Ischia, July 13th.—Ischia is decidedly an enchanted island. I begin to find our stay here is still more remarkable. “Quite a little Odyssey,” says my summer-daughter. Our sail round the island on the preceding Friday deserves its own especial chapter.
We had an excellent sailing-boat, and five stout seamen, for our little voyage. The weather, at the commencement, promised well, but when we rounded Point Vico, we had contrary wind and a rough sea. The rocks on the south side of the island—we live on the north—are lofty, wild, and perpendicular, and the open sea hurls its billows against them, without their force being broken either by the islands or any protecting capes. We had experience of this in a manner which was not agreeable, and we longed much for the bay of San Angelo, where the sailors said we should come into smoother water, and where, also, we were to dine. Arrived here, we found only rocks and a sandy coast, upon which the waves rolled foamingly. Upon these, and the backs of the sailors, we were obliged, each one in their turn, to be carried to land, whilst our boat lay at anchor, tossed about mercilessly by the rolling naiads.
We spread our dinner upon the sand, with a sail for a tablecloth, in the shadow of a rock, and were objects of interesting observation to some fishermen's families, who came from the rocks for that purpose, and whom Hercules afterwards amused himself by treating to rum, for the fun of seeing their terror, and at the same time enjoyment of the burning liquor. We then continued the voyage, sailing with but little wind, to the capital of the island. The color of the sea was,
