To the Gold Coast for Gold | Page 6

his
protégés a little of that old Persian wisdom which abhorred a lie and its
concomitants, cheating and mean trickery! The Esmeralda, after two
days and one night at Zante, was charged 15l., for pilotage, when the
captain piloted himself; for church, where there is no parson; and for
harbour dues where there is no harbour. It is almost incredible that so
sharp-witted a race can also be so short-sighted; so wise about pennies,
so foolish about pounds.
On Saturday we left Zante in the teeth of a fresh but purely local

north-easter, which whistled through the gear and hurled the spray high
up Cape Skinari. The result was, as the poet sings--
That peculiar up-and-down motion Which belongs to the treacherous
ocean.
Not without regret I saw the last of the memorious old castle and of
Skopo the picturesque. We ran along the western shore of Cephalonia,
the isle of three hundred villages: anyone passing this coast at once
understands how Greece produced so many and such excellent seamen.
The island was a charming spectacle, with its two culminations,
Maraviglia (3,311 ft.) and Elato (5,246 ft.), both capped by purple
cloud; its 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
and detached musical performances. The classical facade of the Marina,
through whose nineteen archways and upper parallelograms you catch a
vista of dark narrow wynd, contrasts curiously with Catania: the former
is a 'dicky,' a front hiding something unclean; while the latter is laid out
in Eastern style, where, for the best of reasons, the marble palace hides
behind a wall of mud. The only new features I noted were a metal
fish-market, engineer art which contrasts marvellously with the Ionic
pilasters and the solid ashlar of the 'dicky;' and, at the root of the sickle,
a new custom-house of six detached boxes, reddest-roofed and
whitest-walled, built to copy children's toy cottages. Croatian Fiume
would blush to own them. Of the general impurity of the town and of
the bouquet de Messine the less said the better.
As we made fast to the Marina our tobacco was temporarily sealed after
the usual mean Italian fashion. Next morning an absurd old person, in a
broad red baldrick, came on board and counted noses, to ascertain that
we had not brought the dreaded small-pox from the Ionian Islands.
After being graciously and liberally allowed to land, we were visited by
the local chapmen, whose goods appeared rather mixed--polished
cowhorns and mildewed figs, dolls in costume and corrosive oranges;
by the normal musical barber, who imitates at a humble distance bird
and beast; and by the vendor of binoculars, who asks forty francs and
who takes ten. The captain noted his protest at the Consulate, and
claimed by way of sauvetage 200l. The owners offered 200 lire--punds
Scots. Briefly, noon had struck before we passed out of the noise and
the smells of Messina.
Our good deed had cost us dear. A wet scirocco had replaced the bright
norther and saddened all