n the _festa_ was to commence; but, mistaking our
question, they answered: "Anchovies." Thereupon, a waggish Maltese
informed them that Maestro Paolo thanked them heartily. All the other
boats were hailed in the name of Maestro Paolo, who, having recovered from
his sea-sickness, took his bantering good-humoredly.

Catania presented a lovely picture, as we drew near the harbor. Planted at
the very foot of Etna, it has a background such as neither Naples nor
Genoa can boast. The hills next the sea are covered with gardens and
orchards, sprinkled with little villages and the country palaces of the
nobles--a rich, cultured landscape, which gradually merges into the
forests of oak and chestnut that girdle the waist of the great volcano.
But all the wealth of southern vegetation cannot hide the footsteps of
that Ruin, which from time to time visits the soil. Half-way up, the
mountain-side is dotted with cones of ashes and cinders, some covered with
the scanty shrubbery which centuries have called forth, some barren and
recent; while two dark, winding streams of sterile lava descend to the
very shore, where they stand congealed in ragged needles and pyramids.
Part of one of these black floods has swept the town, and, tumbling into
the sea, walls one side of the port.

We glided slowly past the mole, and dropped anchor a few yards from the
shore. There was a sort of open promenade planted with trees, in front of
us, surrounded with high white houses, above which rose the dome of the
Cathedral and the spires of other churches. The magnificent palace of
Prince Biscari was on our right, and at its foot the Customs and Revenue
offices. Every roof, portico, and window was lined with lamps, a triumphal
arch spanned the street before the palace, and the landing-place at the
offices was festooned with crimson and white drapery, spangled with gold.
While we were waiting permission to land, a scene presented itself which
recalled the pagan days of Sicily to my mind. A procession came in sight
from under the trees, and passed along the shore. In the centre was borne
a stately shrine, hung with garlands, and containing an image of St.
Agatha. The sound of flutes and cymbals accompanied it, and a band of
children, bearing orange and palm branches, danced riotously before. Had
the image been Pan instead of St. Agatha, the ceremonies would have been
quite as appropriate.

The speronara's boat at last took us to the gorgeous landing place, wh