in Carmelite robes, with ropes round their waists, receive travellers, and sell them rosaries and other trifles, forage for their donkeys, and wine for themselves. Their habitation is like that of the Kenites, in the living rock, hollowed partly by nature, partly by art, and furnished with glazed windows and chimneys—not unnecessarily, for it must be very cold up here sometimes. There is no appearance of a crater. The eruptions all seem to have broken out lower down, on the sides of the mountain, as has been the case with Etna for the last thousand years or so. In descending by another road we crossed a tremendous torrent of lava, perhaps a couple of miles wide at the shore. Though this, the latest, eruption took place a.d. 1302 there is not, as yet, the slightest appearance of vegetation on the desert it has created. The lava is as black and harsh as if evolved only a few months ago, and it is difficult to believe that the day will ever come when the olive and vine will flourish again here, “as they have done already on the more ancient streams,” said our guide.
This was the man who had accompanied l’egregio pittore Inglese, whom he designated as “questo Fil.” When asked how he supposed the name to be spelt, he wrote Ste as the Christian name, and Fil as the patronymic; and, in spite of our explanations, persisted in thinking his the best way. He questioned us very much about the standing of this distinguished artist in the profession in England, and the prices his pictures fetched. The sums I mentioned took away his breath. At first he evidently thought I was playing on his credulity, and when convinced that we were in earnest he made a pious ejaculation, fell into a brown study, and was in low spirits for the rest of the day. I suppose he was regretting that he had not made more out of him while in his service. He recovered himself sufficiently to take a slight interest in a sketch from Monte Tabor, which, he said, was “quite as like” as those Ste-Fil had made. How much should I get for mine?
I answered that I should probably not find a buyer, even if I wished to sell; but that I did not, and drew only for my amusement—a confession which evidently sunk me considerably in his estimation. We took advantage of this last halt on our way to embark at Ischia to settle with our donkey-men and the guide. The latter, however, walked down with us to the boat, and on his way privately presented Jingo with a half-piastre, begging I would return it to him again as I went aboard.
Though we could not imagine the meaning of this manœuvre, we did as he desired, supposing it to be some superstition about luck. To our astonishment, the man went through a complete pantomime of discontent, disgust, and expostulation, as we pushed off, and with eloquent gestures showing the money to those about him, flung it disdainfully down. The word of the charade was this. The guides make a sort of guild here, and share, or profess to share, their gains in common. This rogue, therefore, after pocketing secretly our ample donation, went through the farce to which we had so unwittingly lent ourselves, in order to cheat his brethren out of their share. There is not even honour among thieves here, it would seem.
THE LOTS UPON THE RAFT.
Some years ago I happened to be wind bound in the port of L. A furious westerly gale had set in at the full of the moon, and raged with a violence which can be appreciated only by those “who go down to the sea in ships,” and “behold the wonders of the deep.”
Right heartily did our hardy crew enjoy the shelter of that quaint old haven; grouped around their cheerful, cosy forecastle, the caboose giving forth a merry, homely, social blaze, they yarned away of by-gone dangers and hair-breadth escapes, which caused the older seamen to shake their heads in grave attestation of the narrators’ truth, and the green boys to listen with open-mouthed wonder, thinking, and perchance hoping, that the day might come when they too should be enabled to relate similar wonders of maritime adventure.
The hurricane whistled wildly through the rigging; great sheets of surge, beaten into foam-froth over the rough breastwork of rocks under whose shelter we lay, were whirled aloft through the spars, showing against the black scud that careered above, like clouds of snowdrift flying through the pines on a dark mountain side.
From boyhood I have been a lover of Nature in calm and in storm, in smiling peacefulness and dire wrath; by land and by sea have I studied her beauties; but of all the scenes I love to dwell upon is that of the sea when lashed into wild fury by the roaring tempest.
Such a scene had I now before me; in the bottom, or rather, as a sailor would call it, the “bight” of a deep bay, lay the little haven of L, securely sheltered by a massive breakwater of granite rock; on the right, as you looked seaward, the margin was defined by rugged precipices and outlying cliffs, whilst the left hand side was bounded by a chain of lofty mountains; obliquely up this bay was now raging a south-westerly gale, hurling the giant waves of the broad Atlantic into confused masses of foaming broken water; ever and anon tremendous squalls would sweep down the hill sides with resistless force, marking their paths by dense masses of smoke-like mist torn from the mighty surges that rolled along in solemn grandeur, until broken by crag and cliff and solid rock wall, they roared a dull great roar of impotent rage, as though they would shake earth’s foundations and open a passage to the ravening waters. Turning from the fierce battle of the elements that raged without, the peaceful security of the well-sheltered little harbour, our own good little ship looking so neat and trim, as if hugging herself in the enjoyment of such good quarters, the merry voices and jocund laugh that occasionally resounded from her decks, formed such a picture of war and peace, that being lost in silent contemplation I was not aware of a companion until a light touch upon the arm, and the gruff tones of our tough old pilot, Murtagh Moriarty, smote upon my ear.
