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T H E K N I C K E R B O C K E R.
VOL. XXIII. FEBRUARY, 1844. NO. 2.
SICILIAN SCENERY AND ANTIQUITIES.
BY THOMAS COLE.
A few months only have elapsed since I travelled over the classic land of
Sicily; and the impressions left on my mind by its picturesqueness,
fertility, and the grandeur of its architectural remains, are more vivid,
and fraught with more sublime associations, than any I received during my
late sojourn in Europe. The pleasure of travelling, it seems to me, is
chiefly experienced after the journey is over; when we can sit down by our
own snug fire-side, free from all the fatigues and annoyances which are
its usual concomitants; and, if our untravelled friends are with us,
indulge in the comfortable and harmless vanity of describing the wonders
and dangers of those distant lands, and like Goldsmith's old soldier,
'Shoulder the crutch and _show_ how fields were won.' I was about to
remark, that those who travel only in books travel with much less
discomfort, and perhaps enjoy as much, as those who travel in reality; but
I fancy there are some of my young readers who would rather test the
matter by their own experience, than by the inadequate descriptions which
I have to offer them.
Sicily, as is well known, is the largest island in the Mediterranean Sea.
It was anciently called Trinacria, from its triangular shape, and is about
six hundred miles in circumference. Each of its extremities is terminated
by a promontory, one of which was called by the ancients Lilybeum, and
faces Africa; another called Pachynus, faces the Peloponessus of Greece;
and the third, Pelorum, now Capo di Boco, faces Italy. The aspect of the
country is very mountainous: some of the mountains are lofty; but towering
above all, like an enthroned spirit, rises Ætna. His giant form can be
seen from elevated grounds in the most remote parts of the island, and the
mariner can discern his snowy crown more than a hundred miles. But Sicily
abounds in luxuriant plains and charming valleys, and its soil is
proverbially rich: it once bore the appellation of the Granary of Rome;
and it is now said that if properly tilled it would produce more grain
than any country of its size in the world. Its beauty and fertility were
often celebrated by ancient bards, who described the sacred flocks and
herds of Apollo on its delightful slopes. The plain of Enna, where
Proserpine and her nymphs gathered flowers, was famous for delicious
honey; and according to an ancient writer, hounds lost their scent when
hunting, in consequence of the odoriferous flowers which perfumed the air;
and this may be no fable; for in Spring, as I myself have seen, the
flowers are abundant and fragrant beyond description; and it seemed to me
that the gardens of Europe had been supplied with two-thirds of their
choicest treasures from the wild stores of Sicily.
The history of Sicily is as varied and interesting as the features of its
surface; but of this I must give only such a brief and hurried sketch as,
to those who are not conversant with it, will serve to render the scenes I
intend to describe more intelligible and interesting than they otherwise
would be. Its early history, then, like that of most nations of antiquity,
is wrapped in obscurity. Poets feign that its original inhabitants were
Cyclops; after them the Sicani, a people supposed to have been from Spain,
were the possessors; then came the Siculi, a people of Italy. The
enterprising Phoenicians, those early monarchs of the sea, whose ships had
even visited the remote and barbarous shores of Britain, formed some
settlements upon it; and in the eighth century before Christ various
colonies of Greeks were planted on its shores, and became in time the sole
possessors of the island. These Grecian founders of Syracuse, Gela, and
Agrigentum, seduced from their own country by the love of enterprise, or
driven by necessity or revolution from their homes, brought with them the
refinement, religion, and love of the beautiful, that have distinguished
their race above all others; and in a short time after their establishment
in Sicily, the magnificence of their cities, the grandeur of their
temples, equalled if they did not surpass those of their fatherland. About
the year 480 before Christ, a fierce enemy landed on the coast of Sicily
with two thousand gallies: this was the warlike Carthaginian, whose altars
smoked with the sacrifice of human victims. This formidable invader was
defeated under the great Gelon of Syracuse, who was called the father of
his country; but the Carthaginians, returned again and with better
fortune, at length became masters of the island. The Romans next conquered
Sicily, and held it for several centuries. The Saracens in the ninth
century were in the full tide of successful conquest. They landed first in
the bay of Mazara, near Selinuntium, and after various conflicts and
fortune, finally subjugated the whole island in the year 878. The crescent
continued to glitter over the towers of Sicily for about three centuries,
when the Normans, a band of adventurers whom the crusades of the Holy
Sepulchre had brought from their northern homes, after a conflict of
thirty years under Count Roger, expelled the Saracen in the year 1073, and
planted the banner of the cross in every city of the land. Soon after that
time it came under Spain and Austria; France and England have severally
been its rulers. It is now under the crown of Naples.
Such is a brief outline of the eventful history of Sicily; a land formed
by nature in her fairest mould; but which the crimes and ambition of men
have desecrated by violence, oppression, and bloodshed; and with the
substitution of a word, one might exclaim with the poet:
'SICILIA! O SICILIA! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
Oh GOD! that thou wert in thy nakedness
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress!'
Her brightest age was when the Greek threw the light of his genius around
her; when rose those mighty temples which now, even in their ruin, call
forth the wonder and admiration of the traveller; her greatest degradation
was in the age just passed away. As an exemplification of this, it is
sufficient to say, that from the time of the Norman until the accession of
the present monarch, a space of seven hundred years, not a single road has
been constructed in the island. But we have reason to believe that a
brighter day now dawns, and that ere long the sun of civilization will
dispel the clouds that have so long overshadowed the mountains of Sicily.
He who would make a tour through this magnificent land, must make up his
mind to submit to much fatigue, some danger, and innumerable annoyances;
such as filth, bad fare, the continual torment of vermin; lodgings, to
which a stable with clean hay would be in comparison a paradise; knavish
attempts at imposition of various kinds, etc. He must mount on a mule
whose saddle is of rude and of abominable construction; whose bit is a
sort of iron vice, which clasps the animal's nose and under-jaw, and every
day wears away the flesh; and whose bridle is a piece of rope fastened to
the bit on one side only. He must ford rivers of various depth; he must
fear no ascent or descent, however precipitous, if there appears to be a
track; and at times he must have a careful eye to the priming of his
pistol; and above all, a patient and enduring temper is a _great_ comfort.
The aspect of Sicily is widely different from that of this country; its
beauty is dependent on other forms and associations. _Here_, we have vast
forests that stretch their shady folds in melancholy grandeur; the
mountain tops themselves are clad in thick umbrage, which, rejoicing in
the glory of the autumnal season, array themselves in rainbow dyes.
_There_, no wide forests shade the land; but mountains more abrupt than
ours, and bearing the scars of volcanic fire and earthquake on their
brows, are yet clothed with flowers and odoriferous shrubs. The plains and
slopes of the mountains are now but partially under cultivation; vineyards
and olive-groves generally clothe the latter, while over the gentler
undulating country, or the plains, fenceless fields stretch far away, a
wilderness of waving grain, through which the traveller may ride for hours
nor meet a human being, nor see a habitation, save when he lifts his eyes
to some craggy steep or mountain pinnacle, where stands the clustered
village. The villages and larger towns are generally set among groves of
orange, almond, and pomegranate trees, with here and there a dark Carruba,
or Leutisk tree, casting its ample shade. Fields of the broad bean, the
chief food of the laboring classes, serves at times to vary with vivid
green the monotony of the landscape. The traveller rolls along over no
Macadamised road in his comfortable carriage, but mounted on his mule,
leaves him to choose his own track among the numerous ones that form what
is called the _strada-maëstro_, or master-road, between city and city.
Here and there he will come to a stone fountain, constructed perhaps
centuries ago, which still furnishes a delightful beverage for himself and
beast. Oftentimes the road leads through a country entirely waste, and
covered with tall bunches of grass or the dwarfish palmetto; sometimes in
the cultivated districts the road is bounded by the formidable
prickly-pear, which grows to the height of twenty feet, or by rows of the
stately aloe, and not unfrequently by wild hedges of myrtle, intertwined
with innumerable climbing plants, whose flowers the traveller can pick as
he rides along. Generally the road-side is perfectly enamelled with
flowers of various hue and fragrance. No majestic river, like the Hudson,
spreads before him, with all its glittering sails and swift steam-boats;
but ever and anon the blue and placid Mediterranean bounds his vision, or
indents the shore, with here and there a picturesque and lazy barque
reflected in the waves.
I have before said that the towns and villages are generally perched like
eagles' nests in high places. This is particularly the case with those of
the interior: many of them are inaccessible to carriages, except the
_Letiga_, a sort of large sedan-chair, gaudily decorated with pictures of
saints, and suspended between two mules, one of which trots before and the
other behind, to the continual din of numerous bells and the harsh shouts
of the muleteers. I never saw one of these vehicles, which are the only
travelling carriages of the interior of Sicily, without thinking that
there might be a _land-sickness_ even worse than a sea-sickness; for the
motion of the letiga in clambering up and down the broken steeps must be
far more tempestuous than any thing ever experienced at sea. Between
village and village you see no snug villa, farm-house, or cottage by the
road-side, or nestling among the trees; but here and there a gloomy
castellated building, a lonely ruin or stern Martello tower, whose
dilapidated walls crown some steep headland, against whose base washes the
ever-murmuring waves. Now the traveller descends to the beach, his only
road; the mountains are far inland, or dip their broad bases in the
sea-foam, or impend in fearful masses over his head. He ascends again, and
journeys over wastes which undoubtedly in the time of the Greek and the
Roman were covered with fruits and grain; but which now are treeless and
desolate as the deep whose breezes stir the flowers that deck them. At
times he must ford streams, which, if swollen with late rains, are
perilous in the extreme.
I remember once on my journey descending from one of those treeless wastes
upon a spot very different from any thing on this side of the Atlantic. It
was called Verdura, from its green and verdant character. A stream which
flowed through a plain bounded by lofty mountains here fell into the sea.
A large mill, which much resembles an ancient castle, and in all
probability had served both purposes in times gone by, stood near. Upon
the sandy beach close by, and hauled entirely out of the water, lay
several vessels in the style of Homer's ships; and I have no doubt bore a
strong resemblance to ships of ancient time, for they were picturesquely
formed, and painted fantastically with figures of fishes and eyes. The
wild-looking mariners were lounging lazily about in their shaggy capotes,
or engaged in loading their vessels with grain, the product of the
neighboring plains. Up the steep we had just descended a letiga was slowly
winding; and on a green declivity overlooking the sea, a flock of goats
were browsing, and their shepherd reclined near in listless idleness. Open
and treeless as was this scene, there was such a peaceful character about
it, such an air of primitive simplicity, that it made a strong impression
on my mind.
It does not come within the scope of this paper to offer any description
of the larger cities of Sicily, Palermo, Messina, etc. Most readers have
seen accounts of them more ample and more interesting than I could offer.
Of the smaller places I must content myself with giving a very general
description, so that I may retain the requisite space, in this division of
my article, for some notice of an ascent which I made to the sublime
summit of Mount Ætna.
The secondary towns to which I have alluded, such as Calatifini, Sciacca,
Caltagerone, etc., are in general picturesquely situated, and are built in
a massive and sometimes even in a magnificent style. The churches and
houses are all of hewn stone, and exhibit the various styles of
architecture of the builders; the Saracenic, the Norman-Gothic, or the
later Spanish taste. Sometimes the styles are fantastically intermixed;
but the whole, to the architect, is extremely interesting. Flat roofs and
projecting stone balconies from the upper windows are perhaps the most
characteristic features of the houses. The churches, though large, are
seldom beautiful specimens of architecture; and the interior is in general
extremely ornate, and decorated with gaudy gilding and pictures, and
images of CHRIST and saints, disgustingly painted. The streets, wide or
narrow, would appear to us somewhat gloomy and prison-like; and paint is a
thing scarcely known on the exterior or perhaps interior of an ordinary
house. The air of the interior of the common houses of the Sicilian towns
is as gloomy and comfortless as can be imagined. A few wooden benches, a
table firmly fixed in the stone pavement, a fire-place composed of a few
blocks of stone placed on the floor, the smoke of which is allowed to make
its escape as it best can at the window, which is always destitute of
glass, and is closed by a rude wooden shutter when required; a bed
consisting of a mattress of the same hue as the floor, raised a few feet
from it by means of boards on a rude frame; some sheep-skins for blankets,
and sheets of coarse stuff whose color serves as an effectual check on the
curiosity of him who would pry too closely into its texture; are the chief
articles of furniture to be found in the habitations of the Sicilian poor.
Beside the human inhabitants of these uninviting abodes, there are
innumerable lively creatures, whose names it were almost impolite to
mention in polished ears; and I might not have alluded to them had they
confined themselves to such places; but they rejoice in the palace as well
as in the cottage, and to the traveller's sorrow inflict themselves
without his consent as travelling companions through the whole Sicilian
tour.
The houses of the more wealthy are spacious and airy, but not much
superior in point of comfort. They are often of commanding exterior, and
are called _palazzi_, or palaces. Of course, there are exceptions to this
general character of discomfort; but judging from my own observation, they
are few. On approaching a Sicilian village, the eye of the traveller will
almost surely be attracted by a capacious and solid building, surmounted
by a belfry-tower, and commanding the most charming prospect in the
vicinity. It is surrounded with orange groves and cypress-trees, and looks
like a place fitted for the enjoyment of a contemplative life. He will not
long remain in doubt as to the purpose of the building whose site is so
delightfully chosen; for walking slowly along the shady path, or seated in
some pleasant nook, singly or in groups, he will perceive the long-robed
monks, the reverend masters of the holy place.
Connoisseurs say that a landscape is imperfect without figures; and as
that is the case in a picture, it is most probably so in a magazine
article; and the reader might complain if I were to neglect giving some
slight outlines of the figures of the Sicilian landscape. In travelling
from city to city, although they may not be more than twenty miles apart,
the wayfarer meets with very few persons on the road; seldom an
individual, and only now and then, at an interval of miles, a group of men
mounted on mules, each person carrying a gun; or perhaps a convoy of
loaded mules and asses with several muleteers, some mounted and some on
foot, who urge by uncouth cries and blows the weary beasts over the rocky
or swampy ground, or up some steep acclivity or across some torrent's bed.
At times he will see a shepherd or two watching their flocks; these are
half-naked, wild looking beings, scarcely raised in the scale of
intelligence above their bleating charge. Their dwelling may be hard by, a
conical hut of grass or straw, or a ruined tower. On the fertile slopes or
plains he will sometimes observe a dozen yokes of oxen ploughing abreast.
The laborers probably chose this contiguity for the sake of company across
the wide fields. If the grass or grain is to be cut, it is by both men and
women armed with a rude sickle only. It is seldom you meet either man or
woman on foot upon the roads; men scarcely ever. Donkeys are about as
numerous as men, and their ludicrous bray salutes your ear wherever the
human animal is to be seen.
The peasant-women through a great part of Sicily wear a semi-circular
piece of woollen cloth over their heads; it is always black or white, and
hangs in agreeable folds over the neck and shoulders. There is but little
beauty among them; and alas! how should there be? They are in general
filthy; the hair of both old and young is allowed to fall in uncombed
elf-locks about their heads; and the old women are often hideous and
disgustful in the extreme. The heart bleeds for the women: they have more
than their share of the labors of the field; they have all the toils of
the men, added to the pains and cares of womanhood. They dig, they reap,
they carry heavy burthens--burthens almost incredible. In the vicinity of
Ætna I met a woman walking down the road knitting: on her head was a large
mass of lava weighing at least thirty pounds, and on the top of this lay a
small hammer. Being puzzled to know why the woman carried such a piece of
lava where lava was so abundant, I inquired 'the wherefore' of Luigi, our
guide. He answered that as she wished to knit, and not having pockets, she
had taken that plan to carry the little hammer conveniently. That piece of
stone, which would break our necks to carry, was evidently to her no more
than a heavy hat would be to us. It may be thought that I draw a sorry
picture of these poor Islanders; but I would have it understood that on
the side of Messina, and some other parts, there is apparently a little
more civilization; but they are an oppressed and degraded peasantry;
ignorant, superstitious, filthy, and condemned to live on the coarsest
food. They are as the beasts that perish, driven by necessity to sow that
which they may not reap. How applicable are the words of ADDISON:
'How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land
And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand!
But what avails her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
The smiles of nature and the charms of art,
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange and the swelling grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaded vineyard dies of thirst.'
But the Sicilians are _naturally_ a gay, light-hearted people, like the
Greeks, their forefathers; and if the cloud which now rests upon them were
removed, and we have reason to think it is lifting, they would be as
bright and sunny as their own skies. The women of the better classes wear
the black mantilla when they venture into the streets, which they seldom
do, except to attend mass or the confessional. This robe is extremely
elegant, as it is worn, but it requires an adept to adjust it gracefully.
It covers the whole person from head to foot; in parts drawn closely to
the form, in others falling in free folds. But for its color, I should
admire it much: it seems such an incongruity for a young and beautiful
female to be habited in what appear to be mourning robes. I was often
reminded of those wicked lines of BYRON'S on the gondola:
'For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
Like mourning-coaches when the funeral's done.'
But let us turn from the animate to the inanimate, and visit the famous
Ætna, called by the Sicilians _Mongibello_. From the silence of Homer on
the subject, it is supposed that in his remote age the fires of the
mountain were unknown; but geologists have proof that they have a far more
ancient date. The Grecian poet Pindar is the first who mentions its
eruptions. He died four hundred and thirty-five years before CHRIST; from
that time to this, at irregular intervals, it has vomited forth its
destructive lavas. It is computed to be eleven thousand feet high. Its
base, more than an hundred miles in circumference, is interspersed with
numerous conical hills, each of which is an extinct crater, whose sides,
now shaded by the vine, the fig tree, and the habitations of man, once
glowed with the fiery torrent. Some of them are yet almost destitute of
vegetation; mere heaps of scoriæ and ashes; but the more ancient ones are
richly clad with verdure. Let the reader imagine a mountain whose base is
as broad as the whole range of the Catskills, as seen from Catskill
village, rising to nearly three times their height; its lower parts are of
gentle ascent, but as it rises it becomes more and more steep, until it
terminates in a broken summit. Imagine it divided, as the eye ascends,
into three regions or belts: the first and lowest is covered with
villages, gardens, vineyards, olive-groves, oranges, and fields of grain
and flax, and the date-bearing palm. The second region, which commences
about four thousand feet above the sea, is called the _Regione Sylvosa_,
or woody region. Here chestnuts, hexes, and on the north pines of great
size flourish. This belt reaches to the elevation of about seven thousand
feet, where the _Regione Scoperta_, or bare region, commences. The lower
part of this is intermingled lava, rocks, volcanic sands, and snow; still
higher are vast fields of spotless snow, which centuries have seen
unwasted, with here and there a ridgy crag of black lava, too steep for
the snows to lodge upon; and toward the summit of the cone, dark patches
of scoriæ and ashes, which, heated by the slumbering fires, defy the icy
blasts of these upper realms of air. It will readily be supposed that,
when viewed from a distance, Mount Ætna is an object to make a deep
impression on the mind:
But for yon filmy smoke, that from thy crest
Continual issues like a morning mist
The sun disperses, there would be no sign
That from thy mighty breast bursts forth at times
The sulphurous storm--the avalanche of fire;
That midnight is made luminous, and day
A ghastly twilight, by thy lurid breath.
By thee tormented, Earth is tossed and riven:
The shuddering mountains reel; temples and towers
The works of man, and man himself, his hopes
His harvests, all a desolation made!
Sublime art thou, O Mount! whether beneath
The moon in silence sleeping with thy woods,
And driving snows, and golden fields of corn;
Or bleat on thy slant breast the gentle flocks,
And shepherds in the mellow glow of eve
Pipe merrily; or when thy scathéd sides
Are laved with fire, answered thine earthquake voice
By screams and clamor of affrighted men.
Sublime thou art!--a resting-place for thought,
Thought reaching far above thy bounds; from thee
To HIM who bade the central fires construct
This wondrous fabric; lifted thy dread brow
To meet the sun while yet the earth is dark,
And ocean, with its ever-murmuring waves.
On the ninth of May, myself and travelling companion commenced the ascent
of Mount Ætna; and as the season was not the most favorable, the snows
extending farther down the sides of the mountain than in summer, we were
equipped, under the direction of our guide, with coarse woollen stockings
to be drawn over the pantaloons, thick-soled shoes, and woollen caps.
Mounting our mules, we left Catania in the morning. The road was good and
of gradual ascent until we reached Nicolosi, about fourteen miles up the
mountain. We saw little that was particularly interesting on our route
except that the hamlets through which we passed bore fearful evidences of
the effects of earthquake. Arrived at Nicolosi, the place where travellers
usually procure guides and mules for the mountain, it was our intention to
rest for the remainder of the day; but Monte Rosso, an extinguished
crater, being in the vicinity, my curiosity got the better of my intention
to rest, and I sallied forth to examine it. The road lay through the
village, which is built of the lava, and is arid and black, and many of
the buildings rent and twisted. Monte Rosso was formed by the eruption of
1669, which threw out a torrent of lava that flowed thirteen miles,
destroying a great part of the city of Catania in its resistless course to
the sea, where it formed a rugged promontory which at this day appears as
black, bare, and herbless as on the day when its fiery course was arrested
by the boiling waters. And here I would remark, that the lavas of Ætna are
very different from those of Vesuvius. The latter decompose in half a
century, and become capable of cultivation; those of Ætna remain unchanged
for centuries, as that of Monte Rosso testifies. It has now been exposed
to the action of the weather nearly two hundred years, with the exception
of the interstices where the dust and sand have collected, it is destitute
of vegetation. Broken in cooling into masses of rough but sharp fracture,
its aspect is horrid and forbidding, and it is exceedingly difficult to
walk over. If two centuries have produced so little change, how _many_
centuries must have served to form the rich soil which covers the greater
part of the mountain's sides and base!
Our purpose was to see the sun rise from the summit of Ætna; and at nine
in the evening, our mules and guides being ready, we put on our Sicilian
capotes, and sallied forth. We had two guides, a muleteer, and as there
was no moon, a man with a lantern to light the mules in their passage over
the beds of lava. For several miles the way was uninteresting, it being
too dark to see any thing except the horrid lava or sand beneath the feet
of the mules. At times the road was so steep that we were ordered by our
guides to lean forward on the necks of the mules, to keep them and
ourselves from being thrown back. At length we entered the woody region.
Here the path was less rocky; and as we wound up the mountain's side,
beneath the shadows of noble trees, I could not but feel the solemn
quietness of a night on Ætna, and contrast it with what has been and what
will in all probability be again, the intermitting roar of the neighboring
volcano, and the dreadful thunder of the earthquake. At midnight we
arrived at the _Casa delle Neve_, or House of Snow. This is a rude
building of lava, with bare walls, entirely destitute of furniture. We
made a fire on the ground, took some refreshments which we had brought
with us, and in about an hour remounted our mules, and proceeded on our
journey. We soon left the region of woods; and being now at an elevation
of seven thousand feet above the sea, felt somewhat cold, and buttoned our
capotes closer about us. From the ridges of lava along which we rode, by
the light of the stars which now became brilliant, we could discern the
snow stretching in long lines down the ravines on either hand; and as we
advanced, approaching nearer and nearer, until at length it spread in
broad fields before us. As the mules could go no farther, we dismounted,
and taking an iron-pointed staff in our hands, we commenced the journey
over the snows. It was now half-past one, and we had seven miles to
traverse before reaching the summit. The first part of the ascent was
discouraging, for it was steep, and the snow so slippery that we sometimes
fell on our faces; but it became rather less steep as we ascended, and
though fatiguing, we got along comfortably. As the atmosphere was becoming
rare, and the breathing hurried, we sat on the snow for a few minutes now
and then. At such times we could not but be struck with the splendor of
the stars, far beyond any thing I had ever seen. The milky way seemed
suspended in the deep heavens, like a luminous cloud, with clear and
definite outline. We next arrived at the _Casa degli Inglese_; so called,
but alas for us! the ridge of the roof and a part of the gable were all
that rose above the snow. In the midst of summer, travellers may make use
of it; but to us it was unavailing, except the gable, which served in a
measure to shield us from the icy wind which now swept over the mountain.
We again partook of a little refreshment, by way of preparation for the
most arduous part of our undertaking, and were now at the foot of the
great cone. The ascent was toilsome in the extreme. Snow, melted beneath
in many places by the heat of the mountain; sharp ridges of lava; loose
sand, ashes, and cinders, into which last the foot sank at every step,
made the ascent difficult as well as dangerous. The atmosphere was so rare
that we had to stop every few yards to breathe. At such times we could
hear our hearts beat within us like the strokes of a drum. But it was now
light, and we reached the summit of the great cone just as the sun rose.
It was a glorious sight which spread before our eyes! We took a hasty
glance into the gloomy crater of the volcano and throwing ourselves on the
warm ashes, gazed in wonder and astonishment. It would be vain for me to
attempt a description of the scene. I scarcely knew the world in which I
had lived. The hills and valleys over which we had been travelling for
many days, were comprised within the compass of a momentary glance. Sicily
lay at our feet, with all its 'many folded' mountains, its plains, its
promontories, and its bays; and round all, the sea stretched far and wide
like a lower sky; the Lipari islands, Stromboli and its volcano, floating
upon it like small dusky clouds; and the Calabrian coast visible, I should
suppose, for two hundred miles, like a long horizontal bank of vapor! As
the sun rose, the great pyramidal shadow of Ætna was cast across the
island, and all beneath it rested in twilight-gloom. Turning from this
wonderful scene, we looked down into the crater, on whose verge we lay. It
was a fearful sight, apparently more than a thousand feet in depth, and a
mile in breadth, with precipitous and in some places overhanging sides,
which were varied with strange and discordant colors. The steeps were rent
into deep chasms and gulfs, from which issued white sulphurous smoke, that
rose and hung in fantastic wreaths about the horrid crags; thence
springing over the edge of the crater, seemed to dissipate in the clear
keen air. I was somewhat surprised to perceive several sheets of snow
lying at the very bottom of the crater, a proof that the internal fires
were in a deep slumber. The edge of the crater was a mere ridge of scoriæ
and ashes, varying in height; and it required some care, in places, to
avoid falling down the steep on one hand, or being precipitated into the
gulf on the other. The air was keen; but fortunately there was little
wind; and after spending about an hour on the summit, we commenced our
descent.
We varied our course from the one we took on ascending, and visited an
altar erected to Jupiter by the ancients, now called the _Torre del
Filosofo_. Soon after we came upon the verge of a vast crater, the period
of whose activity is beyond the earliest records of history. _Val di
Bove_, as it is called, is a tremendous scene. Imagine a basin several
miles across, a thousand feet in depth at least, with craggy and
perpendicular walls on every side; its bottom broken into deep ravines and
chasms, and shattered pinnacles, as though the lava in its molten state
had been shaken and tossed by an earthquake, and then suddenly congealed.
It is into this ancient crater that the lava of the most recent eruption
is descending. It is fortunate that it has taken that direction.
In another and concluding number, the reader's attention will be directed
to the _Architectural Antiquities of Sicily_, especially those of Grecian
structure, which will be described in the order in which they were
visited.
LINES TO TIME.
BY MRS. J. WEBB.
Oh Time! I'll weave, to deck thy brow,
A wreath fresh culled from Flora's treasure:
If thou wilt backward turn thy flight
To youth's bright morn of joy and pleasure.
'Joys ill exchanged for riper years;'
The bard, alas! hath truly spoken:
I've wept the truth in burning tears
O'er many a fair hope crushed and broken.
In vain my sager, wiser friends
Told of thy speed and wing untiring;
I drank of Pleasure's honied cup,
Nor marked thy flight, no change desiring;
When all too late I gave thee chase,
But found thou couldst not be o'ertaken:
With heedless wing thou'st onward swept,
Though hopes were crushed and empires shaken.
Thou with the world thy flight began'st;
Compared with thine, what were the knowledge
Of every sage in every clime,
The learning of the school or college?
Thou'st seen, in all the pomp of power,
Athens, the proudest seat of learning;
And thou couldst tell us if thou wouldst,
How Nero looked when Rome was burning.
What direful sights hast thou beheld,
As careless thou hast journied on:
The hemlock-bowl for Athen's pride;
The gory field of Marathon;
The monarch crowned, the warrior plumed,
With power and with ambition burning;
Yet they must all have seemed to thee
Poor pigmies on a pivot turning.
Their pomp, their power, with thine compared,
How blank and void, how frail and fleeting!
Thou hast not paused e'en o'er their tombs
To give their mighty spirits greeting;
But onward still with untired wing,
Regardless thou 'rt thy flight pursuing,
Unseen, alas! till thou art past,
While o'er our heads thy snows thou 'rt strewing.
Oh! vainly may poor mortals strive
With learned lore of school and college;
Their books may teach us wisdom's rules,
But thou alone canst teach us knowledge.
Oh! had I earlier known thy worth,
I had not now been left repining,
Nor asked to weave for thee the wreath
That on my youthful brow was shining.
Could but again the race be mine,
In life's young morn, I'd seek and find thee;
I'd seize thee by thy flowing lock,
And never more be left behind thee!
A NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE.
BY A BUFFALO HUNTER.
While looking over my 'omnium gatherum;' the same being a drawer
containing scraps of poetry, unfinished letters, half-written editorials,
incidents of travel, obsolete briefs, with many other odds and ends that
have fallen from my brain during the last three years, but which from want
of quality in them or lack of energy in me, have failed to reach the
dignity of types and ink; I came across a diary kept while hunting buffalo
with the Sac and Fox Indians, some two hundred miles west of the
Mississippi, during the summer of 1842. Finding myself interested in
recurring to the incidents of that excursion, it occurred to me that
matter might be drawn therefrom which would not be without interest to the
public. I have therefore ventured to offer the following for publication;
it being an account of a night passed at the source of the Checauque, when
I did not deem my scalp worth five minute's purchase, and when I
cheerfully would have given ten years of an ordinary life to have been
under the humblest roof in the most desolate spot in the 'land of steady
habits.'
I have said that we were in the country of the Sioux. That our situation
may be understood, I would remark farther, that between the latter and the
confederated tribes of the Sac and Fox Indians, there has been for the
last forty years, and still exists, the most inveterate hostility; the two
parties never meeting without bloodshed. The Government of the United
States, in pursuance of that policy which guides its conduct toward the
various Indian tribes, for the preservation of peace between these two
nations, have laid out between them a strip of country forty miles in
width, denominated the 'Neutral Ground,' and on to which neither nation is
permitted to extend their hunting excursions.
On the occasion of which I write, the Sacs and Foxes, having been
disappointed in finding buffalo within their own limits, and perhaps
feeling quite as anxious to fall in with a band of Sioux as to obtain
game, had passed the 'Neutral Ground,' and were now several days' journey
into the country of their enemies.
For the last two days we had marched with the utmost circumspection; our
spies ranged the country for miles in advance and on either flank, while
at night we had sought some valley as a place of encampment, where our
fires could not be seen from a distance. Each day we had perceived signs
which indicated that small parties of Sioux had been quite recently over
the very ground we were travelling. The whites in the company, numbering
some eleven or twelve, had remonstrated with the Indians, representing to
them that they were transgressing the orders of the government, and that
should a hostile meeting take place they would certainly incur the
displeasure of their 'great father' at Washington.
Heedless of our remonstrances they continued to advance until it became
evident that the Sioux and not buffalo were their object. The truth was,
they felt themselves in an excellent condition to meet their ancient
enemy. They numbered, beside old men and the young and untried, three
hundred and twenty-five warriors, mounted and armed with rifles, many of
them veterans who had seen service on the side of Great Britain in her
last war with this country, and most of whom had served with Black Hawk in
his brief but desperate contest with the United States. Moreover, they
placed some reliance on the whites who accompanied them; all of whom,
except my friend B----, of Kentucky, one or two others and myself, were
old frontier men, versed in the arts of Indian warfare.
As for myself, I felt far from comfortable in the position in which I
found myself placed; hundreds of miles from any white settlement, and
expecting hourly to be forced into a conflict where no glory was to be
gained, and in which defeat would be certain death, while victory could
not fail to bring upon us the censure of our government. The idea of
offering up my scalp as a trophy to Sioux valor, and leaving my bones to
bleach on the wide prairie, with no prayer over my remains nor stone to
mark the spot of my sepulture, was far from comfortable. I thought of the
old church-yard amidst the green hills of New-England, where repose the
dust of my ancestors, and would much preferred to have been gathered
there, full of years, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its season,'
rather than to be cut down in the morning of life by the roving Sioux, and
my frame left a dainty morsel for the skulking wolf of the prairie. I
communicated my sentiments to B----, and found that his views corresponded
with mine. 'But,' said he, with the spirit of a genuine Kentuckian, 'we
are in for it, Harry, and we must fight; it will not do to let these
Indians see us show the white feather.'
It was under such circumstances, and with these feelings, that we pitched
our tents after a hard day's march, in a valley near the margin of a
little stream which uniting with others forms the Checauque, one of the
tributaries of the Mississippi. The river flowed in our front. In our
rear, and surrounding us on either side, forming a sort of amphitheatre,
was a range of low hills crowned with a grove of young hickorys. A branch
on our left, running down to the stream, separated our tents from the
encampment of our Indian allies. Our camp consisted of three tents pitched
some fifteen steps apart. B---- and myself occupied the middle one. We had
a companion, a scrub of a fellow, who forced himself upon us as we were on
the point of starting, and whom we could not well shake off. To this
genius, on account of his many disagreeable qualities, we had given the
soubriquet of '_Common Doings_.' The other whites of the party occupied
the other two tents.
We had just finished the usual routine of camp duty for the night,
'spansered' our horses, eaten our suppers, laid in a supply of fuel for
our fires, and were sitting around them smoking our pipes and listening to
the marvellous tales of an old 'Leatherstocking' of the party, whose life
had been passed between the Rocky Mountains and the Mississippi, when two
of our Indian spies came in, passing in front of our tents and across the
branch to the Indian camp. One of our party followed them to hear their
report, and soon returned with the information that the spies had seen an
encampment of Sioux, and that the Sacs and Foxes were then holding a
council as to what measures it was best to pursue. Others of our party,
who understood the Indian tongue, went across for farther information.
Mean time we remained in great anxiety, canvassing among ourselves the
probable truth of the report, and speculating on the course most proper
for us to take. Our friends soon returned, having heard the full report of
the spies as it was delivered before the chiefs in council. They had
proceeded some eight miles beyond the place of our encampment to a hill in
the vicinity of Swan Lake; from the hill they had seen a large body of
Sioux, numbering as near as they could estimate them, five or six hundred.
From the manner in which they were encamped and from other signs, they
knew them to be a 'war party;' and having made these observations, they
withdrew, concealing themselves as much as possible, and as they supposed,
without being discovered. The effect of this information upon us may
easily be imagined. We were 'in for it' sure enough! We had expected for
several days that we should meet the enemy, but to find them so near us in
such force, so far outnumbering our own, we had not anticipated.
The question now was, what were we to do? Some proposed that we should
move our camp across the branch and pitch our tent among our Indian
allies; for it was argued with much force that if our spies had been
discovered, the Sioux would follow their trail, and as it passed directly
by our tents, we should fall the first victims; that if the Sioux,
notwithstanding their superiority in numbers, should not think it prudent
to attack the main camp, they would not fail to attack, according to their
custom, the out-camps, take what scalps they could, and retreat. But there
was a strong objection to moving our camp: the Indians frequently during
the march had desired us to pitch our tents among them, but we had always
declined, preferring to be by ourselves. What would they say if we should
now break up our encampment and go among them? 'White men are cowards!
They rejected our request when all was safe, but now at the approach of
danger they come skulking among us like dogs for protection.' No; we
could not do this; pride forbade it. We next discussed the expediency of
dividing ourselves into a watch, and keeping guard by turns through the
night. The more experienced of the party, and particularly Jamison, an old
hunter and Indian fighter, said that this would only exhaust us, and would
be of no avail; that our Indian allies had spies around the encampment in
every direction; that if they failed to perceive the approach of the enemy,
we could not discover them; that the first intimation our sentinels would
have would be an arrow through the body; that our best plan would be to
extinguish our fires, prepare our arms, lie down with them in our hands,
rely on the Indian spies for notice of the enemy's approach, and on the
first alarm make our way to the Indian camp, being careful as we approached
it to give the pass-word for the night, '_Wal-las-ki-push-eto_.' We all
finally came to this conclusion.
During the discussion, two of the party had not spoken a word; one was our
tent-mate 'Doings,' who was so completely paralyzed with fright as to be
unable to think or speak; the other was old 'Leatherstocking,' who
listened with the utmost coolness to all that was said, occasionally
expressing assent or dissent by a nod or shake of the head. I now observed
him quietly examine his rifle, draw the charge and reload; take out the
flint and replace it with a new one; he then threw himself down for the
night, his bared knife in his left hand, and his right resting on the
breech of his rifle, remarking as he composed himself to sleep, 'We must
be ready boys; there's no telling when the varmints will be upon us.'
B---- and myself prepared our arms: each of us wore a brace of pistols in
a belt; these were carefully loaded and buckled on; our rifles were next
examined and put in order; our hatchets were placed at hand, and with many
misgivings we laid ourselves down. It was some time before I could sleep,
and when I did, my repose was disturbed by dreams. How long I slept I am
unable to say, perhaps not more than an hour, when I was suddenly
awakened. I listened. The noise of the horses, of which there were several
hundred grazing in the valley, with the tinkling of the bells on their
necks, were the only sounds that at first met my ear; all else was silent.
Presently I heard a noise as if made by the stealthy tread of a man; then
a voice, or perhaps the cry of some animal. It was repeated. I heard it in
the grove, on the hill, then an answering cry on the other side of the
stream. I knew that Indians in a night-attack make signals by imitating
the cry of some animal; and the sounds I heard, though like those made by
wild beasts, seemed to me to be in reality human voices. I drew a pistol
from my belt, cocked it, and with a hatchet in my other hand, crept out of
the tent, and lying on the ground, looked cautiously around. The cries
continued at intervals, and I became more and more satisfied that they
were human voices. I felt, I _knew_ that the Sioux were about to attack
us. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind. I thought of the home of
my childhood, my far distant kindred; a mother, sisters, brothers.
Unskilled as I was in Indian warfare, I expected to be slain. I was
alarmed; frightened perhaps, but not paralyzed. I resolved to fight to the
last, and if I _must_ die, to fill no coward's grave.
As my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, I began to distinguish
objects; and peering beyond our line of tents, I saw on our right, between
me and the grove, three dark objects like human heads projecting out of
the grass. While I was observing them, two of them disappeared, and I
could discern the grass wave as they made their way toward our encampment.
There was no longer room for doubt. I called to B---- in a whisper; he was
on his feet and by my side in an instant, a cocked pistol in each hand. I
directed his attention to what I saw. He looked steadfastly for a moment,
then raising his eyes to the grove, exclaimed in a whisper, 'The timber is
full of Indians! I see them advancing from tree to tree; it is time for
action. I shall fall, but you may be saved; if so, let my friends in
Kentucky know that I died like a brave man. I will arouse the rest.'