Chapter IX

_A snow-storm on the mountain.--Trick of the guide.--Night’s
lodging at the Englishman’s house.--Sunrise.--Journey up the
cone.--Arrival at the top.--Description of the crater._

By daylight the next morning we were up and pursuing our journey. The sky was clear, and the air exceedingly cold. After about an hour’s travelling, we got through the woods, and came out into another immense field of barren lava. High above our heads rose the snowy cone of the mountain, glistening bright in the rising sun--a most magnificent spectacle. Farther on we came to a little hamlet consisting of a dozen or fourteen houses, inhabited by charcoal burners, and there were fifteen or twenty shabby-looking asses strolling about, apparently seeking for something to eat; but what sort of food they could pick up in this desolate place, puzzled me to guess. These animals, however, will eat almost anything, and can make a good meal upon coarse stalks and thistles. We passed by two or three large hills of a deep red color, that seemed to be recently thrown up by an eruption. Our path lay over rough heaps of broken lava, where a horse could not have gone without stumbling at every step, yet our sure-footed beasts carried us safely over the most difficult spots. About noon, the sky, which had hitherto been clear, began to grow overcast, and I could perceive that the smoke from the crater, instead of streaming off to the northeast, was now rolling down the side of the mountain directly toward us. This showed that the wind had shifted to the north, and I felt serious apprehensions when I observed the increasing blackness of the sky.

My guide, who had been snuffing the air and stretching his vision in every direction for the last quarter of an hour, now assured me that a snow-storm was coming, and advised an immediate return down the mountain. I was not disposed to comply, as I had heard that these people are very ready to discourage travellers at the least appearance of any danger, because they are unwilling to encounter the cold of the upper regions. I told him to push on, and never mind the wind, which was now blowing in violent gusts. But in a few minutes, large flakes of snow began to fall, and soon the whole air was obscured. The mules showed some reluctance to proceed, and we had much ado to urge them onward. The guide kept talking of the dangers of our undertaking, and told a story of an Englishman who was lost here about six weeks before in a snow-storm, just like the one that was now raging. It seems he was going up the mountain with two others of his countrymen, and being overtaken by the snow, they strayed from the path, and got into a great plain, full of deep pools of water, covered with a thin crust of ice. In attempting to cross one of these, they broke through, and one of the travellers was drowned, the rest escaping with difficulty after losing all their baggage. This melancholy catastrophe called forth all the sympathies of my companion, who related the circumstances with many mournful ejaculations and shakes of the head, assuring me that he was a _bel giovanotto_, or fine young fellow.

As I had never heard a syllable of this story at Catania in all my inquiries respecting the mountain, I guessed at once that the fellow had made it up out of his own head, to scare me from my undertaking. I asked him if he was sure the story was true. He protested that it was true, every word, and there could be no doubt of it, for he had seen the very mule which the drowned man rode, no longer ago than last Friday, trotting through the Corso of Catania. He was a long-backed beast, dark red, mixed with iron gray; and if that was not the dead Englishman’s mule, whose mule was it? I could not help laughing in his face at this odd proof of the story. He was a good deal disconcerted to see me so much amused instead of being frightened, and jogged on without telling any more tales of the misfortunes of travellers.

The snow continued to fall so thick that we could see only a few yards before us; but the mules, who always follow a beaten path, continued to keep in the track till the middle of the afternoon, when the ground became so deeply covered that there seemed to be danger of their missing the way, and I began to feel some small apprehension that we might encounter an accident of the kind which had been related of the young Englishman, though I did not believe a word of the story. Luckily, about this time, the snow ceased to fall, and before sunset the sky grew clear. The prospect around me was desolate in the extreme. The whole surface of the mountain above was covered with snow, diversified here and there with huge red and black spots, where hills of burnt rock and volcanic sand, or craggy masses of lava, lifted their heads above the white expanse.

Just as daylight shut in we reached a little hut called the “Englishman’s House,” which had been erected here for the accommodation of travellers. The shelter it afforded us was exceedingly welcome, for we were almost frozen to death with the keen air of the mountain. Luckily, the building, though destitute of furniture, contained a considerable quantity of dry sticks, which enabled us to make a good fire; else we should have passed a sleepless night, for my limbs were stiff with cold and fatigue. I lay down to rest as soon as I had eaten my supper, in order to be awake before daylight the next morning, as I was determined if possible to get to the top of the mountain before sunrise. I gave my companion strict injunctions to waken me as soon as his eyes should be open. But we both slept so soundly that it was broad daylight before we knew anything about it; and by the time we were fairly on our journey, the sun rose. I was much disappointed in not witnessing this spectacle from the mountain-top, as it would have afforded me something to boast of all my life; but the sight, as it was, might be thought enough to compensate for the fatigue and trouble of climbing so far. The snowy cap of the mountain, on the lower edge of which we were standing, glowed with the pure rosy tints of morning. Next to this was the green belt of forest, which first appeared dark and gloomy, but by degrees brightened into livelier tints, as the advancing sun threw his beams more directly upon the thick masses of leaves. Further down, the eye expatiated over the diversified surface of the skirts of the mountain, with its red cones, spots of green vegetation, and countless villages and towns, scattered right and left down to the water’s edge. The prospect to the east was bounded by the broad expanse of the ocean, which the brilliant morning sun had brightened up into a mirror of fire. Further to the north, the eye reposed on the dark mountains of Calabria, whose snowy summits glimmered with a faint roseate hue in the distance.

The wind blew a steady breeze from the southwest, which carried the smoke from the crater away from us; and we proceeded on foot directly up the cone of the mountain. The distance to the top was eight or nine miles, though it did not appear to be more than two or three. The snow, instead of being soft like that of yesterday, was frozen into a hard crust, over which we were continually sliding. I could not help thinking, as I looked on this great, steep mountain-top, covered with a glare of ice, what a capital _coasting_ place it would be for the Boston boys! They might slide half a dozen miles at a stretch, and then warm their toes in hot ashes and lava. However, this sliding on the frozen snow was a thing I never thought of when I began my journey, or I should have provided myself with a pair of corks. The only way I could make any progress, was by shambling along sideways, and digging the edges of my boot-soles through the crust, so as to get a footing at each step. This labor was excessively fatiguing, and before we had climbed two miles, the guide flatly refused to go any further, declaring that he was completely out of breath. I told him to go back and wait for me, as I was determined to go on, even if I went alone.

I had no fear of getting lost, because I had but to follow my own tracks backward when matters got to be desperate. I continued to climb upward with the help of a stout walking-stick, and soon lost sight of my companion. Now that I was all alone, trudging up to the top of Mount Ætna, I really felt something of the dignity of a traveller, and was absolutely delighted with the lonely adventure. My fingers were benumbed with the cold, and the rays of the sun, which was now pretty high, were reflected with so fierce a glare from the snow, that in a short time I was unable to keep my eyes open. It was impossible to go any further without the power of looking before me, for every slip and stumble I made sent me a hundred yards backward. I was just on the point of giving up the enterprise, when a thought struck me. I had a black silk handkerchief round my neck: this I took off and bound round my forehead in such a manner as to screen my eyes. The expedient answered admirably well, and with this help I gained the top of the mountain.

When I found myself on the summit of the crater, the excitement of my feelings was such as to banish all sensations of pain, fatigue, or even fear. I stood on the edge of that great yawning gulf, which has vomited smoke and flame, for thousands of years. At the foot of the mountain, this summit appears drawn to a point, but I found it to be an immense hollow, two or three miles in diameter, and shelving down on all sides to the depth of half a mile or more. The bottom of the crater was full of chasms, through which volumes of white smoke were ascending, which rolled over the edge of the crater, and then shot off horizontally through the air. The sides were craggy, red, yellow, and black, with great masses of brimstone, big enough to load a ship. The smoke that burst out through every crevice and opening was loaded with fumes of sulphur, and on thrusting the end of my stick into a crack of the lava at my feet, it took fire.

(_To be continued._)

HYMN.

Almighty God, when morning light
Breaks the soft slumbers of the night,
Then I delight to steal away
To read thy word, to kneel and pray.

This helps me, as the hours glide by,
To feel that thou art ever nigh:
When sinners tempt with speeches fair,
I recollect my morning prayer.

Nor can I let the evening close,
And on my pillow seek repose,
Until with thankful heart I raise
Once more the voice of prayer and praise.

Let others scorn in prayer to kneel;
Like them, O may I never feel!
Though oft by thoughtless ones reviled,
Still would I be a praying child.

* * * * *

A poor Irishman advertised an old potato-pot for sale; his children gathered around him, and asked him why he parted with it. He replied, “Ah, my honeys, I would not be after parting with it but for a little money to buy something to put in it.”

The Sparrow and Robin;

A FABLE.

A robin was one summer evening sitting upon a tree and singing its cheerful song right merrily. A critical sparrow was near by, and when the robin had done, he exclaimed, “Bah! what a miserable song! Why, it really seemed as if it would split my ears. How can you, Mister Robin, pretend to sing, when there are those around who understand music so much better?”

“Why, dear little sparrow,” said the robin, “I only sing simple songs, such as nature has taught me; and here is my pretty mate at my side, and she says my song gives her pleasure.”

“The more fool she,” said the sparrow, smartly, “to be captivated with such humdrum stuff. If you want to hear music, you must listen to the catbird, who has been to foreign countries, and the macaws, that are dressed so fine. They have introduced a new style of music, and it’s all the fashion; and your lackadaisical songs are now out of vogue, and none but the vulgar can bear them.”

“Very well, if it be so,” said the robin quietly. “I know my songs are of a very humble kind, but they are still pleasing to me and mine; and I doubt not that my simple melodies give more true pleasure than the more fashionable of these foreign minstrels. One thing proves it, and that is this: when any one of the birds sings our native woodnotes wild, there is a silence all around, and every one has a look of delight. But when one of the fashionable musicians is singing, though the birds roll up their eyes and say, ‘exquisite!’ and ‘enchanting!’ and all that, they look all the time as if they were in the greatest distress. It seems to me very silly for people to praise a thing they dislike or do not understand, merely because it has come into fashion.”

The Mysterious Artist.

(_Continued._)

It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville--this studio, which, during the day, was so animated and cheerful--was now silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young boy, whose sable hue harmonized with the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes sparkled like diamonds at midnight, leaned against an easel, immovable and still. He was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one, who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome mulatto.

“Why do you come here, father?” said he, in a melancholy tone.

“To keep you company, Sebastian.”

“There is no need, father; I can watch alone.”

“But what if the Zombi should come?”

“I do not fear him,” replied the boy, with a pensive smile.

“He may carry you away, my son, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery.”

“Oh, how sad, how dreadful it is to be a slave!” exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly.

“It is the will of God,” replied the negro, with an air of resignation.

“God!” ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered--“God! I pray constantly to him, father, (and I hope he will one day listen to me,) that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go; and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good night, father, good night.”

“Are you really not afraid of the Zombi, Sebastian?”

“My father, that is a superstition of our country. Father Eugenio has assured me that God does not permit supernatural beings to appear on earth.”

“Why then, when the pupils asked you who sketched the figures they find here every morning, did you say it was the Zombi?”

“To amuse myself, father, and to make them laugh; that was all.”

“Then good night, my son;” and, having kissed the boy, the mulatto retired.

The moment Sebastian found himself alone, he uttered an exclamation of joy. Then, suddenly checking himself, he said, “Seventy-five lashes to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more if I do. O my God, come to my aid!” and the little mulatto threw himself upon the mat, which served him for a bed, where he soon fell fast asleep.

Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o’clock. Any other boy would probably have gone to sleep again; not so Sebastian, who had but three hours he could call his own.

“Courage, courage, Sebastian,” he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake; “three hours are thine--only three hours--then profit by them; the rest belong to thy master, slave! Let me at least be my own master for three short hours. So begin; these figures must be effaced;” and, seizing a brush, he approached the virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of the morning dawn, appeared more beautiful. than ever.

“Efface this!” he exclaimed, “efface this! no! I will die first--efface this--they dare not--neither dare I. No! that head--she breathes--she speaks--it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it.”

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he seated himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his occupation. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which seemed bursting into life, to mark the flight of time. “Another touch,” he exclaimed, “a soft shade here--now the mouth. Yes! there! it opens--those eyes--they pierce me through!--what a forehead!--what delicacy! Oh my beautiful--” and Sebastian forgot the hour, forgot he was a slave, forgot his dreaded punishment--all, all was obliterated from the soul of the youthful artist, who thought of nothing, saw nothing, but his beautiful picture.

But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave, when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with the master at their head, standing beside him.

Sebastian never once dreamt of justifying himself, and with his palette in one hand, and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head, awaiting in silence the punishment he believed he justly merited. For some moments a dead silence prevailed; for if Sebastian was confounded at being caught in the commission of such a flagrant crime, Murillo and his pupils were not less astonished at the discovery they had made.

Murillo, having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, who could hardly restrain themselves from giving way to their admiration, approached Sebastian, and concealing his emotion, said, in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful head of the virgin to the terrified slave, who stood like a statue before him,

“Who is your master, Sebastian?”

“You,” replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible.

“I mean your drawing-master,” said Murillo.

“You, Senor,” again replied the trembling slave.

“It cannot be; I never gave you lessons,” said the astonished painter.

“But you gave them to others, and I listened to them,” rejoined the boy, emboldened by the kindness of his master.

“And you have done better than listen--you have profited by them,” exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. “Gentlemen, does this boy merit punishment, or reward?”

At the word punishment, Sebastian’s heart beat quick; the word reward gave him a little courage; but, fearing that his ears deceived him, he looked with timid and imploring eyes towards his master.

“A reward, Senor!” cried the pupils, in a breath.

“That is well; but what shall it be?”

Sebastian began to breathe.

“Ten ducats, at least,” said Mendez.

“Fifteen,” cried Ferdinand.

“No,” said Gonzalo; “a beautiful new dress for the next holiday.”

“Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave, whom none of these rewards seemed to move; “are these things not to your taste? Tell me what you wish for. I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition, that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid.”

“Oh, master, if I dared--” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his master. It was easy to read in the half-opened lips of the boy and his sparkling eyes some devouring thoughts within, which timidity prevented him from uttering.

With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some favor for him to demand.

“Ask gold, Sebastian.”

“Ask rich dresses, Sebastian.”

“Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian.”

A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.

“Ask for the best place in the studio,” said Gonzalo, who, from being the last pupil, had the worst light for his easel.

“Come, take courage,” said Murillo gaily.

“The master is so kind to-day,” said Ferdinand, “that I would risk something. Ask your _freedom_, Sebastian.”

At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, “The freedom of my father! the freedom of my father!”

“And thine, also,” said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his emotion, threw his arms around Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast.

“Your pencil,” he continued, “shows that you have talent; your request proves that you have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day, consider yourself not only as my pupil, but my son. Happy Murillo! I have done more than paint--I have made a painter!”

Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Gomez, known better under the name of the mulatto of Murillo, became one of the most celebrated painters in Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he had been found painting by his master; also a St. Anne, admirably done; a holy Joseph, which is extremely beautiful; and others of the highest merit.

* * * * *

At a crowded lecture the other evening, a young lady standing at the door of the church was addressed by an honest Hibernian, who was in attendance on the occasion, with, “_Indade_, Miss, I should be glad to give you a _sate_, but the _empty_ ones are all full.”

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.