 | A WALK IN CATANIA. Isabel, or, Sicily |  |
A WALK IN CATANIA.
No scene of life but has contributed
Much to remember.”
Rogers
“What wise book so engages your attention?”
asked Isabel of her uncle, who had been for some time
intent upon a little parchment-bound volume. “It is a
literary curiosity, given me by our host to amuse myself
with till we go out, being nothing more nor less than
his album, wherein his merits are set forth in all languages,
and in every variety of terms. One praises
him as a cicerone in ascending the mountain, one as
a caterer, and another as a nurse. There is an essay
on the instability of fame, and a warning to beware
of the moroseness of declining years. An Italian
merchant reiterates again and again, that what he
says in the landlord's praise is true, as if he realized
the slight tenure of his nation's reputation for integrity;
and an Englishman begs leave to recommend
the inn to his countrymen, as if no other individuals
are sonnets and aphorisms, quotations and parodies,
and I cannot tell whether the volume owes its variety
to the quaint mood of the travellers, or the peculiar
quality of our host's wine.”
“Not less than half the inhabitants of this town,”
said the Count, as they went forth on their proposed
walk, “derive their subsistence from the silk manufacture.
Half the houses are provided with looms;
and the raw material, purchased at fairs of the country
people, is woven by the poorer class of citizens,
and sold to the fabricant, who, in his turn, executes
the orders of the merchant.”
“Pride, if not policy,” said Frazier, as they passed
the immense skeleton of a palace, “would lead an
American or an Englishman to finish such an edifice
when so far completed.”
“Economy is a more powerful motive here,” replied
Vittorio; “the noble proprietor after proceeding
to this extent in erecting his dwelling found that the
opposite wing was sufficient for his purposes; and
therefore took possession of it, leaving, without a
particle of compunction, this unsightly wall to deform
the street.”
A number of young men wearing cocked hats, and
another group in flowing gowns of red bombazine,
passed by and attracted the notice of Isabel. “Here
you see,” said the Count, “a good illustration of the
efforts constantly made in this part of the world to
divide the ranks of society. That first knot of youths
are the sons of noblemen, and members of a college
The café at that corner is frequented only
by the nobility; the one at this by the citizens.”
The lofty court-yard of the college, the massive front
or commanding position of a convent, or the extensive
structures appropriated as hospitals, by turns
excited the inquiries of the strangers. They strolled
along the small but pleasant marina, and marked the
mole formed by the lava, as it was arrested after
invading the sea, and the narrow bed of the river
filled with women busily washing. They paused in
the principal piazza to observe the old statue of the
elephant bearing a small Egyptian obelisk; and stood
for some time in the sacristy of the cathedral, before
a rough fresco painting, representing the eruption of
1669. As they were walking up the Strada Etnea,
and admiring the fine vista, an old gateway at one
end and the mountain at the other, they perceived a
crowd entering a church. Joining the throng, they
found themselves suddenly removed from the noise
and bustle of a public street into the solemn precincts
of a religious temple, and in view of an affecting
ceremony. It was the funeral of a nun. Behind
a temporary partition, covered with black cloth, and
marked with the effigies of death, a band of musicians
were performing. At several of the altars
priests were celebrating mass. Far above, through
gilt gratings, appeared the sisterhood, their heads
concealed in white folds, and their dark eyes bent
through the apertures, down upon the crowd. The
marble floor was quite covered with kneeling figures,
shawls thrown slightly over their shoulders, and
others in bonnets and cloaks. Behind the railing,
near one of the altars, extended upon an open bier,
and shrouded in black, was seen the corpse. A
bunch of artificial flowers nodded over the head, a
crucifix lay upon the breast, and fresh rose leaves
were scattered over the shroud. Prayer after prayer
was said, response after response uttered, and strain
after strain of sacred music performed, till the body
was borne away for interment, and the crowd
dispersed.
When Isabel again joined the passing multitude it
was with a mind solemnized by this unexpected
scene. Vittorio had met an acquaintance in the
church and learned something of the nun's history.
“The poor girl,” said he, “was not twenty years old
on the day of her death. Her father was a wealthy
tradesman, and was very willing his daughter should
take the vows, as the cost of an entertainment consequent
upon her profession would not by any means
equal the dowry which might reasonably be demanded
in case of her marriage. The one cost a few hundreds;
the other would have required thousands. She
was therefore unhesitatingly consigned to the convent;
and every one praised the munificence of her
father when they beheld the fireworks and tasted the-comfits
provided at his expense, on the evening of
her initiation. It was but seven months since; and
now she is in her grave. To such intensity of selfishness
will avarice and superstition sometimes bring
piety lead a woman.”
“Perhaps,” said Isabel, “she was unhappy in her
home. Perhaps she pined for a love not there vouchsafed
her. Perhaps her young heart was wasted and
worn with unavailing yearning, her best feelings checked
by repeated disappointments; her warm affections
chilled and blighted by neglect. Then it was but
natural that she should turn from her home, and seek
such an asylum as she would a living death. I
fancied I could read the lines of care as well as the
ravages of disease upon her dead face.”
“At all events,” said Vittorio, “her course was
the reverse of woman's lot as Heaven ordained it. No
more certain is it that the flower was made to waft
perfume than that woman's destiny is a ministry of
love, a life of the affections. And she who voluntarily
abandons the world, resigns the part assigned
her by the Creator in the elevation of society, in
refining, soothing, and making happy the human
heart. She abandons the sick couch whose weariness
none else can assuage; she leaves the world's denizen,
whose worldliness she could best have tempered;
she quits the despondent, whom she might have
cheered, and the young being whose delicate impulses
she is best fitted to guide to virtue. Her duty, toilsome
and self sacrificing as it often is, is yet noble,
and may be made angelic.”
“Did you remark,” enquired Isabel, “that people
of every description were continually entering the
church during the funeral? Idle young men, roughly-attired
market, and children returning from school—all went
in, breathed a prayer for the dead, and then hastened
away on their several errands. I could not but think,
with all my protestant prejudices, how salutary might
sometimes be the effect of such ceremonies encountered
as they are in every state of mind and without
warning.”
No brighter hour had smiled upon their pilgrimage
than when they reached the beautiful convent
of the Benedictines. Passing through the magnificent
entrance, and up the lofty staircase, they threaded
the spacious corridors lined with the chambers of the
fraternity, over the doors of which are full-length
pictures of saints, and entered the superb garden of the
monastery. Isabel wandered away from her companions,
and paced the neatly-paved walks in silent
delight. The deep and compact verdure of the cypress
and myrtles, trimmed in the English style into
fine artificial forms, refreshed the eye on every side.
Roses flaunted their rich tints in the morning breeze;
geraniums perfumed the air, and the yellow blossoms
of the cassia tree waved in rich contrast with its
soft green leaves. Little white monuments, planted
at intervals among the shrubs, basins of gold-fish,
and neatly decorated terraces, combined to form a
scene more like the sweet pictures of Eastern climes
than a present reality. From the extremities of the
walks, far round the massive enclosure, was visible, in
crude and heavy piles, the lava of 1669, which
stayed its fatal course only at the walls of the convent;
which seems congenial to so unkindly a soil—
the thick and heavy branches of the prickly pear.
Above towered Etna; around spread the olive hills.
Never had Isabel beheld so delightful a garden.
Seated upon one of the stone benches, or slowly
walking to and fro in the cheerful alleys, she long
lingered in the pleasant domain, while her uncle
sought in the museum of the monastery, entertainment
more accordant with his taste. One of the old gardners
gathered her a bouquet, and another proferred
a large cluster of blood-oranges plucked from an
overladen tree.
“And this is winter!” she exclaimed to the Count.
“It is surely no great merit to prefer so lovely a
retreat to the rude highway of the world. In reading
and communing with Nature, methinks life might
pass here in quiet but enviable enjoyment, did I not
know that local circumstances, however auspicious,
could not satisfy the wants of the soul, that the fairest
flowers of earth could not atone for neglected affections,
nor the most delightful scenery brighten into
beauty the desert of inaction.”
“You speak most truly. Yet of the many monastic
retreats which I have visited, no one seems half
so inviting as this. There is a peculiar gloom in
most of the convents on the continent, and a stern
look about the fraternities. Here, on the contrary,
you perceive a light and elegant air pervading the
whole institution. The members of this convent are
Their library is excellent, and the situation and arrangement
of their abode, as you see, most charming.
But I have ever thought that solitary and barren
prospects were more in unison with the spirit and
aim of monachism. If it is for human good to be altogether
absorbed in self-contemplation, then let not
Nature and Art be invoked for their treasures. Let
there be no symbol of beauty to call off the spirit
from meditation, and no hue of freshness to divert
the ever-present thought of death. In this very
clinging to the fair emblems of nature and humanity,
which we see in the monks, I find an evidence of the
fallacy of their theory.”
“What an irrational investment of an income of
more than twenty thousand dollars!” said Frazier,
who now joined them, “to feed and clothe a body of
men, who have ignobly turned aside from the warfare
of life. Were I king, or rather president of
Sicily, I would, in my first message to congress,
recommend that these sleek gentlemen should be
punished for such a selfish appropriation of their
patrimonies, by being obliged to transfer them to the
public treasury for a charity fund.”
“This picture,” said Vittorio, as they entered the
church, “represents St. Benedict receiving into the
convent two princes, presented to him by their
father. What a benignant expression glows in the
old man's face! It is one of the finest pictures
in Catania. Most of the other paintings are of
superstition. Do you see those gaily-pictured Turks,
and that flying figure drawing up the boy through
the ceiling? That child, they say, was stolen from
Catania, by the infidels, and, employed as a house-servant.
One day, as he waited on them at dinner,
he was observed to weep, `Why do you grieve?'
asked his master. `Because,' said the child, `to-day
is a great festival in my country—the feast of St.
Nicholas, and I was thinking of my father and mother,
my brothers and sisters—how happy they are,
and I in a foreign land and a slave!' Upon this the
Turks abused him, and ridiculed his faith to such a
degree, that St. Nicholas, feeling his dignity insulted,
came through the wall and bore the child away by
the hair of his head, before the eyes of the astonished
infidels, as you see there depicted.” Before his
auditors could comment upon this characteristic
miracle, their attention was more pleasingly arrested.
The thrilling notes of the splendid organ, one of the
most celebrated in Europe, resounded through the
church. Now breathing in soft, flute-like cadences,
now ringing like a fine harp string, and anon pealing
forth with the sound of a trumpet, it vibrated upon
the ear, and entranced the heart of Isabel. The
spirit of devotion awoke as she listened. She silently
commended herself to heaven. The music ceased,
as they stood within the richly-carved choir, and
directly over the tablet behind the altar, beneath
which the brotherhood are buried. Impressed with
spacious temple; Frazier lamenting its inutility,
Vittorio regretting the distasteful lightness which mars
its just effect, and Isabel rejoicing in its holy influences.
| A WALK IN CATANIA. Isabel, or, Sicily | |