The innumerable small fishing smacks belonging to the villagers ("paesani") dot the bay as far as Castellamare, and every morning they make their way thither, carrying to market their nightly catches of tunny fish, anchovies and other dumb subjects of Neptune.
The valleys, perfumed throughout their length with odorous herbs, palms and gigantic cactus in wild profusion, change their character a little further away, by taking on the indescribable charm of the picturesquely draughted olive trees, which often slope down to the water's edge, while on green hillside terraces most magnificent grapes gleam from afar, like red glittering rubies to the eyes of the delighted tourist.
On the left side, amid palms and chestnut trees, one catches a glimpse of the lifeless unroofed ruins of Pompeii, once a populous city, which was overwhelmed by her mighty neighbor, the terrible Vesuvius on the 22nd of August in the year 79, and remained under ground for about eighteen centuries, until Charles the III ordered its excavation on the 1st of April, 1748. Amid all these buried treasures of art of long perished races, Seneca had spent his youth and Cicero had written his biting rhetorical masterpieces, which earned him a sixteen months' banishment from the court of the Emperor Claudius, whose gigantic statue of Persian marble, in the robe of "Pontifex Maximus" was lately excavated at Pesto.
The high mountains were already casting long shadows through the little village of Vico Ecquenso, and the hot evening sun, now about to sink into the gently splashing waves, gilded with its last beams the weather-beaten, centuries-old convent of Santa Croce, built upon a high summit on green hilltops.
The peaceful sound of the old convent bell, inviting those to pious meditations and evening prayer, was sounding now with wondrous sweetness over land and sea, even as far as the desolate altars of the heathen Gods of Pompeii tumbled down from their gilded pedestals, and the shrunken mummies in the "theatrum tragico," where the people perished without the help of the heathen gods, listened dumb and petrified,—the sightless eyes wide open,—to the sounds of the new religion calling them again and again morning and evening. The vast oppressiveness of the ghostly solitude there, contrasted strangely with the uncommon bustle perceptible that evening among the simple minded inhabitants of the quaint little village, who usually went so quietly about their work.
A joyous excitement sparkled in the eyes of both old and young, who had assembled in front of the only village tavern, "Osteria," to witness the approach of the festal procession of youth and maidens coming home from the vineyards, laden with baskets of grapes and flowers.
The wealthiest man in the place, the farmer Niccolo Gallioti, who had just before devoutly lit six immense wax candles in honor of the Holy Madonna, was today giving a feast to the young people of the place. The ingathered harvest had filled all his granaries to the roofs and so surpassed all his expectations that it had to be celebrated with eating and drinking, music and dancing. An hour before, he had been seen walking up towards the vineyards at the side of his beautiful daughter, Concetta, and as yet there was no sign of their return. The expecting crowd shuffled up and down impatiently, and craned their necks.
"There! There! Corpo di bacco! they're coming now," cried a small bare-footed lazzaroni, greatly excited, running breathlessly to meet them, and vainly trying at the same time to hold up the torn, shapeless breeches, which actually had no right to that name. They were fastened by a cord on the top and reached from the shoulders to his feet.