trange to relate, there are
no dangerous currents, no treacherous whirlpools close to these rocky
islets, such as we might expect to give some natural interpretation to the
ancient myth, the origin of which remains unexplained and constitutes a
very pretty mystery as it stands.

We bid farewell to the group of ill-omened rocks, as we proceed rapidly
under the rocky slopes of the Monte di Chiosse towards Positano, which
extends in a long curving line of cheerful-tinted flat-roofed houses from
the summit of its protecting cliff to the strand below, sprinkled with
boats and nets and cloths with heaps of grain a-drying. The descent to the
lower portion of the little town is singularly charming with its varied
scenery of rocks and hanging woods above us, with the tiled domes of
churches outlined against the deep blue waters, and with the whole scene
dominated by the pierced crag of Montapertuso, beyond which thrusts up
into the cloudless sky the triple peak of the giant Sant' Angelo. Positano
is a thriving as well as an ancient place, and of its dense population we
have abundant evidence in the swarms of children that pursue our carriage,
brown-skinned picturesque little nuisances, shrilly and incessantly crying
out for _soldi_. Most of these infants wear bright coloured rags, but not
a few are dressed in garments that at once recall the ginger-coloured
robes of the Capuchin friars, for the brothers of the Order of St Francis
are popularly reputed to be especially competent in keeping aloof evil
spells from young persons entrusted to their charge; and of course, argue
the doting parents, it is only natural that the spirits of darkness should
not dare to molest the little ones tricked out in robes similar to those
worn by these holy men.

From the point of view of history the chief interest of Positano centres
in the time-honoured tradition that Flavio Gioja, the original inventor of
the compass, was a native of this town, once a flourishing and important
member of the group of cities which comprised the Amalfitan Republic in
its palmy days. But Clio, the Muse of History, is an inexorable mistress,
and she will not rest content with mere hearsay, however venerable, and as
a result of careful investigation it would seem that Flavio Gioja, who for
centuries has been generally credited with this marvellous discovery, must
himself have been a personage almost as mythic as the Sirens of this
shore, for his very name is spelled in