A Journey in Sicily

CHAPTER I.

PALERMO.

IN the latter part of April, 1856, four travellers, one of whom was the present writer, left the Vittoria Hotel at Naples, and at two, P. M., embarked on board the Calabrese steamer, pledged to leave for Palermo precisely at that hour. As, however, our faith in the company’s protestations was by no means so implicit as had been our obedience to their orders, it was with no feeling of surprise that we discovered by many infallible signs that the hour of departure was yet far off. True, the funnel sent up its thick cloud ; the steward in dirty shirt-sleeves stood firm in the gangway, energetically demanding from the baggage-laden traveller the company’s voucher for the fare, without which he may vainly hope to leave the gangway ladder; the decks were crowded in every part with lumber, live and dead. But all these symptoms had to be increased many fold in their intensity before we could hope to get under way; and a single glance at the listless countenances of the bare-legged, bare-armed, red-capped crowd who adhered like polypi to the rough foundation-stones of the mole sufficed to show that the performance they had come to witness would not soon commence. Our berths once visited, we cast about for some quiet position wherein to while away the intervening time. The top of the deck-house offered as pleasant a prospect as could be hoped for, and thither we mounted.

The whole available portion of the deck, poop included, was in possession of a crowd of youngsters, many mere boys, from the Abruzzi, destined to exchange their rags and emptiness for the gay uniform and good rations of King Ferdinand’s soldiery. In point of physical comfort, their gain must be immense ; and very bad must be that government which, despite of these advantages, has forced upon the soldier’s mind discontent and disaffection. No doubt, the spectacle of the Swiss regiments doubly paid, and (on Sundays at least) trebly intoxicated, has something to do with this ill feeling. The raggedness of this troop could be paralleled only by that of the immortal regiment with whom their leader declined to march through Coventry, and was probably even more quaint and fantastic in its character. Chief in singularity were their hats, if hat be the proper designation of the volcanic-looking gray cone which adhered to the head by some inscrutable dynamic law, and seemed rather fitted for carrying out the stratagem of shoeing a troop of horse with felt than for protecting a human skull. A triple row of scalloped black velvet not unfrequently bore testimony to the indomitable love of the nation for ornament; and the same decoration might be found on their garments, whose complicated patchwork reminded us of the humble original from which has sprung our brilliant Harlequin. Shortly our attention was solicited by a pantomimic Roscius, some ten or twelve years old, who, having climbed over the taffrail and cleared a stage of some four feet square, dramatized all practicable scenes, and many apparently impracticable, for he made nothing of presenting two or three personages in rapid interchange. Words were needless, and would have been useless, as the unloading of railway bars by a brawny Northumbrian and his crew drowned all articulate sounds.

Notwithstanding these varied amusements, we were not sorry to see arrive, first, a gray general, obviously the Triton of our minnows, and close behind him the health and police officers of the government, to whose paternal solicitude for our mental and bodily health was to be ascribed our long delay in port. These beneficent influences, incarnated in the form of two portly gentlemen in velvet waistcoats, — an Italian wears a velvet waistcoat, if he can get one, far into the hot months,— began their work of summoning by name each individual from the private to the general, then the passengers, then the crew, and finally, much to our relief, reembarked in the boat, and left us free to pursue our voyage.

We soon left behind the ominous cone of Vesuvius, reported by the best judges to be at present in so unsound a state that nothing can prevent its early fall; sunset left us near the grand precipices of Anacapri, and morning found us with Ustica on our beam, and the semicircle of mountains which enchase the gem of Palermo gradually unfolding their beauties. By ten, A. M., we were in harbor and pulling shorewards to subject ourselves to the scrutiny of custom-house and police. Our passports duly conned over, the functionary, with a sour glance at our valanced faces, inquired if we had letters for any one in the island. Never before had such a question been asked me, nor ever before could I have given other than an humble negative. But the kindness of a friend had luckily provided me with a formidable shield, and a reply, given with well-assumed ease, that I had letters from the English Ambassador for the Viceroy, smoothed the grim feature, and released us from the dread tribunal. The custom-house gave no trouble, and we reembarked to cross about half a mile of water which separated us from the city gate. Here, however, we were destined to experience the influence of the sunny clime: our two stout boatmen persisted in setting their sail, under the utterly false pretence that there was some wind blowing, and fully half an hour elapsed ere we set foot ashore.

This gave me ample time to recall the different aspect of Palermo when first I saw it, in 1849. I had accompanied the noble squadron, English and French, which carried to the Sicilian government the ultimatum of the King of Naples. The scenes of that troubled time passed vividly before me : the mutual salutes of the Admirals; the honors paid by each separately to the flag of Sicily, that flag which we had come to strike, — for such we all knew must be the effect of our withdrawal. I recollected the manly courtesy with which the Sicilians received us, their earnest assurances, that they did not confound our involuntary errand with our personal feelings; and how, when a wild Greek mountaineer from the Piano de’ Greci, unable to comprehend the intricacies of politics, and stupidly imagining that those who were not for him were against him, had insulted one of our officers, the bystanders had interposed so honorably and so swiftly that even the hot blood of our fiery Cymrian hail neither time nor excuse to rise to the boiling-point. I recalled the scene in the Parliament House, when the replies to the King’s message, which had been sent by each chief town, were read by the Speaker: the grave indignation of some,—the somewhat bombastic protestations of others,—the question put of submission or war,— the shout of “ Guerra ! guerra!" ringing too loud, methought, to be good metal; the “ Suoni la tromba” at that night’s theatre, —the digging at the fortifications,—women carrying huge stones, —men more willing to shout for them than to do their own share, — Capuchin friars digging with the best,— finally, the wild dance of men, women, cowled and bearded monks, all together, brandishing their spades and shovels in cadence to the military band. With this came to me the mild smile and doubtful shake of the head of the good Admiral Bandin, and his prophetic remark, — “I have seen much fighting in various parts of the world; and if these men mean to fight, I cannot comprehend them.”

While this mental diorama was unrolling, even Sicilian laziness had time to reach the shore; and passing by a rough mass of rocks, where our second cutter had once run too close for comfort, and the Friedland’s launch had upset and lost two men, we at length landed close to the city gate. A custom-house officer pounced on us for a fee, notwithstanding our examination on first landing, and (“ uno avulso, non deficit aureus alter,”) at the city gate, not thirty yards distant, a third repeated the demand, equivalent to “ Your money or your keys.” A capital breakfast at the Trinacria hotel was the fitting conclusion to these oft-recorded troubles, and the gratifying news that the Viceroy had just left the island for Naples obviated the necessity of a formal visit, and left us free to enjoy the notabilities of Palermo.

The plan of this beautiful city is very simple, being a tolerably accurate square, surrounded by walls, of which the northern face skirts the sea, and the southern faces the head of the lovely valley in which the city stands,— the Golden Shell. Two perfectly straight streets, intersecting in a small, but highly ornamented piazza, traverse the city. The Toledo, or Via Cassaro, — for it bears both these designations,— runs from the sea to the Monreale gate, close to which is the Royal Palace, and the Cathedral square opens from this street. The Via Macqueda contains few buildings of interest except the University. Between the wall and the sea runs the magnificent Marina, a more beautiful promenade than even the Villa Reale of Naples, having on the right the low but picturesque headland of Bagaria, while on the left rise the all but perpendicular rocks of Monte Pellegrino, once the impregnable mountain-throne of Hamilcar Barcas, and later the spot where in a rude cavern, now sheeted with marble and jasper, “ from all the youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God.” The hand-icraftsmen of Palermo still occupy almost exclusively the streets named after their trades,— an indication of immobility rarely to be met with nowadays, though Rome displays it in a minor degree.

We first visited the University Museum. Numerous pictures, far beyond the ordinary degree of badness, occupy the upper rooms, where the only object of interest is a very fine and well-preserved bronze of Hercules and the Pompeian Fawn, half life-size. But far beyond all else in artistic importance are the metopes from Selinuntium, which, though much damaged, show marks of high excellence. They are of clearly different dates, though all very archaic. The oldest represent Perseus cutting off the Gorgon’s head, and Hercules killing two thieves. Perseus has the calm, sleepy look of a Hindoo god, — while Gorgon’s head, with goggle eyes and protruding tongue, resembles a Mexican idol. Hercules and the thieves have more of an Egyptian character. The material of these bas-reliefs is coarse limestone; and in the metopes on the opposite wall, which are clearly of later date, recourse has been had to a curious method of obtaining delicacy in the female forms: the faces, hands, and feet, which alone are visible from among the drapery, are formed of fine marble. An Actæon torn by his dogs is much corroded by sea air, but displays great nobleness of attitude. The vigor in the left arm, which has throttled one of the dogs, can hardly be surpassed. A portion of the cella of one of the temples has been removed hither, and its brilliant polychromy is sufficient to decide the argument as to the existence of the practice, if, indeed, that point be yet in doubt. But it seems that the non-colorists have relinquished the parallel of architecture, which, be it observed, they formerly defended obstinately, and have now intrenched themselves in the citadel of sculpture, intending to hold it, against all evidence. The only other object of much interest was a Pompeian fresco, representing two actors, whose attitudes and masks are so strikingly adapted to express the first scene of the “ Heautontimorumenos,” between Menalcas and Chremes, that it seems scarcely doubtful that this is actually the subject of the painting.

Near the upper end of the Toledo the Cathedral is situated, not very favorably for effect, as only the eastern side is sufficiently free from buildings. It is a noble pile : Northern power and piety expressed by the agency of Southern and Arabic workmen, and somewhat affected by the nationality of the artificer.

The stones are fretted and carved more elaborately than those of any French or English cathedral, but entirely in arabesques and diapering of low relief, so that the spectator misses with regret the solemn rows of saints and patriarchs that enrich the portals of our Gothic minsters. These, however, are reflections of a subsequent date, and did not interfere to mar the pleasure with which we sat in front of the southern door, beneath the two lofty arches, which, springing from the entrance tower, span the street high above our heads. For some time we sat, unwilling to change and it might be impair our sensations by passing inwards. Our reluctance was but too well founded: the whole interior has been modernized in detestable Renaissance style, and in place of highest honor, above the central doorway, sits in tight-buttoned uniform a fitting idol for so ugly a shrine, the double-chinned effigy of the reigning monarch. We turned for comfort to a chapel on the right, where in four sarcophagi of porphyry are deposited the remains of the Northern sovereigns. The bones of Roger repose in a plain oblong chest with a steep ridged roof, and the other three coffins, though somewhat more elaborate, are yet simple and massive, as befits their destined use. The inscription on that of Constantia is touching, as it tells that she was “the last of the great race of Northmen,”—the good old bad Latin “ Northmannorum ” giving the proper title, which we have injudiciously softened into Norman.

In a small piazza near the intersection of the main streets is a Dominican church, whose black and white inlaid marbles are amazing in their elaborateness, astounding in their preposterously bad taste. They transcend description, and can be family imagined only by such as know a huge marble nightmare of waves and clouds in the south aisle of Westminster Abbey. This church contains one good painting of a triumphant experiment conducted by some Dominican friars in the presence of sundry Ulemas and Muftis: a Koran and Bible have been thrown into a blazing fire, and the result is as satisfactory as that of Hercules’s death-grapple with the Nemean lion. To be sure, lions and Turks are not painters. The Martorana church is rich in gold-grounded mosaics, resembling Saint Mark’s at Venice. One represents the coronation of Roger Guiscard by the Saviour: very curious, as showing at how early a date the invaders laid claim to the Right Divine. The inscription is also noteworthy: Rogevins Rex, in the Latin tongue, but the Greek characters, thus: POſEPIO∑ PHX.¹ The Renaissance has invaded this church too, and flowery inlaid marbles with gilded scroll balconies (it is a nuns’ church) mingle with the bold discs and oblong panels of porphyry and green serpentine. In the nave of the small church sat in comfortable arm-chairs two monks,one black, one white, leaning their ears to gilded grates and receiving the confessions of the sisterhood. The paschal candlestick stood in front of the high altar, — Ascension-Day not being past; but here, as in other Sicilian churches, it assumes the form of a seven-branched tree, generally of bronze bedecked with gold. These same nuns’ balconies are not confined to the interior of churches, but form a distinct and picturesque feature in the long line of the Toledo. Projecting in a bold curve whose undersurface is gaily painted in arabesque, their thick bars and narrow openings nevertheless leave a gloomy impression on the mind, while they add to the Oriental character of the city. A somewhat unsuccessful effort to identify the church whose bell gave signal for the Sicilian Vespers closed our day’s labor. The spot is clearly defined and easily recognizable, and a small church, now shut up, occupies the site. So far, so good ; but the cloister which is distinctly mentioned cannot now be found, nor is it easy to perceive where it could have stood. Perhaps some change in the neighboring harbor may have swept it away.

23d April. To those who take interest in the efforts of that age when Christianity, devoid at once of artistic knowledge and of mechanical, strove from among the material and moral wreck of Paganism to create for herself a school of Art which should, despite of all short-comings, be the exponent of those high feelings which inspired her mind, the Royal Chapel of Palermo offers a delightful object of study. Less massive than the gloomily grand basilicas of Rome and Ravenna, surpassed in single features by other churches, as, for instance, the Cathedral of Salerno, it contains, nevertheless, such perfect specimens of Christian Art in its various phases, that this one small building seems a hand-book in itself. The floor and walls are covered with excellently preserved and highly polished Alexandrine mosaic, flowing in varied eonvolutions of green and gold and red round the broad crimson and gray shields, whose circular forms recall the mighty monolith columns of porphyry and granite which yielded such noble spoils. The honey-combed pendentines of the ceiling must be due to Arab workmen ; their like may yet be found in Cairo or the Alhambra ; while below the narrow windows, and extending downwards to the marble panelling, runs a grand series of goldgrounded mosaics, their subjects taken from the Old and New Testaments. But far older than even these are the colossal grim circles of saints and apostles who cling to the roof of the choir, and yield in size only to the awful figures of the Saviour, the Virgin, and Saint Paul, enthroned in the apsides of the nave and aisles. The ambones, though not so large as those of Salerno, are very gorgeous; and the paschal candlestick, here at all events in its usual shape, is of deeply carved marble, and displays an incongruous assemblage of youths, maidens, beasts, birds, and bishops, hanging each from other like a curtain of swarming bees.

Service, which had been going on in the choir when we arrived, had now ceased; but from the crypt below arose a chant so harsh, vibratory, and void of solemnity, that we were irresistibly reminded of the subterranean chorus of demons in “ Robert le Diable.” Two of us ventured below and discovered the chapter, all robed in purple, sitting round a pall with a presumable coffin underneath. Little of reverence did they show, — it is true, the death was not recent, the service being merely commemorative, as we afterwards learned, — and as the procession shortly afterwards emerged and proceeded down the chapel, the unwashed, unshaven, and sensual countenances of some of highest rank among them gave small reason to believe that they could feel much reverence on any subject whatever.

The Palace itself is as tedious as any other palace : the Pompeian room follows the Louis Quinze, and is in turn followed by the Chinese, till, for our comfort, we emerged into one large square hall, whose stiff mosaics of archers killing stags, peacocks feeding at the foot of willow-pattern trees, date from the time of Roger. Another wearisome series of rooms succeeded, which we were bound to traverse in Search of a bronze ram of old Greek workmanship, brought from Syracuse. The work is very good and well-preserved ; in fact, no part is injured, save the tail and a hind leg, whose loss the custode ascribed to the villains of the late revolution. He even charged them with the destruction of another similar statue melted into bullets, if we may believe his incredible tale. A pavilion over the Monreale gate commands a view right down the Toledo to the sea.

The drive to Monreale is a continued ascent along the skirts of a limestone rock, whose precipices are thickly planted at every foothold with olive, Indian fig, and aloe. The valley, as it spread below our gaze, appeared one huge carpet of heavyfruited orange-trees, save where at times a rent in the web left visible the bluish blades of wheat, or the intense green of a flax-plantation.

Monreale is a mere country-town, containing no object of interest, save the Cathedral. This is a noble basilica, grandly proportioned, the nave and aisles of which are separated by monolith pillars, mostly of gray granite, and some few of cipollino and other marbles, the spoils, no doubt, of the ancient Panormus. Above the cornice the walls are entirely sheeted with golden mosaics, representing, as usual, Scripture history. The series which begins, like the speech of the Intendant in “ Los Plaideurs,” “ Avant la création du monde” complies with the wish of (the judge ?) by going on to the Deluge, in a train of singularly meagre figures, most haggard of whom is Cain, here represented (as in the Campo Santo of Pisa) receiving Ins death accidentally from the hand of Lamech. In the passage of the beasts to the Ark, Noah coaxes the lion on board, and in the next compartment the patriarch shoves the king of beasts down the plank in a most ludicrous fashion. The mosaics of the New Testament are less archaic, though still very old, too old to be infected by the tricks of later Romanism,— such, for instance, as introducing the Virgin among the receivers of the mysterious gift of tongues. Saint Paul, both here and at the Royal Chapel, appears under the earlier type adopted whether by fancy or tradition to represent that saint, — that is, a short, strong figure, with the head large, and almost devoid of hair, except at the sides, and one dark lock in the centre of the massive forehead. Over the western door-way is a mosaic of the Virgin with the following leonine and loyal distich beneath it: —

There is an ample square cloister, with twenty-seven pairs of columns on each side, once richly decorated in mosaics like those of San Giovanni Laterano and San Paolo at Rome, but even more dilapidated than either of these latter. Indeed, so entirely non-existent is the mosaic, the twisted and channelled columns showing nothing but places “ where the pasty is not,” that the more probable solution may be that want of funds or of devotion has left the work unfinished. On the capital of one column may be seen the figure of William the Good, who founded the Cathedral in 1170. He bears in his arms a model of the building, which here appears with circular-headed windows instead of the lanceolated Gothic now existing.

In, perhaps, the very loveliest of the many lovely sites around Palermo stands the small Moorish building of La Ziza. Moorish it may be called ; for the main feature of the edifice, a hall with a fountain trickling along a channel in the pavements, is clearly due to the Saracens. These, however, had availed themselves of Roman columns to support their fretted ceilings, once gorgeous in color, but now desecrated with whitewash. The Norman invaders have added their neverfalling gold mosaic,— while the Spaniard, after painting sundry scenes from Ovid's “ Metamorphoses ” in a dreadfully barocco style, calls upon the world, in those magniloquent phrases which somehow belong as of right to your mighty Don, to admire the exquisite commingling of modern art with antique beauty, to which his fiat has given birth.

Somewhat of Spain, perhaps, might also be traced in an incident, promisingly romantic, but coming to a most lame and impotent conclusion, which occurred this afternoon to one of our party. While busily sketching, in the Martorana church, the previously mentioned mosaic of Roger’s coronation, a hand protruded from the gilded lattice above, and a small scroll was dropped, not precisely at the feet, but in the neighborhood of the amazed artist,. Sharp eyes, however, must be at work ; for, ere he could appropriate this mysterious waif on Love's manor, a side-door opened, and an attendant in the very unpoetical garb of a carpenter bore off the prize. It may be presumed that the next confessor who occupied an arm-chair in the church would have somewhat of novelty to enliven what some priests have stated to be the most wearisome of the work, namely, the hearing of confessions in a nunnery.

This evening was passed in the house of the British Consul, who, in amusing recognition of our nationalities, comprising, as they did, both branches of the Anglo-Saxon race, treated us to Lemann's captain’s - biscuit and Boston crackers. Notwithstanding the interesting conversation of our host, who had not allowed a residence of many years in a mind-rusting city to impair his love of literature, a love dating from the time when Praed edited the “Etonian,” and Metius Tarpa contributed to the “College Magazine,” we were obliged to leave early. Our arrangements tor a very early start next morning were completed, and a thirty miles’ ride lay before us.

To save further allusion to them, it may be as well to describe these arrangements, which were made for us by Signor Ragusa, landlord of the Trinacria hotel. A guide, Giuseppe Agnelto by name, took upon himself the whole responsibility of our board, lodging, and travelling, at a fixed rate of forty-two (?) carlini a head,—which sum, including his buonamano and return voyage from Sy racuse or Messina, amounted to about twenty francs each per diem. For this sum he furnished us with good mules, a hearty breakiast at daybreak, cold meat and hard eggs at noon, ami a plentiful dinner or supper, call it which you choose, on arriving at our night’s quarters. Agnello himself was cook, and proved a very tolerable one. This is essential ; for Spanish custom prevails in the inns, whose host considers his duty accomplished when lie has provided ample stabling for the mules and dubious bedding for Ills biped guests.

[To be continued.]