The fourth morning dawned, and—­Great Neptune be praised!—­we were actually within the Gulf of Catania.  Etna loomed up in all his sublime bulk, unobscured by cloud or mist, while a slender jet of smoke, rising from his crater, was slowly curling its wreaths in the clear air, as if happy to receive the first beam of the sun.  The towers of Syracuse, which had mocked us all the preceding day, were no longer visible; the land-locked little port of Augusta lay behind us; and, as the wind continued favorable, ere long we saw a faint white mark at the foot of the mountain.  This was Catania.  The shores of the bay were enlivened with olive-groves and the gleam of the villages, while here and there a single palm dreamed of its brothers across the sea.  Etna, of course, had the monarch’s place in the landscape, but even his large, magnificent outlines could not usurp all my feeling.  The purple peaks to the westward and farther inland, had a beauty of their own, and in the gentle curves with which they leaned towards each other, there was a promise of the flowery meadows of Enna.  The smooth blue water was speckled with fishing-boats.  We hailed one, inquiring when 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