eauty of Ischia, it must be borne in mind that a residence on
the island possesses one or two serious drawbacks. Apart from the
ever-present fear of earthquakes, which hangs like the sword of Damocles
above the heads of the inhabitants, there is yet another disadvantage,
prosaic but very real, in the lack of pure water, every well and rivulet
on Ischia being more or less impregnated with sulphur, with the result
that water for drinking (and in summer even for domestic) purposes has to
be conveyed by boat from Naples. It is bad enough to be dependant on a
distant city for a food supply (which is to some extent also the case
here), but the possibility of enduring a water famine through storms or
misadventure would be a far more serious calamity; nevertheless as casual
visitors to this charming and little-known island, we can easily afford to
smile at such misfortunes.(12)

[Illustration: ISCHIA FROM CASTELLAMARE (SUNSET)]

CHAPTER XIII

PUTEOLI AND THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME

Passing along the noisy thronged street of the Chiaja and plunging thence
into the chill gloomy recesses of the ancient grotto of Posilipo, we
emerge at its further side into a new world, as it were, into a district
where "there is scarcely a spot which is not identified with the poetical
mythology of Greece, or associated with some name familiar in the history
of Rome." In truth, the headland of Posilipo presents a wonderful landmark
in the history of Naples, for it forms a barrier between the busy world of
to-day and the departed civilisation of the ancients: at the latter end of
this tunnel, the fierce life and movement of a great commercial city; at
its western exit, a tract of land teeming with recollections of the
glorious past.

As our carriage emerges once more into the warmth and sunlight, we find
ourselves in the miserable village of Fuorigrotta, which, by a strange
coincidence, is associated with the memory of a famous Italian poet. For
if the name and verses of Sannazzaro cling to Piedigrotta and the
Parthenopean shore on the eastern side of the hill, the genius of Count
Giacomo Leopardi sheds its melancholy radiance over the unlovely purlieus
of Fuorigrotta. Here in the vestibule of the parish church of San Vitale,
lie the ashes of that unhappy writer, the Shelley of Italian literature,
who so bewailed the Austrian and Bourbon fetters that enchained his native
land. Poor