I seated myself quietly on the mole and sketched, while the others plodded and toiled through the Temple of Serapis, the theatres, the hot springs, and extinct volcanoes, which I had already seen to satiety on three different occasions. Then, like youthful patriarchs or nomads, we collected all our goods and chattels, cloaks, knapsacks, books and portfolios on donkeys, and placing ourselves also on them, we made the tour of the Bay of Baiæ, as far as the Lake of Avernus, where you are obliged to buy fish for dinner; we crossed the hill to Cumæ (_vide_ Goethe's 'Wanderer') and descended on Baiæ, where we ate and rested. We then looked at more ruined temples, ancient baths, and other things of the kind, and thus evening had arrived before we crossed the bay.
At half-past nine we arrived at the little town of Ischia, where we found every corner of the only inn fully occupied, so we resolved to go on to Don Tommaso's; a journey of two hours nominally, but which we performed in an hour and a quarter. The evening was deliciously cool, and innumerable glow-worms, who allowed us to catch them, were scattered on the vine-branches, and fig-trees, and shrubs. When we at last arrived, somewhat fatigued, at Don Tommaso's house, about eleven o'clock, we found all the people still up, clean rooms, fresh fruits, and a friendly deacon to wait on us, so we remained comfortably seated opposite a heap of cherries till midnight. The next morning the weather was bad, and the rain incessant, so we could not ascend the Epomeo, and as we seemed little disposed to converse (we did not get on in this respect, Heaven knows why!) the affair would have become rather a bore, if Don Tommaso had not possessed the prettiest poultry-yard and farm in Europe. Right in front of the door stands a large leafy orange-tree covered with ripe fruit, and from under its branches a stair leads to the dwelling. Each of the white stone steps is decorated with a large vase of flowers, these steps leading to a spacious open hall, whence through an archway you look down on the whole farm-yard, with its orange-trees, stairs, thatched roofs, wine casks and pitchers, donkeys and peacocks. That a foreground may not be wanting, an Indian fig-tree stands under the walled arch, so luxuriant that it is fastened to the wall with ropes. The background is formed by vineyards with summer-houses, and the adjacent heights of the Monte Epomeo. Being protected from the rain by the archway, the party seated themselves there under shelter, and sketched the various objects in the farm the best way they could, the whole livelong day. I was on no ceremony, and sketched along with them, and I think I in some degree profited by so doing. At night we had a terrific storm, and as I was lying in bed, I remarked that the thunder growled tremendously on Monte Epomeo, and the echoes continued to vibrate like those on the Lake of Lucerne, but even for a greater length of time.