fertile slopes and its fissured bight, Argostoli Bay, running deep into
the land.

We fondly expected to pass the Messina Straits by daylight, and to cast
another glance upon old Etna, Scylla and Charybdis, the Liparis and
Stromboli. And all looked well, as about noon we were abreast of Cape
Spartivento, the 'Split-wind' which divides the mild northers and
southers of the Straits from the raw Boras and rotting Sciroccos of the
Adriatic. But presently a signal for succour was hoisted by a marvellous
old tub, a sailer-made-steamer, sans boats, sans gunwales; a something
whose dirt and general dilapidation suggested the Flying Dutchman. I
almost expected to see her drop out of form and crumble into dust as our
boys boarded her. The _America_, of Barletta, bound from Brindisi
to Genoa, had hurt her boilers. We hauled in her cable--these gentry
must never be trusted with a chance of slipping loose--and tugged her
into Messina, thereby losing a valuable day.

The famous Straits were almost a replica of Ionian Island scenery: the
shores of the Mediterranean, limestone and sandstone, with here and
there a volcanic patch, continually repeat themselves. After passing the
barren heel of the Boot and its stony big toe, the wady-streaked shores
become populous and well cultivated, while railway trains on either
side, island and continent, toss their snowy plumes in the pride of
civilisation. The ruined castles on the crags and the new villages on
the lowlands told their own story of Turkish and Algerine piracy, now
doomed to the limbo of things that were. In the evening we were safely
anchored within the zancle (sickle) of Messina-port, whose depth of
water and circular shape have suggested an old crater flooded. It was
Sunday, and we were greeted with the familiar sounds, the ringing of
cracked bells, the screaming of harsh, hoarse voices, a military band