The city is very handsomely built, and has several fine squares, ornamented with statues and fountains. It has suffered severely from earthquakes at different times, and was once nearly destroyed; but its admirable situation for commerce has caused it to be rebuilt after every catastrophe. It stands just within the narrow strait which divides Sicily from the Italian coast, and has a very safe harbor, formed by a strip of land running out into the sea, in the shape of an elbow, which appears almost the work of art. In the interior, the city is enclosed by steep, rocky hills, which rise immediately from the walls, and shut out all prospect of the country; but the view toward the sea is very grand. The strait is six or eight miles wide in this part, though in the clear and transparent atmosphere of these regions, it does not appear to be more than three or four. The mountains of Calabria rise up majestically from the blue sea, dark, craggy, and frowning, with now and then a fleecy white cloud melting away on their summits. Feluccas, with latine sails, are gliding up and down the straits; and the white walls of Reggio rise from the water’s edge on the opposite side.
This is the spot on which that remarkable phenomena, called the Fata Morgana, has been observed. On the Italian side of the strait the inhabitants are sometimes astonished to behold in the air the images of castles, towns, palaces, houses, ships, &c. Being unable to account for these appearances, they ascribe them to magic; and these airy phantoms are supposed to be the work of a fairy named Morgana. The true cause is a certain rarefaction of the air, which brings into view objects far below the horizon; and the phenomena is not difficult to explain by the principles of optics. This appearance is not uncommon, near the shore, in all parts of the world. Lighthouses, towers, ships, &c., appear stretched up to three or four times their actual height. The sailors call this looming up. None of these apparitions, however, are so remarkable as the Fata Morgana.
On the 7th of March I went on board an Italian brig bound to Naples. It was a dead calm by the time we got out of the harbor, so we drifted back again and dropped anchor. Next morning the calm continued, and on looking across the water, we saw little specks of white cloud, hanging motionless on the sides of the mountains,—a sure sign that no wind was stirring there. The sea was as smooth as glass, and I expected a long delay; but presently a light breeze came down the strait. Though this was ahead, we determined to take advantage of it. We therefore got out the boats and warped out of the harbor, when we set our sails and beat up the straits to the north. Italian sailors are not very expert in the nicer arts of seamanship, and we made very little headway by our tacking. About the middle of the afternoon we dropped anchor, close to the Sicilian shore. There was a little village, with a pretty church at the water’s edge. The coast exhibited low sand-hills, with patches of green soil. After lying at anchor two or three hours, the wind hauled round, and we set sail again. About sunset we reached the mouth of the strait, where the extreme end of Sicily approaches close to the Italian shore. This is called the Faro of Messina. Here we set the pilot ashore, after an immense bawling and vociferation, occasioned by a dispute as to the amount of his fee. The Italians can seldom bargain to the amount of a shilling, without making a clamor and din as if it were a matter of life and death. The pilot wanted about twenty cents more than the captain was willing to pay. They plunged at once into a noisy dispute;—argued, contradicted, bawled, sputtered, grinned, stamped their feet, and flourished their arms like a couple of bedlamites. The sailors took part in the squabble; every ragged rogue put in his oar, and had something to say, till the hurly-burly became outrageous. The pilot was a queer looking fellow, with a red cap, tattered unmentionables, japanned with tar, a beard like a shoebrush, and a bluff, burly face, all bronzed by the sun, and weather-beaten—in short, the very picture of an old Triton; and so I called him from the moment he first met my eyes. I never laughed more heartily than at the sight of this squabble; but at length they agreed to split the difference, and old Triton paddled ashore, tolerably well satisfied.
The sun was going down as we passed out the strait. We had but a small breeze before, but almost in an instant we were assailed by violent gusts of wind that obliged us to take in our canvass. The captain pointed toward the rocky shore, and said to me, “There is Scylla.” I looked in the direction, and saw a huge, craggy rock not far from the shore, against which the waves were dashing. Here were Scylla and Charybdis, so famous in classical history, and so terrible to the mariners of old times. Homer, in his Odyssey, thus describes them:
“Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms,
And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms:
When the tide rushes in her rumbling caves,
The rough rock roars, tumultuous boil the waves;
They toss, they foam, a dire confusion raise,
Like waters bubbling o’er a fiery blaze.”