An inscription on a neighbouring ruin runs to the effect that the
mansion having been severely damaged in the earthquake of 1783, its
owner had rebuilt it on lines calculated to defy future shattering!
Whether he would rebuild it yet again?
Nevertheless, there seems to be some chance for the revival of Reggio;
its prognosis is not utterly hopeless.
But Messina is in desperate case.
That haughty sea-front, with its long line of imposing edifices - imagine
a painted theatre decoration of cardboard through which some sportive
behemoth has been jumping with frantic glee; there you have it. And
within, all is desolation; the wreckage reaches to the windows; you must
clamber over it as best you can. What an all-absorbing post-tertiary
deposit for future generations, for the crafty antiquarian who deciphers
the history of mankind out of kitchen-middens and deformed heaps of
forgotten trash! The whole social life of the citizens, their arts,
domestic economy, and pastimes, lies embedded in that rubbish. "A
musical race," he will conclude, observing the number of decayed
pianofortes, guitars, and mandolines. The climate of Messina, he will
further arene, must have been a wet one, inasmuch as there are umbrellas
everywhere, standing upright among the debris, leaning all forlorn
against the ruins, or peering dismally from under them. It rained much
during those awful days, and umbrellas were at a premium. Yet fifty of
them would not have purchased a loaf of bread.
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