 | THE REUNION. Isabel, or, Sicily |  |
THE REUNION.
“O welcome guest, though unexpected here!”
Cowper.
To acquire true impressions, the traveller should
revisit scenes of natural interest and beauty, and behold
them in different moods of mind and at different
seasons of the year. If this is true generally, it is
particularly so in regard to many parts of Southern
Europe, and especially of the island Sicily. A
gloomy sky or chilly wind often dispels all charm
from her fairest prospect, and although the perennial
verdure of the fertile regions, gives them at all times
a cheerful aspect, yet it is wonderful how the feelings
of the stranger who stands beneath the cloudless
sky, and in the clear sunlight of spring or autumn,
contrasts with those which he experiences when the
scene is veiled by the winter rain, or parched by
the heat of mid-summer. Our pilgrims were conscious
of this when, for the second time, they approached
the scientific, presents the greatest amount of interest.
One of those beautiful English yachts which may
occasionally be seen cruising on the Mediterranean
coast, had borne them, in a few hours, from Palermo
to Catania. Before reaching their destination, they
surveyed from the sea those remarkable masses of
basaltic rock which rise near the shore, and were
obviously the offspring of Etna. To ascend this
mountain was the object of their visit, and on landing,
Isabel noted with delight the rapidity with
which vegetation unfolded, and the universal hue of
spring which had robed the whole adjacent country.
At such a period, the singular prevalence of the lava
is more striking. Indeed, nothing but familiarity with
this wonderful material, prevents its appearance in
such abundance from exciting surprise. The entire
domain for many leagues around the volcano, bears
witness to the frequency and extent of its eruptions.
The lava here lies heaped in rocky masses; there
reduced to powder it constitutes the road; decomposed
by time, it forms the soil in which every variety
of tree and vegetable flourish; shaped by the
chisel it appears in the form of doorways and pillars,
while its rough and unhewn fragments serve for the
walls of plantations.
The road to Nicolosi, which constitutes the first
stage of the ascent, is bordered with vineyards,
intersected with streams of lava, of later origin than
those which compose the soil. With the exception of
these dark ridges, and the fine black dust which flies
with the idea that he is passing over a country once
devastated by a volcanic inundation. Yet directly before
his eye, rise two seemingly low mounds, with separate
peaks but joined at their bases, of a dull red
color, half covered with shrubbery. This is Monte
Rossi, whence issued the fatal streams of 1669. After
several hours repose, our travellers found themselves
beyond the village, and moving slowly towards the
desired summit. It was night. The sky was clear
and the air calm. No sound but the heavy tread of
the mules through the sand-like path, disturbed the
deep stillness of the hour. The light of a lantern
carried by a boy in advance of the guide, glimmered
upon the huge blocks of lava which were widely
scattered around, like the waves of a mighty sea,
petrified in some moment of convulsion, and dyed
with the ebon blackness of a storm-cloud. Occasionally
a meteor flashed athwart the star-gemmed
sky, or a breeze from above swept fitfully by. There
was something indescribably solemn in thus seeking
the summit of one of earth's most venerable mountains
in the solitude and shadow of night, and for
some time they continued to progress silently, till
the Count observed to Frazier, “We have seen
many antiquities, but none of them can vie in age
with this mountain. It was sought by the wise men
of old not less than by the inquirers of our own age.
It is celebrated by the earliest poets. Pindar sang
its wonders, and the mythology of a later epoch
accounted for its mysterious movements by the
forging the armour of Vulcan beneath yonder cone.”
“And to us it remains almost as much of a mystery,”
said Frazier, “in many essential respects. As
to its history, it seems to me we can best read it in the
various strata of lava around us, some the production
of remote ages, some not yet cooled by the
upper air. Who can survey its enormous base, and
note the springs generated in its bosom, the many
colored minerals encrusted on its surface, the sulphureous
masses embedded in its sides, the fantastic ridges
clinging around it, the masses it has hurled into the
sea, the snow upon its heights, the blaze from its
crater, and the infinite variety of trees and plants
serenely growing over its wide breast, without acknowledging
it to be one of the greatest wonders of
this wonderful creation?” Having crossed the woody
region, an extensive tract thinly covered with large
ilexes, with few branches, and almost destitute of foliage,
they passed a space of more difficult passage,
from the broken fragments of lava and tortuous
channels between them, and came to a broad snow
plain, whose hard and slippery surface afforded an
uncertain foothold, and where the cold, keen wind,
and extreme rarification of the air, warned them
that the trials attendant upon the expedition had not
been wholly exaggerated. This sloping area reaches
to the base of the cone. As they moved towards it,
the smoke burst in heavy volumes from its centre,
the dense column ever and anon reddening with a
deep crimson flash, which rose with a kind of supernatural
and looming through the clear atmosphere with a
momentary but startling brilliancy. The young moon
appeared, like a large golden crescent, hanging on the
horizon, when they left the last refuge called the
Casa Inglese, and commenced climbing toward the
crater over heaps of crumbling lava. As they were
seated away from the immediate influence of the suffocating
exhalation upon the edge of the boiling
abyss, dawn began to glimmer along the sky, and
far beneath them, at the horizon's edge, the sun appearing
like an enormous globe of fire, seemed to
start from the mountains of Calabria, scattering over
the small fleecy clouds every variety of gorgeous
tint, and bathing the sea and hill-tops in light. Then
felt the lonely spectators on the summit of Etna the
sublimity of their position. Volcanic mounds rose
to their gaze, like ant-hills, over the whole mountain.
Sicily was spread beneath them—its mountains, cities,
and islands dwindled to the dimensions of minutely-pictured
objects. Syracuse was visible on the shore;
Castro Giovanni among the hills. They descried
Malta, and even the distant Adriatic, and the shadow
of the cone of Etna falling like a mighty pyramid
over the southern side of the island. Who can describe
the emotions excited by such a landscape?
They are part of that poetry of life which whispers
in mystic but thrilling tones of a spirit in the human
breast, above the destiny of earth, and immortal as
the stars, a spirit which
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence.”
“I am fond of analogies,” said Isabel, as they
descended the last lava plain—“especially between
man and nature. Is not the volcanic soil of this region
like the temperament of the people? These
rocks are formed by a sudden convulsion at once,
and momently; so the feelings of the children of
the South, mould themselves into action immediately;
quick, fervent, and impetuous, they rush forth to
results. In northern countries, the slow processes of
years form the granite ribs of the hills, and the sons
of those climes are contented with regular, reflective,
and gradually matured feeling.” “And remember,”
said the Count, “the crystals found in the quickly
smouldered furnace are often as clear and beautiful
as the stalactite created by the slow-dropping water
through countless years.”
The warm season had now commenced; and our
travellers found the change from the still brooding
heat and scorching sirocco of the Capital, to the
breezy confines of Messina delightfully refreshing.
There is a certain melancholy, though not displeasing
influence, in the advent of a Southern summer. The
long days when the heat forbids active exercise
abroad, and enjoins quiet at home, following each
other in bright yet monotonous succession, induce a
physical languor which begets a dreamy mood. The
very brilliancy of the weather, unbroken for weeks
variety of other seasons awakens, and the many
hours that are passed in the airy solitude of lofty
apartments are rather calculated to subdue than excite.
The siesta and the bath take the place of the
opera and the promenade. Repose becomes a luxury,
and thrown back upon itself the mind is prone to
quiet musing and the imagination to soothing flights.
Never had this season dawned so richly upon Isabel,
and yet its music was the saddest strain which renewed
nature had ever breathed upon her spirit.
She found herself at the point whence her journeyings
had commenced, and yet she was apparently
no nearer their object. From the window of their
apartment on the Marina, she watched for hours the
varying tints which played upon the opposite mountains
of Calabria; or tracing the dwarfed line of
contiguous buildings, called to mind the earthquakes
which had transformed that peaceful landscape into
a scene of terror and destruction, the effects of
which are still so palpable. But disappointment
shadowed her most tranquil moments. In vain the
Count planned the most pleasant excursions. They
charmed but momentarily. They had often followed,
in the calm light of eventide, the long, curving
beach, formed, according to classic fable, by the
cycle of Saturn, from the town to the Faro, and
thence viewed the massive square rock on the opposite
coast, and the gurgling currents near—the once
dreaded dangers of the deep—the Scylla and Charybdis
watched the twilight gather slowly over the beautiful
hills which closely environ the town, or noted the
splendid chiaro of the atmosphere, which is nowhere
more strikingly obvious than in this part of the island.
These peaceful evenings, however, solaced Isabel,
and she often returned from such excursions re-animated
by the exercise; and as they sat in the stone
balcony, inhaling the invigorating breeze as it swept
through the Faro, and watching the lights of the
fishermen's boats as their red glare flashed over the
calm tide of the harbor, the cheering words of her
uncle, and the tender assiduities of her lover failed
not to renew her hopes and renovate her spirits.
On one occasion they started on their afternoon
expedition in an unusually cheerful mood. Vittorio
was in high glee because he had received intelligence
that a party of travellers had landed some weeks
since at Syracuse, and having explored most of the
island, arrived at Palermo, and were on the point of
visiting Messina; and among them he hoped was the
father of Isabel. Frazier was elated from anticipating
the arrival of an American frigate, the commander
of which was his intimate friend; while Isabel having
instinctively caught something of the blitheness of her
companions, reciprocated all their words of encouragement,
and smiled at every ebullition of their kindly
wit. Their object on this occasion was to visit one
of the highest hills, where stands the Telegraph, commanding
the finest prospect in the vicinity. After
precipitous and umbrageous glens, and bounded
by yet more lofty hills thickly covered with fern, they
reached the desired spot, and beheld a scene of transcendant
beauty. On the one side were the Lipari
islands, rising at intervals from the sea, the cone-like
mound of Stromboli conspicuous amid the group;
opposite, was the long range of Calabrian hills, and
below the Faro, town, and bay—constituting a rich
and finely-varied view, every feature of which was
vividly distinct at that clear and tranquil hour. They
had but rapidly taken cognizance of the several
phases of the picture, when it acquired a new and
unexpected interest. Around the point of the Faro
appeared the American frigate, her majestic form
slowly moving before the wind, and her well-known
flag gaily flaunting in the breeze; and a moment
after a steam-packet shot rapidly through, her smoke
streaming far along the horizon.
Isabel, after returning from this excursion, was
scarcely seated in her favorite balcony, ere Vittorio
entered with a look of delight, which instantly awakened
the expectancy of his companion. “I have,”
said he, “at length once more encountered my Malta
friend; and with your permission will bring him here
to pass the evening with us.” Isabel checked the
expression of disappointment which rose to her lips,
and signified her assent. An hour elapsed before the
Count's return. Frazier was so occupied in examining
through his glass the equipments of the frigate, which
was anchored opposite the window, and Isabel was so
entrance, or that he was accompanied by his friend.
They approached the balcony and paused. Isabel
listlessly turned her head, and her eye instantly met
that of the stranger. There was a quick, short cry
of recognition, and the next moment she was in the
arms of her father.
A few days subsequent, the dawn broke with more
than ordinary beauty over the landscape which
greeted the eyes of the pilgrims on their first arrival.
The morning was serene and cool. The blue waters
of the harbor were scarcely rippled. Far away
upon the undulating hills, sunlight and shade played
fantastically; and the hum of re-awakened life rose
with a scarcely audible murmur. Suddenly volumes
of smoke rolled from the dark sides of the frigate, a
sheet of flame shot momently through the vapor, and
then, deep, loud and solemn echoed the thunder of
the report. Cloud after cloud wound gracefully
upward, and conjoined above her masts, and the attentive
eye could occasionally trace a perfect circle
of smoke till it floated into the depths of the sky.
This parting salute was not immediately followed by
those rapid manœuvres requisite to put the vessel in
motion. It was evident from the arrangements visible,
that some ceremony was to be performed before
broad canopy, the officers were composedly grouped
upon the polished quarter-deck, and near by were
the now united pilgrims, while below them the men
presented gallant lines, standing uncovered, and in
such silent array that the flutter of the national banner
might be distinctly heard. Beneath that emblem of
her far distant country, the marriage vows of Isabel
were uttered, and at the conclusion of the rite, the
noble vessel stretched proudly away for the neighboring
shores of Italy. It is only when we leave the
scene of a pilgrimage that we perfectly realize its interesting
and characteristic features. As Isabel watched
the diminishing headlands of the island, the experience
of her sojourn was renewed in the retrospective
glance of memory. She recalled the peculiar and
lovely scenery which had so often cheered her sight.
She reverted to the numberless beings who were
content to drudge on in the monotonous circuit of a few
dim thoughts, and the dark requisition of a narrow
creed, and the countless victims of ignorance and
poverty that grope abjectly amid such ennobling scenes
of picturesqueness and beauty. She thought of the
noble relics of the Past that still sanctify the soil, and
the acts of kindness and words of sympathy which
had solaced her exile. The mingled remembrances
grew more vivid as the real picture became dim; and
with her farewell glance, she breathed an aspiration
spontaneously inspired in every susceptible mind, in
taking leave of Sicily—that the time may come when
Nature has blessed the ancient island, may be hallowed
by a worthier heritage of human freedom,
intelligence, and virtue.
| THE REUNION. Isabel, or, Sicily | |