It was dark when we arrived at Giardini, a poor fishing village, the station for Taormina. After the stuffy smoking carriage, the fresh salt air on the cheek felt like a caress. Ciro, cousin of Gasperone, was recognized by his white horse, his yellow wheels; he adopted us on sight, tucked us, hold-all, camera and Gladstone bag, into his minute cab, sprang to the box, cracked his whip. “Hotel Timeo?” The white horse, blind of one eye, bravely began the stiff three-mile climb. Below us was the beach; we saw the pale tossing of the surf, heard the waves break with a roar, hiss across the sands, sigh as they slipped back to the sea. At each turn of the road the lights of the fishermen’s huts at Giardini shone dimmer, the twinkling lamps of Taormina brighter; the keen savor of the sea grew fainter, there came a whiff of mignonette. [Illustration: MESSINA. AMERICAN QUARTER. _Page 309._] [Illustration: AN ERUPTION OF MT. ETNA. _Page 318._] [Illustration: THE ROAD TO TAORMINA. _Page 312._] “Behold the garden of his Excellency the Duca di Bronté,” Ciro pointed to a row of white columns, glimmering in the darkness. Bronté, the name of the old Sicilian Titan, means thunder; a good title for that modern Titan, Lord Nelson, the great admiral, the friend of Italy. History repeats itself; his descendant, the present Duke, leader of the British relief work here, has proved the hereditary friendship. In 1799 the estate of Maniace and Bronté with the title, Duca di Bronté, were conferred in perpetuity upon Lord Nelson and his descendants. The present Duke, the second son of the house, inherited the title because he devoted his life to the care of this valuable estate, famous for its vineyards, almond and olive groves. I have heard Marion Crawford tell of a visit to Maniace, of the picturesque old house, the moat, the Norman church, the regiment of armed retainers, the feudal state the Duke maintains. When you meet the Duke in London, he is the Honorable A. Nelson Hood. Isn’t that a splendid pose? An English “Honorable” is worth more than a foreign title of Duke. Ah, that’s the grand spirit that makes England what she is, that makes us what we are today! Later I found out the history of that garden. The Duke bought the land, meaning to build a house and make a garden at Taormina. It was found that the soil was not firm enough; it lay too thinly over the great rock. The architect could not guarantee that the whole hillside would not come sliding down into the sea--at least this was the gossip of Taormina. The Duke, therefore, had to be content with his garden. It is a perpetual joy to all who pass up the long hill; by day you see its white columns shining in the sun, its flowers spread like a rich Persian carpet; by night you catch the glimmer of the pillars, the scent of mignonette.