the house; how the bigger girls bring baskets of grapes, with eyes
closed to keep out the rain; and how the smaller ones gather snails in
the wet grass, which will appear with fried pumpkin at the labourer's
supper; how, yesterday, he climbed Mount Calvano--that very brother of
hers for his guide--his mule carrying him with dainty steps through the
plain--past the woods--up a path ever wilder and stonier, where sorb
and myrtle fall away, but lentisk and rosemary still cling to the face
of the rock--the head and shoulders of some new mountain ever coming
into view; how he emerged, at last, where there were mountains all
around; below, the green sea; above, the crystal solitudes of heaven;
and, down in that green sea, the slumbering Siren islands: the three
which stand together, and the one which swam to meet them, but has
always remained half-way. These, and other reminiscences, beguile the
time till the storm has passed, and the sun breaks over the great
mountain which the Englishman has just described. He and little "Fortú"
can now go into the village, and see the preparations being made for
to-morrow's feast--that of the Virgin of the Rosary--which primitive
solemnity he also (by anticipation) describes. He concludes with a brief
allusion to the political scirocco which is blackening the English sky,
and will not vanish so quickly as this has done; and thus hints at a
reason, if the reader desires one, for his temporary rustication in a
foreign land.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 72: First in "Hood's Magazine."]

[Footnote 73: Two of these are now in the National Gallery; one
presented to it by Sir Charles Eastlake, the other after his death by
Lady Eastlake.]