heights, it is said, formerly stood the summer residence of Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi; there also, Madame De Staël placed her fascinating improvisatrice, Corinne, and fascinated many, myself amongst the rest, when at seventeen, I became half-crazy with the longing for the life and land of Corinne. There is now nothing more to see there, excepting the grassy turf, which covers the earth, and the eternally lovely view on all sides.
We rowed by Procida. The lofty peak of Ischia raised itself, though still distant, as if to meet us; but wind and waves, although not strong were against us, and the little voyage extended to upwards of four hours; night came on, and during the greater part of the sail, we saw nothing except the starry sky above, which lighted us on our way, and the glow of Vesuvius, which gleamed in the distance through the darkness of the night. The air was moist, but not cold, and the sail not without its peculiar, wild charm. The elder of the two rowers enlivened himself and his brother with exclamations like the following:
“Andiamo mangiare i maccaroni! Andiamo a Tochia per ballare la tarantella! Viva il Re di Napoli! E gli maccaroni si! Ma,—amo pui gli maccaroni che il Re di Napoli!”
They sang also two barcaroles, with strong, but not very melodious voices.
A small light on the shore of Ischia, announced to us that we were approaching it. Towards midnight we were there, and groped our way in the darkness to the good and celebrated hotel, La Piccola Sentinella, in the district of Casa Micciala. By daylight we were
