many days. Or perhaps it was memories of the Odyssey and the wanderings of Ulysses, and the knowledge that we were soon to skirt the shores of the Eolian Islands, and to pass between Scylla and Charybdis. I cannot tell you what spell it was that gave Palermo its beauty. But we sat on the quarter deck and talked of these things-the romance, and the history, and the poetry of the place while every moment it was fading from sight. Our wandering Ulysses, in the silent comfort of an

Our Pene

afternoon cigar, had many warnings of the sirens. lope was congratulating herself that she was daring the sea with her lord, and not at home awaiting his coming. We read how Paul went to Malta, and how Ulysses went on his travels. We dug out of books the legends, and sat on the deck weaving the memories of the place into a garland, like idle people as we were, weaving flowers-in a wood. Beautiful Palermo faded into a deeper mist, and still out of the mist came those Christmas bells whose peals had been so much of a comfort. I suppose, after all, it was these Christmas bells that gave Palermo its beauty. Every peal awoke an echo in our hearts, and every echo had a memory of home. We were far off on Mediter

ranean seas. We were in the lands of chivalry and fable. But our thoughts were in dear, far America, and some of us talked of children, and some of us of friends, and however the talk might drift into classic or scriptural ground, it always came back to home. The Christmas bells were pealing cheerily, telling that all Palermo was in a holiday mood. The shadows grew longer and longer. The hills faded into clouds. Our city became a line on the horizon. The breeze caught our boat, and with steam and wind we plowed through the waves. The shadows came-they always come, even in the Mediterranean. And as we stood and looked at the passing day the sunshine, wreathed in clouds, fell upon Palermo and lighted its domes and housetops, bathing them with glory.

So Palermo faded from us, and we took our leave of it as the night came, and we sped on into the whispering sea. But with night came more clouds and wind, and after we had supped the sea arose and we had a gale and rain. It would have been a trifle in the Atlantic, but we were bent on pleasure, and it was not pleasant to think of the mists and storms in the country of the Odyssey. I arose early in the morning to see Stromboli. This island has an obliging volcano, which never pauses in its entertainment. But when we came to Stromboli, although we were near enough to be under its shadow, there was only the rain. Captain Robeson pointed it out to me and I fancied I saw it, but I am afraid it was only a cloud. If there was any danger of the sirens enchanting our Ulysses the weather saved him. All we saw of the islands was a mass in the mist. The night became angry and the day brought a heavy sea, and I could well understand the anxious look of the captain when, about six in the morning, he came out of his cabin in his oilcloth coat and glass in hand. We were driving rapidly upon the Calabrian coasts, and there was a rock he desired to see. The rock had its place on the chart as the signpost showing the way into the Straits of Messina. But it had a far more important place in our imagination, for it was the rock of Scylla, and the straits into which we were entering were the straits tormented by the whirlpool of Charybdis.

STRAITS OF MESSINA.

211

We passed the rock of Scylla about eight in the morning. It was an ordinary rock, not very large or imposing. As for Charybdis, if such a whirlpool existed, its turmoil is over, for we plowed through the waves undisturbed by its emotions. This part of our trip was through the Straits of Messina. The straits are narrow, not much wider than the Hudson opposite New York, and as we sailed through we had a fine view of one of the most beautiful prospects in Europe. On one side was

Sicily, on the other Calabria. We passed Messina-now a city of 70,000 people-her domes white and shining in the sunshine. Messina has suffered from conquerors since the days of Hannibal, from the plague, and from earthquakes. It was early in 1783 that the earthquake threw down the transept of her cathedral. Passing Messina we next saw on the Italian coast the town of Reggio, now a flourishing settlement of 16,000 souls. Reggio has had its own troubles with earthquakes, and in 1783 was almost destroyed. It was here that Garibaldi landed when he crossed from Sicily. It was also in the hills behind Reggio

those dark brown hills that we see so clearly in the morning sun-that he made his fatal fight of Aspromonte, and was wounded and taken prisoner by Pallavicini in 1862, the same General Pallavicini who was so polite to General Grant the other day in Naples, when he marched his troops in review before us. Reggio, however, has a deeper interest to us than even attaches to the fame and fortunes of the illustrious Garibaldi. It is the Rhegium of the New Testament. "And landing at Syracuse," saith the gospel, "we tarried there three days. And from thence we fetched a compass and came to Rhegium." Passing Reggio we soon saw on our right the majestic mountain of Etna. All day it remained with us—the snow covering its summit-thirty miles away, but so vast and high that it seemed only a mile or two. Etna is a quiet volcano, or at least we could see nothing but a cloudless sky above it. It looks more like a tableland than a mountain. This is because of its size. The mountain is ten thousand eight hundred and seventy feet high, but the crater is a chasm two or three miles wide, and the circumference of its base is more than a hundred miles. It is not an unreasonable volcano as volcanoes go, not breaking forth more than once every ten years. The last demonstration was in August, 1874. When the sun went down Etna was still watching us. The sea was high, and our course was directly south to the famous island of Malta.

We arrived at Malta about one in the afternoon of the 28th

of December. The gale continued to be severe. We thought

of the ancient times when Paul was thrown on the island. You will find the story in the last chapters of the Acts of the Apostles-how Paul was fourteen days driven up and down in Adria; how the apostle bade the centurion and soldiers be of good cheer and stand by the ship; how the angel of God appeared to Paul, and told him to have no fear; how the ship, with its two hundred and seventy-six souls, was cast on the rocks; how they came to a place where two seas met, and "when they were escaped, then they knew the island was called Melita." You will remember, also, they were a barbarous people, who were kind, and kindled a fire, and how the

You

viper came out of the fire and hung upon Paul's hand. will remember, also, that Paul shook off the viper, which is a wise. thing to do with venomous beasts, and that the people were amazed because Paul did not swell and fall dead, and "said he was a god," and treated him courteously and honored him with many honors, and on his departure laded him with such things

as were necessary.

If there were no other historical attraction in Malta but

what is thus written in the New Testament it would be well worth a visit. But Malta, now one of the strongholds of the British Empire, one of the citadels on her Indian highway, has had more than her share of the mutations of human fortune. It is supposed to have been the island of Ogygia, where Homer gave a home to Calypso. It fell in the hard hands of the Carthaginians. Then the Romans came and threw it into their empire. Then came the Vandals, the Goths, and the Arabs in fierce succession. Afterward came the unique dominion of the