hitheatre-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 i