throats to swell the storm that raged half an hour before. The bellicose natives had dispersed, and only the usual complement of idlers and ragged children hung upon the skirts of our march. The short southern twilight had ended before we had got far on our road. The stars began to twinkle above and the glow-worms below, while the fireflies flashed through the bushes on either side, darting in and out—across the road—out of the orange-trees into the vines—the prettiest and most fanciful of the freaks of nature. The wine-dark sea deepening and deepening in shade spread out on the right whenever the high walls which generally border the road, ceasing for a space, permitted us a view of it; and it was dark night, though not more than nine o’clock on a June evening, when we reached the Piccola Sentinella at Casamicciola. Up-stairs, of course, one flight—up another flight—and we are ushered into a long wide verandah, from which doors open into neat little rooms paved with Dutch tiles and furnished with iron bedsteads and clean white curtains. Opposite the door, in lieu of a window, is another, half glass,—on opening which we find ourselves in a garden, a perfect wilderness of sweets. The inn is built on the side of so rapid an ascent that the second story of the front is the ground-floor of the back. But before we explore farther there is the commissariat department to be attended to, and the waiter asking our orders.
“Can you give us some supper?”
“It is Friday, Signori miei,” was his significant answer.”
But, on reflection, he suggested that a fish might perhaps be forthcoming, and at any rate eggs, and would we like some tea? We should never have thought of asking for such a thing, but were ready to put ourselves entirely into his hands, when he offered to “do the best he could for us.” So we strolled out into the garden to enjoy the delicious coolness of the night air, redolent of the mingled scents of roses, jessamine, carnations, orange and lemon blossoms. The nightingales were singing the last songs of the season—myriads of stars shone overhead—sedate glow-worms showed their steady light in the grass at our feet, and the panting fireflies darted wildly to and fro to the astonishment and alarm of my little dog who had followed us. At last one of these fitful creatures settled a moment, throbbing, on the path before her. Evidently taking it for a new kind of firework, and expecting it instantly to explode, poor Zélie took to her heels, and no calling or coaxing could induce her to remain. We found her, long after, under a bed, squeezed up against the wall in a state of abject terror, and she could not be induced to come from her hiding-place till the doors were shut for the night, and there was no fear of her being again forced into so dangerous a locality.
As we sauntered for the last time up the path leading to the house, so pleasant a little picture of an interior presented itself, that it recalled to our remembrance the fact that we were both tired and hungry. Through the open glass-door and between the muslin curtains we descried a table which might have been prepared for Beauty in Beast’s palace, so dainty, trim, and alluring it looked. Our friend the waiter had indeed justified the confidence reposed in him: and now produced a fine fresh lupo, flanked by a golden lemon newly gathered, shining through its glossy dark-green leaves; a delicate omelette; good bread, butter, milk; a pyramid of strawberries, and a dish of rich crimson cherries, such as we had made acquaintance with in the morning—all glowing under the light of a shaded lamp on the snow-white tablecloth. The tea equipage was neatly set out. In short, in no gentleman’s house could a thé dinatoire have been served more prettily; and we made our compliments thereon to the solemn waiter, who bowed gravely in acknowledgment.
This waiter was quite unlike any of his brethren I had ever met with in Italy—silent, reserved, and distant enough to have been a head attendant at the Clarendon. During my subsequent stay at the Sentinella, I remarked that my little dinners were always served with the same finish and grace which characterised our first meal in the house; but any expression of satisfaction was received with such grave politeness, that it seemed almost an impertinence to make any complimentary observations. One day, however, when a genuine Neapolitan, lively, talkative, Figaro of an under-servant was attending on me, I ventured on expressing some surprise at finding in a place not much frequented by the English, English dishes served as they would be in London. This was à propos to an arrostito d'agnello, triumphantly announced by the waiter con una salsa! (mint-sauce, a thing never seen on the Continent.)
“Ah!” said Filippo, “but is the signora not aware that our cook is a great chief? He has lived in the kitchen of an English prince—Milord ’Olland—and knows all sorts of cookings of all nations—English, French, Chinese!” (This last, I believe, referred to curry.)
He certainly was a great chief, and had culled from the cooking of each nation its peculiar merit with admirable taste and skill. He was a fine eclectic artist, and I beg to record here my humble tribute to his talents and acquirements.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed my companion, Jingo (so called from his constant appeal to the saint of that name), as we sat on the threshold of the garden-door amusing our leisure with the cherries, when the more serious part of the meal was over; “why are we such fools as to leave a place like this, when once we have found it out?”
“Ah! why, indeed?”
“Only we must ‘move on.’”
“You must—I needn’t.”
“Why, you are not going to be so shabby as to throw me over?”
“Not at all: only you mean to go, and I mean to stay.”
“What a beastly shame!”
Then, after a few minutes’ pause, candour getting the upper hand:
“Wouldn’t I, if I had the chance, that’s all.”
“Come! I’ll do the handsome thing. I’ll go back with you to Naples, and pack your portmanteau, and then—Bon voyage!"
“Well, by Jingo! I think you are in the right.”
*****
