors did in Greece two thousand years ago, I doubt not.  I do not know that it is true, as Tasso wrote, that this climate is so temperate and serene that one almost becomes immortal in it.  Since two thousand years all these coasts have changed more or less, risen and sunk, and the temples and palaces of two civilizations have tumbled into the sea.  Yet I do not know but these tranquil old women have been sitting here on the rocks all the while, high above change and worry and decay, gossiping and spinning, like Fates.  Their yarn must be uncanny.

But we wander.  It is difficult to go to any particular place here; impossible to write of it in a direct manner.  Our mulepath continues most delightful, by slopes of green orchards nestled in sheltered places, winding round gorges, deep and ragged with loose stones, and groups of rocks standing on the edge of precipices, like medieval towers, and through village after village tucked away in the hills.  The abundance of population is a constant surprise.  As we proceed, the people are wilder and much more curious about us, having, it is evident, seen few strangers lately.  Women and children, half-dressed in dirty rags which do not hide the form, come out from their low stone huts upon the windy terraces, and stand, arms akimbo, staring at us, and not seldom hailing us in harsh voices.  Their sole dress is often a single split and torn gown, not reaching to the bare knees, evidently the original of those in the Naples ballet (it will, no doubt, be different when those creatures exchange the ballet for the ballot); and, with their tangled locks and dirty faces, they seem rather beasts than women.  Are their husbands brigands, and are they in wait for us in the chestnut-grove yonder?

The grove is charming; and the men we meet there gathering sticks are not so surly as the women.  They point the way; and when we emerge from the wood, St. Maria a Castello is before us on a height, its white and red church shining in the sun.  We climb up to it.  In front is a broad, flagged terrace; and on the edge are deep wells in the rock, from which we draw cool water.  Plentifully victualed, one could stand a siege here, and perhaps did in the gamey Middle Ages.  Monk or soldier need not wish a pleasanter place to lounge.  Adjoining the church, but lower, is a long, low building with three rooms, at once house and stable, the stable in the center, though all of them have hay in the lofts.  The rooms do not communicate.  That is the whole of the town of St. Maria a Castello.