MARK TWAIN

And had he not high honor—

The hillside for a pall,
To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,
And God's own hand in that lonely land

To lay him in his grave?

From Naples
Sailed from Naples Aug. ir, at 6 A.M.

7 P.M., with the western horizon all golden from the
sunken sun and specked with the distant ships the bright
full moon shining like a silver shield high overhead, the
deep, dark blue of the Mediterranean underfoot and a
strange sort of twilight affected by all these different
lights and colors all around us and about us.

Sighted old Stromboli. How grand it looms up out of
the lonely sea, and how symmetrical. It is beautiful now
with its dark blue just veiled under a pearly mist that
half conceals and half discloses.

The two jets of smoke have turned into one, 100 feet
broad—can't sec how high—can't see it after it gets above
the black background of the farther rim of the crater.

In Rome saw Peter's footprints.

Peter's Prison (Mamertine)—Print of face—miraculous
spring he made to baptize the soldiers—hole where he
broke through.

Man on this ship as hard a case as Paul—got to knock
him endwise with a streak of lightning before he could
get religion.

Aug. 14. Approaching Athens. The town extends most

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