ABSTRACT
The little island of Ischia is one of those fragments of a land of volcanoes which have been flung into the sea, and now freckle the light face of the bay of Naples. The three days we spent there last year, in the house of a priest, with little of his company, and none of any one’s else, will for ever remain hoarded in the museum of our memory, as one of the rarest and fairest specimens of existence; a thing ‘to dream of, not to tell.’
