quiescent, and
the population of the island has increased considerably, although the
constant shocks of earthquake have always made a permanent residence in
Ischia somewhat insecure. Nor can we rest assured that Typhoeus himself is
truly dead, not merely sleeping, but ready to renew his fierce efforts
after his long spell of slumber, and to change the face of nature as
unexpectedly as did the Demon of Vesuvius in the reign of Titus.

Like the great volcano of Etna, which the Ischian mountain somewhat
resembles on a tiny scale. Epomeo contains three distinct climatic zones.
The lowest is that of the coast line with its rich sub-tropical
vegetation, the early part of the ascent leading by steep stony paths
through sun-baked vineyards which produce the white wine of Ischia,
wholesome and light but somewhat acid in taste. For the storing of this
vintage the peasants make use of the numerous old stone towers, that once
served as safe retreats for the terrified inhabitants in times when the
Barbary pirates frequently descended on the Italian coasts to plunder and
enslave. Very curious it is to step out of the blinding sunlight into the
interior of one of these medieval buildings, where in the icy gloom stand
great barrels of the new white wine, each carefully inscribed with a
prayer in praise of St Restituta, from one of which the swarthy
_contadino_, in expectation of a few pence, draws a glassful of the sour
chilly liquid to offer his visitor. Leaving behind this region of houses
and of cultivation, the zone of forest is reached, covered with woods of
chestnut and oak, with a thick undergrowth of heather, myrtle, laurustinus
and sweet-scented yellow coronella; there is grass under our feet, and
long-stemmed daisies, violets, mauve anemones and small fragrant marigolds
everywhere. Through the trees comes the nasal but not unmelodious singing
of an unseen charcoal-burner, or the plaintive note of the little
goat-herd's rustic pipe, accompanied by the musical jingling of his
goat-bells;--for a moment we try to fancy ourselves in the pastoral Italy
of Theocritus, where nymphs and shepherds, peasants and dryads, lived
together on terms of amity in the woods. But soon the chestnut trees
appear stunted, and the groves become less thick, and we finally gain the
last zone, the desolate expanse of naked rock and dark lava deposits of
the summit, where only a few hardy weeds can thrive. Here in some damp
mouldy chambers dwells a hermit