University of Virginia Library

JOURNEY TO CATANIA.

It was noon before the travellers left Messina.
On emerging from the suburbs into the open country,
while the cheerful sunlight was around them, showers
were visible in the distance. There is something
exhilarating, in the highest degree, in the propitious
commencement of a journey. Never till this moment
did it seem to Isabel that her pilgrimage had actually
begun; and as she cast her eyes over the blue waters
to the pretty town upon the Calabrian coast,—that
Rhegium whither St. Paul repaired after his shipwreck,—now
enveloped in a transparent mist, and
glanced at the bright leaves of the orange trees near
by, a pleasing confidence took possession of her
mind, which seemed the happy assurance of success.
The road displayed at every turn the most delightful
scenery. On the one side stretched the sea; on the
other rose the mountains. Etna, covered with a

snowy drapery, reared itself above them; and olive
plantations lay immediately beneath their gaze.
Sometimes they crossed a fiumare—the broad bed of
a mountain torrent covered with stones, and extending
from the midst of the hills down to the shore.
These long and stony tracks shooting through the
trees and herbage, with their barren and stern aspect,
are no ordinary emblems of destruction. The water,
collected in some natural basin in the mountains,
rushes impetuously down, sweeping everything before
it, and leaving a long line of rocks and earth
to mark its devastating course. It is but a few years
since this carriage road was completed, and the part
of it which our party were now traversing, gives
ample evidence of the labour it cost. In many places
lofty hills have been excavated, and massive ranges
of rock cut through. The rough sides thus presented
to view display the various oxydes which constitute
the soil. Some of these cliffs, when moistened by a
recent rain, indicate, in bright tints, the different
strata of which they are composed, and, as one
hurries by them, afford a striking evidence of the
geological richness of the island.

Night fell before they reached the village destined
for their quarters. It consisted of two long rows of
stone houses, separated by a muddy street, so narrow
as scarcely to permit the passage of a carriage. As
they entered, its appearance struck Isabel, whose
fancy contrasted it with the thriving and cheerful
villages of her own country, as the most dreary
assemblage of human dwellings she had ever seen.

Here and there a light glimmered from one of the
low doors, or an old crone, in ragged habiliments,
raised a torch above her head, and speered curiously
at the rumbling vehicle. The dogs of the place,
lank, wretched curs, rushed forth and barked at the
horses. All else was still and gloomy. Isabel drew
her cloak about her and descended at the locanda,
in a mood quite the reverse of that which had marked
the early part of her ride. Wo to the fastidious
traveller who has been only accustomed to the delightful
accommodations of an English inn, when
first he enters a Sicilian locanda! All the visions of
comfort which have lightened the weariness of his
evening's travel, are dissipated in a moment. He
ascends a long and steep flight of stone steps, and
enters a cold chamber, in which are a few chairs
and an old table. At one end of the room are two
or three alcoves containing iron bedsteads, and divided
from the apartment by dingy curtains. A
few time-stained pictures hang about the wall. The
hostess appears bearing a brazier filled with ignited
charcoal, which she places under the table. By the
light of a lamp of ancient form she spreads the
meagre repast; after which you are at liberty to
retire, and dream, if you can, of a blazing fire, a
corpulent host, and excellent cheer. The novelty of
the scene was amusing to Isabel, and sweet slumbers
soon made her forget its forbidding features.

Early the next morning, their journey was resumed.
The country now presented an appearance of
still greater fertility. Plains, covered with fields of

flax and lupens, extensive vineyards, now denuded
of their foliage, but planted in a soil of the finest
loam, and mulberry trees, of the most fantastic
shapes, diversified the face of the country. As the
dawn advanced, every object acquired a fresher tint,
and at the instance of Isabel they all left the carriage
to enjoy the scene more freely.

“I have heard much of the deceptiveness of apparent
distances,” said Isabel, “but this strikes me
as the most remarkable I ever knew. Are you quite
sure, uncle, that we are eight miles from yonder
snow?” pointing to the summit of Etna, which was
seemingly but a short distance on their right.

“It is at least as far off as that,” he replied, “although
we feel so keenly the cold air it engenders.
And mark, Isabel, what a contrast is before us. In
this field the laborers are mowing a fine crop of
green barley, which looks as well as the grass of our
meadows in June; while beside us, the sides of the
mountain are deeply covered with snow. We seem
literally walking between summer and winter.” At
this moment, the dark cloud which hung along the
eastern horizon became fringed with hues of gold;
the vegetation around assumed more vivid tints;
the villages scattered over the broad sides of Etna,
seemed to smile in the growing light, and directly
above the cold, hoary summit of the volcano, a
single star gleamed forth from the pale azure sky.

“How glorious!” exclaimed Isabel, “what sacrifices
is not a scene like this worth!”

“It reminds me,” said the Count, “of that noble

production of Coleridge—the hymn in the vale of
Chamouni:—
And then the invocation which the view inspires,
how true and expressive!—

Subdued, and at the same time exalted by the presence
of Nature in a new form, Isabel yielded her
spirit to the influences of the quiet hour and impressive
scene, and wandered in silent delight, till her
uncle's voice calling her to re-enter the carriage
awakened her from her day-dream.

In an hour they drew up before the public house
of Giarra. As they entered this town, the first of its
rank which Isabel had seen, she noted the objects
around with curiosity. Here were piles of cauliflowers
exposed for sale, there long strings of maccaroni
suspended upon cane-poles to dry; here
were a group of villagers from the mountain feeding
their mules; and on the sunny side of the street a

knot of women plying the distaff. It was soon determined
to improve the fine weather, and make an
excursion upon the side of Etna, which rose so
invitingly before them. Mules were procured, and
they commenced ascending a very rugged ravine
choked up with black lava-stones. After nearly two
hours of very fatiguing ascent, they stopped at a cottage
to rest. It was built of lava and fronted by a
little yard, in which its mistress was sitting in the
sun, spinning flax. She was nearly a hundred
years of age. Her face was strongly marked, and
brought forcibly to Frazier's mind some of the Dutch
portraits he had seen in the collections of Italy,
where the painter's aim seems to have been to copy
nature with a fidelity which betrayed all the painful
lineaments of age. Deep furrows indented her dark
visage, and a tuft of white hair protruded from beneath
the hood that enveloped her head. A large
black pig, and several fowls, were straying about
the yard, and constituted the chief of the old woman's
substance. She invited them to enter her cottage.
One room answered all the purposes of the family.
Here were two beds, an old loom, a wax figure of
the virgin and child, and, in one corner, a huge butt
of sour wine.

“You see how these people live,” said the count,
“this hut, built of the fatal material which has destroyed
so many human beings, has been inhabited
for more than fifty years by this poor creature. To
visit the nearest village, and bend at the altar of the
old church, to bask in the sun in winter, and sit in

the shade in summer, to eat her small allowance of
roasted chestnuts, and drink her daily pitcher of
thin wine—this is her life; she knows no other, and
perhaps can conceive of no better.” The old woman's
daughter now made her appearance, robed in
black, with a white mantilla thrown over her head,
and a crucifix and beads suspended from her neck.
She was what is called in Sicily a nun of the house,
that is, a woman who has taken vows of celibacy,
and to perform certain acts of ceremony and penance,
but is not obliged to immure herself in a
religious asylum. The nun busied herself in preparing
the food which Vittorio had ordered from
one of the little villages through which they passed,
occasionally glancing, with deep interest, at
the fair stranger and her companions. After their
repast, the son, a bright and active stripling, guided
them on their way. They soon arrived at a clump
of fine old chestnut trees, whose gnarled and far-spreading
branches betokened sylvan antiquities of
no ordinary worth. Five of these trees surrounding
a wide space, according to tradition, are but the
dissevered trunk of one huge tree, and therefore
called the tree of the hundred horses, because it is
said that that number of steeds could make the circuit
of the hollow trunk. Another, and more probable
reason for the appellation is that the tree, in its
flourishing days, could shelter a hundred mounted
horsemen. Frazier was a connossieur in forest trees,
and, while he did not implicitly credit this marvellous
tale, yet dwelt with strong interest upon the
rough features of these woodland patriarchs. The
agile peasant ran up into the branches of the old
chestnuts, like a monkey, ever and anon thrusting his
head from some hollow, and smiling upon the travellers.
He wore a long cap of white cotton, and an
old velvet jerkin, and as he thus appeared, peering
from some hole in the massive branches, Isabel
wished there had been time to sketch the curious
picture which the contrast produced. But the sun
was fast descending, and they turned their faces
towards the town below. Then burst upon their
sight, one of the richest and most variegated landscapes
it had ever been the lot of either to witness.
The broad plains of Mascali were spread out like a
map beneath them. Fields covered with dry canes
of a light yellow hue, patches of green grain and
dark masses—the site of vineyards or arable land,
combined to form a parterre which, as the setting
sun fell richly over it, had all the effect of an extensive
garden. Beyond was the Mediterranean flecked
with a few snow-white sails; far away to the left,
Taormina hanging, as it were, on a bold promontory,
on the summit of which are the remains of an extensive
amphitheatre, and nearer around, the slopes
and valleys, the lava-beds and trees of the venerable
mountain. If the morning's prospect inspired something
of awe, that of the evening only excited gladsome
sensations. It spoke of plenty, of fertility, of a
bounteous and beautiful country.

“How unutterably sad,” said Vittorio, as they
were slowly descending, “that so fair a heritage

should be so unhappily peopled—that superstition
and ignorance should overshadow so rich a domain,
and that where we rejoice so highly in the exuberance
and fine array of nature, we must mourn most
deeply for the poverty and wretched condition of
humanity.”

“One would think,” replied Isabel, “that to live
amid such influences as these, to have sweet harmony
breathed upon the soul from such aspects of
creation, day by day, and year by year, would impart
a blessedness which even the degrading agencies
at work upon these poor people could not supersede.”

“Government is more of a reality to most men
than nature,” drily observed her uncle.

“Happily, however,” she replied, “nature operates
silently, and may produce effects upon character of
which the casual spectator dreams not.”

“Yes,” added the Count, “and it is a happy
thought, that many a noble aspiration or grateful
sentiment may have been aroused in the breast of the
poor villager, as he descended this path, with no
companion but his mule, and looked forth, as we
now do, upon the luxuriant earth and the glad sea.
There is a lesson for the wisest, and a balm for the
most stricken in this landscape.”

For some moments they continued the descent in
silence, till an exclamation from one of the party
caused them to look back. From the white and
lofty cone of Etna, a dense column of smoke was
rising majestically. To the height of several yards,

it ascended in a perpendicular line, and then gracefully
turning, floated in a wide and saffron-coloured
streak, along the face of the sky.

“This is all you wanted to complete your day's
good fortune,” said the guide; “it is not for every
stranger that the mountain will smoke.” They continued
to watch this interesting phenomenon long
after their return to Giarra; and when night had
overshadowed the scene, a few flashes of flame
from the awakened crater, and an almost constant
effusion of sparks, amply repaid them for their vigil.

The next day proved as fine as the preceding, and
to obtain a more pleasing succession of prospects, it
was determined to prosecute the remainder of their
journey by the mule path. As the distance was
but about twenty miles, it was not deemed desirable
to depart before early noon. Isabel devoted the intervening
time to repose; Vittorio went to make the
necessary arrangements; and Frazier repaired to the
adjoining village to visit a wine-merchant with whom
he had been acquainted many years before in England.
When the party again came together and resumed
their journey, they found themselves for some
time upon the carriage-road and in view of scenery
not differing essentially from that of the preceding
day. Occasionally they passed large flocks of goats,
driven by boys who carried the young kids slung
upon their shoulders, or a company of peasants each
with his donkey, bearing, in long, narrow barrels,
hung like panniers, wine from the hills into the neighboring
town.

“My friend told me,” said Frazier, “that the chief
employment of these people is to transport the wine
in this manner. It is taken from large butts, such as
we saw at the cottage yesterday. Each of those
little casks contains about eighteen gallons of the
most ordinary wine the country produces. It is
chiefly used for distillation, yielding about one part
in seven of pure spirit. The compensation these
carriers obtain would not be considered in America
as equivalent for an hour's work. But in time of
vintage their pay is increased, and after all, in this
country, it requires little to support life.”

“No,” said Vittorio, “give a Sicilian peasant a little
fennel or roasted pulse, a small dish of maccaroni,
or a few pounds of bread, with a mug of common
wine, and he fares like a lord.”

“But seldom acquires the strength of a man,”
replied Frazier, “for notwithstanding their broad
chests and muscular limbs, they cannot be called
strong, at least in proportion to appearances.”

“You have told us nothing uncle,” said Isabel,
“of your visit to Riposto. How did you find your
old friend?”

“I found him sitting on an old sofa, in a bare
looking room, stirring the coals in a brazier with the
key of his magazine. I rallied him upon his taste in
preferring so dreary a life on the coast of Sicily to
the comforts of old England. But he declared himself
well satisfied with his lot. There he was, surrounded
with coopers, stills, freighting boats, jackasses,
a few chemical books, and a set of half-civilised Sicilians—all

the paraphernalia of a wine-merchant on
the coast; as busy and happy in his exile as many
who had never been away from the light of their
own firesides. Such is the force of habit. In practical
application, in forwarding, however humbly, the
economy of life, almost any man may enjoy a contented
existence.”

“A contented, granted uncle,” said Isabel, “but
not necessarily a happy or an improving one.”

“Riposto,” continued Frazier, “fifty years since
was a meagre collection of cane-huts. Now, there
are many substantial dwellings, but like every house
in this region, miserably planned, cold, dark and
comfortless. The beach is covered with barrels.
Coasting vessels are continually launched loaded
with wine, and the little town looks quite bustling.
Were it situated, with all its local advantages, in
New England, they would connect it forthwith with
the capital by a rail-road, speculate in the land for
miles around, and prophesy a city charter for it in less
than a twelvemonth.

The mule-path, into which they now entered, was
through a lava soil. At one point the old lava, lying
in masses half covered with vegetation, indicates
the scene of that eruption which stayed the progress
of the Roman army on its way to quell an insurrection
in Syracuse, and obliged them to turn and make
the circuit of the island in another direction. Passing
through the broad clear street of Aci Reale,
Isabel looked up to the decayed palaces, and on the
groups of well-cloaked loiterers in the piazza, and

forcibly felt the impoverished condition of even the
finest localities. Sometimes she amused herself with
noting the defaced escutcheon upon an ancient gateway,
sometimes in watching the thin, white line of
smoke hanging over Etna, and at others, in seeking
amid the surrounding trees, for the oak and the fir,
the pleasant emblems of her native land, which, at
intervals, varied the scene. The increase of the
lava-beds, and the greater prevalence of the olive-tree,
at length evidenced that they were near their
destination. And soon after they paused at a little
elevation, and, with new delight, Isabel beheld upon
a verdant plain near the sea, the Saracenic domes
and wide-spreading dwellings of Catania.