It was in December, 1908, from the deck of the ill-fated P. & O. S. Egypt, that I last saw Etna in an angry mood.
As the dusk of a winter evening fell, the flickering red glow in the sky could be seen more than 100 miles away.
A little after midnight we entered the straits of Messina. Even at that late hour the twin cities of Messina and Reggie, spread out on either side of us, still brilliantly illuminated, presented a fairylike picture, and once a crowded steam ferry, blazing with lights, crossed our bows on its short journey from the Siciliam shore to the mainland of Italy.
Wireless was then in its infancy, and it was not until the ship reached Marseilles that we learnt that within less than 24 hours of our passing, those busy and beau_ tifal towns had been almost wiped out of existence by a terrific earthquake and tidal wave.
Soon after leaving the straits one passes the island voleano of Stromboli, and she was giving a Brock's benefit performance that night. From a distance of several miles we could hear the mountain growling like a giant in pain; ever and anon the black pall of
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.