p. 123.

[9] The Keats was doubled open at the "Lamia."

[10] _Trelawney Records_. Pickering, 1878, pp. 197-200, accepts this
story, as clearing up what for fifty years had been a mystery to him.

III. PORTO VENERE

It is perhaps a more joyful day that may be spent at Porto Venere, the
little harbour on the northern shores of the gulf. Starting early you
come, still before the sea is altogether subject to the sun, to a little
bay of blue clear still water flanked by gardens of vines, of agaves and
olives. Here, in silence save for the lapping of the water, the early
song of the cicale, the far-away notes of a reed blown by a boy in the
shadow by the sea, you land, and, following the path by the hillside,
come suddenly on the little port with its few fishing-boats and litter
of ropes and nets, above which rises the little town, house piled on
house, from the ruined church rising high, sheer out of the sea to the
church of marble that crowns the hill. Before you stands the gate of
Porto Venere, a little Eastern in its dilapidation, its colour of faded
gold, its tower, and broken battlement. Passing under the ancient arch
past a shrine of Madonna, you enter the long shadowy street, where red
and green vegetables and fruits, purple grapes, and honey-coloured
_nespoli_ and yellow oranges are piled in the cool doorways, and the old
women sit knitting behind their stalls. Climbing thus between the houses
under that vivid strip of soft blue sky, the dazzling rosy beauty of the
ruined ramparts suddenly bursts upon you, and beyond and above them the
golden ruined church, and farther still, the glistening shining
splendour of the sea and the sun that has suddenly blotted out the soft
sky. A flight of broken steps leads to a ruined wall, along which you
pass to the old church, or temple is it, you ask yourself, so fair it
looks, and without the humility of a Christian building. To your
right, across a tossing strip of blue water, full of green and gold,
rises the island of Palmaria, and beyond that two other smaller islands,
Tisso and Tissetto, while to your left lies the whole splendid coast
shouting with waves, laughing in the sunshine and the wind of early
morning, and all before you spreads the sea. As I stood leaning on the
ruined wall looking on all this miracle of joy, a little child, who had
hidden among the wind-blown cornflowers and golden broom on the slope of
the cliffs, slowly crept towards me with many hes