sea.  Then the earthquakes, ever menacing between Vesuvius and Etna; that of 1783, which wrought destruction throughout Calabria, laid Reggio in ruins, so that to-day it has the aspect of a newly-built city, curving its regular streets, amphitheatre-wise, upon the slope that rises between shore and mountain.  Of Rhegium little is discernible above ground; of the ages that followed scarce anything remains but the Norman fortress, so shaken by that century-old disaster that huge gaps show where its rent wall sank to a lower level upon the hillside.

At first, one has eyes and thoughts for nothing but the landscape.  From the terrace road along the shore, Via Plutino, beauties and glories indescribable lie before one at every turn of the head.  Aspromonte, with its forests and crags; the shining straits, sail-dotted, opening to a sea-horizon north and south; and, on the other side, the mountain-island, crowned with snow.  Hours long I stood and walked here, marvelling delightedly at all I saw, but in the end ever fixing my gaze on Sicily.  Clouds passed across the blue sky, and their shadows upon the Sicilian panorama made ceaseless change of hue and outline.  At early morning I saw the crest of Etna glistening as the first sun-ray smote upon its white ridges; at fall of day, the summit hidden by heavy clouds, and western beams darting from behind the mountain, those far, cold heights glimmered with a hue of palest emerald, seeming but a vision of the sunset heaven, translucent, ever about to vanish.  Night transformed but did not all conceal.  Yonder, a few miles away, shone the harbour and the streets of Messina, and many a gleaming point along the island coast, strand-touching or high above, signalled the homes of men.  Calm, warm, and clear, this first night at Reggio; I could not turn away from the siren-voice of the waves; hearing scarce a footstep but my own, I paced hither and thither by the sea-wall, alone with memories.

The rebuilding of Reggio has made it clean and sweet; its air is blended from that of mountain and sea, ever renewed, delicate and inspiriting.  But, apart from the harbour, one notes few signs of activity; the one long street, Corso Garibaldi, has little traffic; most of the shops close shortly after nightfall, and then there is no sound of wheels; all would be perfectly still but for the occasional cry of lads who sell newspapers.  Indeed, the town is strangely quiet, considering its size and aspect of importance; one has to search for a restaurant, and I doubt if more than one cafe exists.  At my hotel the dining-room was a public trattoria, opening upon the street, but only two or three military men—­the eternal officers—­made use of it, and I felt a less cheery social atmosphere than at Taranto or at Catanzaro.  One recurring incident did not tend to exhilarate.  Sitting in view of a closed door, I saw children’s faces pressed against the glass, peering little faces, which sought a favourable moment; suddenly the door would open, and there sounded a thin voice, begging for un pezzo di pane—­a bit of bread.  Whenever the waiter caught sight of these little mendicants, he rushed out with simulated fury, and pursued them along the pavement.  I have no happy recollection of my Reggian meals.