Sicily , the “Four Corners” of that little ancient world that was bounded on the west by the Pillars of Hercules, is to southern Europe what Britain is to northern Europe, Chief of Isles, universal Cross-roads. Sicily lies nearer both to Africa and to Europe than any other Mediterranean island, and is the true connecting link between East and West. Battle-ground of contending races and creeds, it has been soaked over and over again in the blood of the strong men who fought each other for its pos

Monday evening, December 28th, 1908, four friends were dining together in a luxurious Roman villa. The hostess, Vera, sat opposite me at the head of her table with Lombardi, the Milanese mathematician on one side, and Athol, an Englishman, the representative of a great English newspaper, on the other. It was our first meeting that season. Vera, who had passed the summer at home in Russia, had just returned to Rome; I had arrived three days before on Christmas evening. We were all really glad to

Wednesday , December 30th, the King and Queen of Italy sailed through the straits and into the harbor of Messina. As their ship, the “Vittorio Emanuele,” approached the Faro, the gunners of the Russian cruisers, the English men-of-war, and the Italian battleships began to fire the royal salute. “Cease firing!” The signal flashed from the King’s ship; this was no time for royal salvos. The “Vittorio Emanuele” crept cautiously along, feeling every inch of her way, for a new terror had been added t

On the first of January, three days after the great earthquake, a band of Calabrians, living in New York, flashed this message across the Atlantic to their mother country: “Do not forget Scylla!” Scylla, how the old name thrills! Scylla had suffered severely, though its gray castle, perched high on the cliff that rises sheer from the shore, was spared. Scylla, the ancient village at the foot of the purple Calabrian mountains, was not forgotten, nor Reggio, nor the white fishing hamlets that line

“ It looks as if God had put His foot upon it!” said Hugh, the Yeoman. J., watching the pallid sunset from the deck of the “Bayern,” as she swung at anchor in the sickle-shaped harbor of Messina, turned from the sombre Sicilian mountains, rising tier above tier to the wet gray sky, and looked at what men called the “indispensable city” before God had set His foot upon it. The pile of smoking ruins, in some places tall as the wrecked buildings had originally been, in others crushed flat to the ea

“ Not a rose!” Vera scanned the sunny south wall where Ignazio, the gardener, has trained the hardy roses. It has been his boast that we can gather at least one rose every day of the year. “What do you expect? The earthquake has turned the calendar topsy-turvy. Nena says this is the coldest winter she remembers; she must be nearly a hundred.” It was the terrace hour; Vera had dropped in to help with the flowers. It was too cold to water them, so we “pottered about,” weeded, and hunted snails. “T

“ The Signorina with the bright eyes, who lives in the handsome villino ,” Agnese began, “asks if the Signora can use her carriage today. That fat beast, her coachman, is very avaricious, he will expect a mancia of three francs—still if we employ Napoleone, it will cost more—besides with a private carriage se fa più figura .” “As to making a good appearance, that’s of no consequence; the Signorina’s carriage, however, has better springs than Napoleone’s, rubber tires as well. What didst thou say

“ Un soldo! Eh! Signore, un soldo! ” The brown boy, naked as the day he was born, threw up his right arm with that graceful gesture of asking that makes it hard to deny the Neapolitan beggar anything. “Give me the valise, Signore; there is no danger of its getting wet,” said Antonio, the boatman, an old friend; J. knew him by his gold earrings and the red scar on his cheek. “ Un soldo! ” the boy implored. J. tossed a coin into the water; the boy dived for the money, caught it before it was ten f

“ Zona Case Americane , March 16, 1909. “ We left the ‘Celtic’ yesterday and came out here to our camp at the Mosella, where everything is running like clockwork. I have a pleasant room but no view, while the house where the nails are stored has a divine one. There’s no window in Belknap’s room; he chose the worst one of all so that no grumbler should have the right to kick,” writes J. in his first letter after they left the ship and the hospitable Captain Huse, of whose kindness frequent mentio

About the time the lighter sank, I received a letter from the camp, asking for a man who spoke English, had some knowledge of accounts—a man, in fine, like Thompson—who would come to Messina. Belknap was shorthanded; the work was doubling up on them. Was there any chance of that nice boy, Flint? Would Thompson possibly reconsider? Thompson could not; Flint was in Egypt. I remember well the day the letter came, if not the date. I was in Florence, spending a few happy hours by the Arno, in the sha

“ What did you think had happened?” Caterina traced a cross with her bare brown toe in the dusty path of the campo santo : “Per Dio, Signora, we thought it was the Day of Judgment. Mamma, babbo and I were dressed, ready to go to work—we live here, my father is guardiano . My two brothers were in bed; they were killed. One still remains sotto le macerie ; there is no way to get the body out. After the 28th of April no more may be moved on account of infection; it is finished.” Caterina, daughter

It was dark when we arrived at Giardini, a poor fishing village, the station for Taormina. After the stuffy smoking carriage, the fresh salt air on the cheek felt like a caress. Ciro, cousin of Gasperone, was recognized by his white horse, his yellow wheels; he adopted us on sight, tucked us, hold-all, camera and Gladstone bag, into his minute cab, sprang to the box, cracked his whip. “Hotel Timeo?” The white horse, blind of one eye, bravely began the stiff three-mile climb. Below us was the bea

The only sounds in the quarry came from over our heads; first there was a soft rushing of wings, as a flock of birds alighted in the tree-tops, then the confused twittering of their voices as they chattered busily together; a bevy of quail had halted to rest on its flight from Africa to Europe. We listened to their plans for the next stage of the journey; orders were given, questions asked, signs and counter-signs exchanged. Then came another soft whirring noise, the sky was darkened by the shad

As we approached Palermo the pulse of life quickened; at every station carloads of merchandise awaited transportation, golden oranges, paler gold citrons, sacks of almonds, casks of wine, vast quantities of sumach. At Castel Termini, near the great sulphur mines, stood long freight trains laden with huge fragments of beautiful yellow sulphur. “Remember that day the smoke lifted and we got a good look into the crater of Vesuvius?” said Patsy. “You were very much taken up with the pale yellow velv

Tuesday , the sixth of April, six weeks after work began at the American camp, the German East African steamer “Admiral,” having on board Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Griscom and Captain Belknap, entered the harbor of Messina. More than a month before, on the fourth of March, Mr. Roosevelt’s term of office as President of the United States came to an end. The last months of a retiring president are always arduous, and Mr. Roosevelt must have found them peculiarly so. Besides the endless knotting up of the

“ Oggi il Signor è morto. ” “Dead? Impossible, we heard he was better!” Gasperone smiled patiently, pointed to heaven and repeated the greeting that, in Sicily, people give each other on Good Friday: “Today our Lord is dead.” I had come to spend Easter at Camp; Gasperone met me at the station. His words brought a faint uneasiness that returned whenever the greeting was repeated: I heard it many times that day—from Caterina, Zenobia, Zia Maddalena, a dozen others—and always it brought that faint

As the steamer bore me away from Messina and towards Naples, I looked my last on the old sickle-shaped harbor of Zancle, on Cape Faro, where the current sweeping through the narrow straits was full of bewildering purple, blue, and green tints like a piece of shot silk. We passed a fishing boat with a man standing on a stunted mast above his fellows at the oars, on the lookout for swordfish; above boat and fishermen towered the crag and castle of Scylla. To the left the glass showed a blur of gre