University of Virginia Library

VITTORIO.

The site of the Villa Giulia, or public garden of
Palermo, with the exception of its low and therefore
somewhat humid position, is singularly felicitous.
It is separated, in its whole length, from the sea
only by the Marina, and as there are no intervening
buildings, the whole extent of the bay is open to the
eye of the wanderer through its verdant precincts.
And however warm may be the season, one can
scarcely fail before noon, or at sunset, to discover
some shady recess which is freely visited by the
breeze from the water. Adjoining this favorite
retreat is the Botanical garden, whose lofty palm trees
rise picturesquely to the eye, giving an aspect of
oriental beauty to that portion of the prospect. It was
through this enclosure, that during the late seige the

troops from Naples affected their approach to the
walls, and the rich exotics which adorned the establishment
were crushed beneath the ruthless feet
of the soldiery. The more public grounds of the
adjacent garden once witnessed a still more sacrilegious
scene. During the sway of the Inquisition, a
priest and nun were burnt alive on this spot, in the
presence of an immense assemblage, for having declared
themselves favored by miraculous visions.
There is nothing now to remind the visitor of these
or similar events. The noble entrance of the Botanical
institution conducts him into a circular apartment
classically adorned, whence a fine vista of
foreign trees, and several admirably constructed
stuffos, are discoverable; and the utmost neatness,
order, and beauty, gratify the eye. The Villa is
somewhat more extensive, and is tastefully laid out
into alleys shaded with the interwoven branches of
the orange trees, and diversified with parterres of
flowers, statues, and fountains; forming one of those
quiet and delightful resorts which are planted, with
such beautiful wisdom, amid the dense buildings and
confined thoroughfares of European cities. For
several hours during Sunday, in the spring and summer,
a band stationed about the centre of the garden
enliven the throng with a variety of airs; and the
scene, at these periods, is one of the most pleasant
imaginable, as all classes of citizens are seen strolling
in parties through the paths, clustered listlessly about
the fountains, or conversing in groups, in some retired
nook of the extensive grounds.

It was during one of their promenades in this
favourite spot, on a clear bright morning, that Count
Vittorio was induced, at the earnest wish of his
companions, to speak of his former life. The garden
was almost solitary. The season and the spot
awakened the early associations of the Count; and
the sight of a rosy little child; setting at defiance the
entreaties and threats of his nurse as he shouted and
gambolled along the walks, carried him back to the
well-remembered days when he had sported in that
very garden under similar surveillance. Yeilding to
the impulse of awakened memory, he imparted to
his attentive and deeply-interested friends a sketch
of his experience, in that spirit of confidence and
freedom, which the breath of Nature and the spell of
congenial companionship naturally awakens.

“The memory of my earliest years confirms the
general idea that the first epoch in life, however distinguished
by exuberance of feeling and earnest curiosity,
is not necessarily the period when the leading
traits of character are manifested, or its highest
principles formed. I remember my early boyhood
as a period of intense pleasure and frequent though
not lasting disappointment. Every object and agency
which appealed to natural sentiment found an instant
response in my heart. For several years my
daily pastime consisted in gazing from the balcony
of our palace which overlooked the principal street.
The narrow bounds of this little gallery constituted
the sanctum of my childhood. I ran to and fro over
its tiled floor, and peeped through the iron-wrought

balustrade; while my mother sat at her embroidery
frame near the open window, watching my sports.
Here dawned upon my young mind its first notions
of the world. Hour by hour, I gazed down upon the
passing crowd, and to the silent observation of those
childish days I can trace many of the opinions and
prejudices of after years. I saw a moving panorama
of human life, and deeply sank its lessons into
my mind. There were two classes of men who, even
at that hour, were the objects of my dislike, and
against whom there grew up in my breast an inveterate
antipathy, which after experience, unhappily,
has not tended to remove. These were soldiers and
priests. The former I detested partly perhaps on
account of their stern manner, but chiefly because I
saw them conducting the prisoners, whose fettered
limbs and miserable appearance excited my pity.
The latter awakened my abhorrence from the moment
that I was the witness of the overbearing
demeanor of one of their fraternity who visited our
house, and with a cold pertinacity which roused my
impotent anger, persisted in being informed of every
detail of our domestic affairs. I was especially annoyed
at the number of these two classes which
mingled in the passing crowd; and when any priestly
procession or regiment of soldiers entered the
Toledo, instead of remaining at my post, I would run
to the very extremity of the saloon and shut my ears
against the sound of the approaching drum or the
rising chant. This conduct surprised my mother, and
she endeavored, but without effect, to correct these
prejudices, particularly that against the priests; for
being herself a strict catholic, she considered the
feeling I manifested toward the professed ministers of
the faith as fraught with danger. Her apprehensions,
however, were much lessened by the pleasure
I evinced in attending the functions on feast days at
St. Giuseppe. She knew not that it was the grand
strain of the organ and the solemn architecture
which charmed me, and that often, as I was kneeling
beside her on the marble floor, my imagination
awakened by these incentives was wandering in
wild dreams and vague speculations, while my lips
mechanically repeated the words of the mass. My
other great source of pleasure was listening to the
singing of the daughter of one of our neighbors.
This lady, like most of the Sicilians, had large eyes
of the most brilliant jet. Her voice was of great
compass and she sang with much naïvete and pathos.
She was very partial to me, and as often as I could
obtain permission to visit her house, she would sing
my favorite airs, and bend her dark eyes in kindness
upon me as I sat, lost in delight, upon a stool at her
feet. These amusements, with occasional pic-nic excursions
in the summer, made up the history of my
childhood. Simple as the circle of this experience
seems, it was not altogether inadequate to the nature
to which it ministered. My affections—those eternal
fountains in whose freshness, purity, and freedom the
happiness of humanity is most deeply involved—were
gratified and cherished. My mind—that intelligent
power in the expansion and culture of which so much of
human progress and energy consists—feasted on the
glory of nature and the variety of the human world.
Curiosity was not then satiated; the sense of wonder
had not become palsied; feeling was vivid, responsive
and earnest, glowing with the intensity of its
celestial origin. When first I began to reason, it
seemed to me men were prone to exaggerate the
happiness of childhood. I thought it so glorious a
thing to inquire, to unroll the scroll of knowledge, and
to see everything in the light of science. The illusion
was temporary. I soon learned that the less of
the spontaneous there is in character, the less also is
there of interest; that technicality can petrify truth,
and that the sooner the rosy glow of life's morning
fades from the spirit's domain, the faster gathers
over it the chill shadow of the world and the dim
atmosphere of Time.

“But long before childhood was merged in youth I
was called to trial. My mother died. Every circumstance
of this event remains impressed upon my
mind, but it was not until years after its occurrence
that I realized its consequences. The greatest misfortune
that can happen to a young man is such a
bereavement. Nought can recompense him for the
loss of a mother. A father's affection is generally
more worldly. It is too often graduated by the degree
of success with which his son may meet in the
pursuit of wealth or fame. A mother's love is more
of an inborn and self-nourished sentiment. I know
we have recorded signal instances of parental ambition
in women; but it has far oftener been my lot to

witness the manifestations of an attachment infinitely
purer. To a man of true and deep sentiment there
is no greater consolation in the whole range of his
affections, than the consciousness that there is one
being who loves him for his own sake; whose devotion
the changes of his fortunes will not influence,
and to whose eye the fairest laurels cannot make
him dearer; who loves him individually and regards
the circumstances, the wealth, the honors that may
environ him only as temporary means of his enjoyment—a
graceful drapery which, if the rude blast of
misfortune throws off, will but make her clasp him
closer to her heart and more tenderly cherish him in
her love. But it was only by slow degrees that the
extent of this early loss came home to my mind;
and its memory proved one of the most subduing and
chastening thoughts which visited my impetuous
youth. Another of its good effects was its influence
upon my social life. I cultivated from a mere boy
such female society as was calculated to elevate my
mind and call forth my best feelings. My heart has
never been suffered to indurate from the absence
of that gentler companionship, without the influence
of which all that is most refined in man would be
superseded. There has ever been within the scope
of my acquaintance some fair being who has found
the time and the feeling amid more binding relations,
to evince a soul-soothing interest which cheered my
orphanage. I have never been wholly motherless.

“My father's mind was now entirely devoted to political
schemes. He was an ardent republican, and

for many years had been secretly engaged in a confederacy
to secure the independence of Sicily. And
when the dearest of his domestic ties was severed,
all the energy of his nature was concentrated upon
this darling purpose. Although I was but a child,
yet from my reflective turn my father reposed a
confidence in me which I have since recalled with
wonder. I was his sole companion at home, and
after returning from the conclave, he would sit in the
hall, now bereft of the presence which hallowed
it to his view, and drawing me to his side, half-soliloquize
over his past happiness and present objects,
while I looked my sympathy and caught, perhaps,
more of the spirit of his designs than he could
have imagined. How vivid is the retrospect of those
hours! I can see before me now the long and lofty
apartment, its ranges of sofas, and gilded cornices,
the brightly-painted frescos on the ceiling, the table
covered with little memorials (the delight of my
childhood) of my mother's tasteful handiwork, the
alabaster vase daily filled with flowers; and, in the
shade of the curtains, the figure of my father in his
sable dress, his pale features shaded by a cap of
black velvet, and his eye resting musingly and mournfully
on me, as he unconsciously poured forth the
feelings which overcharged his breast. To the solemnising
effect of these seasons, I attribute much of the
thoughtfulness which distinguished my youth. I felt
myself marked out and signalised by being thus made
the confidant of my father. The sense of character
soon dawned upon me. The idea of responsibility
was precociously developed. I began early to think.
Though mute on the great subject of my parent's
thoughts, though inadequate to comprehend the
extent of his aim and the importance of his object,
yet I understood distinctly, I felt deeply that my
country was depressed, subject to an exterior domination,
and that her enfranchisement was in contemplation.
I cannot tell you how the grandeur of this
design delighted my young fancy. It was the subject
of each day's musing and each night's dreams.
The very vagueness of my conceptions increased
their power. Often have I left the servant who attended
me, at the church of St. Rosalia, and climbed
to the telegraph on the summit of Mount Pelegrino,
and gazing thence over the lovely valley of Palermo,
and sea-ward to the Eolian isles—thought of the new
glory which would illumine the scene beneath the
smile of Liberty. True, I knew not clearly the nature
of the blessing; but I had learned to think that in its
train all others came, and I understood it to be especially
inimical to soldiers and priests—the objects of
my boyish detestation. I knew something, too, of
the history of my native island, and images of ancient
glory, ill-defined but glowing, fed the flame of my
enthusiasm. It was June. The luxuriance of summer
without its scorching heat breathed, like a conscious
presence, around the dense confines of the
city. To my young being the time was full of inspiration;
and one breezy evening as I sat on a granite
bench upon yonder terrace, looking on the gay
groups below, and feeling the exhilarating breath of
the sea, I followed a poetical vein which I had often
indulged, and wrote upon my tablets an Invocation to
my country. These verses, some years afterwards
when I was learning your language, I translated, and
repeat them, because they will give you a good idea
of the wild wishes of that hour.

“The secret party of which my father was so devoted
a member were doomed to disappointment,
from a cause which has often occasioned the failure of

popular movements—premature action on the part of
those least fitted to assume the responsibility. Among
the many ancient traditions relative to this island is
that which asserts that it once formed part of the
mainland. If there is any truth in this, it might
appear that with the convulsion of Nature which
divided it from the continent, sprang up a similar line
of demarcation between the inhabitants of the two territories;
for the present, cordial hatred existing between
the Sicilians and Neapolitans is an antipathy
inherited from the earliest time, and at no period
have the inhabitants of Sicily been reconciled to the
idea of forming a constituent part of the kingdom of
Naples. If any other motive had been requisite to
render their independence more obviously desirable,
it was furnished by the experience they had of the
English constitution during the brief continuance of
the British domination. In the summer of 1820, the
popular feeling on this subject reached its acme. At
the feast of St. Rosalia, while mass was celebrating
at the cathedral, the first indication of an approaching
tumult was given by some person in the crowd suddenly
and repeatedly exclaiming “Liberty, and the
Constitution!” In the evening three soldiers passed
through the streets wearing the badge of the Carbonari.
The commanding officer went in person to
arrest them, but was surrounded by the people, and
narrowly escaped with his life. The next day the
populace forced from the authorities an order of
admittance into the arsenal, and there supplied themselves
with arms. This success emboldened them
beyond measure. A Franciscan friar, whom intoxication
had infuriated, appeared in their midst, urging
them on to sanguinary effort. Their latent superstition
was awakened. They looked upon the long
beard and sacred habit of their monkish leader and,
with one voice, declared him to be Moses commissioned
by Heaven to secure their independence. The
prison was thrown open and the city echoed with the
noise of conflict. For several days anarchy reigned
in Palermo. The rabble intoxicated with their temporary
triumphs, gave themselves up to indiscriminate
rapine and butchery. The horrid scenes then
enacted, the license and brutality which prevailed
indicated the utter unfitness of the people for the dignity
and blessings of political freedom. Slowly but
surely this impression gained upon the reluctant mind
of my father. Still he exerted himself to wrest the
newly-acquired power from the mob, and restore order
and peace. After sometime this was affected. A
provisional government was established, and for a
few months the capital of Sicily was nominally independent.
But small was the satisfaction which this
long-desired condition brought to the minds of the
intelligent patriots. They could effect no unity of
sentimennt or action between the different parts of
the island. Messina, mindful of her long rivalry with
the metropolis, refused to take part in the cause.
The Neapolitan troops stationed themselves near the
walls, and after repeated repulses were finally admitted
within the gates. A year afterwards the inhabitants
were prohibited from holding arms without
a license, the usual enginery of despotism was reestablished,
and the leaders of the struggle and known
advocates of liberal principles were executed or
banished. The latter was my father's fate; and as
the mountains of our native island faded from our
view, the last hope of patriotic success vanished
drearily from his mind, and the first bright and absorbing
dream of boyhood melted like a mist from
my sanguine heart.

“We soon repaired to England. There, when
habit had somewhat reconciled me to the reserve of
northern manners, and practice had given me the
command of your native tongue, I was conscious
of a new and important era of mental experience.
I became deeply interested in the study of English
literature. I communed with the master-spirits of that
noble lore, enriching my mind with philosophical truth
and my imagination with poetic beauty of a deeper
and more elevating character than the prevailing
literature of the South had afforded me. But from
these studies I gained general ideas rather than fixed
principles. This was the more to be regretted as I
soon arrived at one of those gloomy epochs of life,
more or less known to us all, where “of necessity
the soul must be its own support.” My father, wearied
with disappointment and rendered restless by the
changes which had followed in such rapid succession
upon his declining years, sunk under the effects of a
fever, and grief and anxiety would have soon laid
me beside him had I not yielded to the urgency of
friends and changed the scene and climate. I selected

Malta for the place of my destination chiefly because
of its contiguity to my native island. I little thought,
in the dejected mood in which I embarked, of the
consolation there awaiting me. So happy is the
retrospect of my visit, notwithstanding it occurred
at one of the saddest periods of my life, that I dwell
upon every circumstance attending it with unabated
pleasure. The day of my arrival and those immediately
succeeding it are thus brightly present to my
memory, because they are associated with one of the
most blessed occasions of my youth. It was then
that I gained one of the greatest of human acquisitions,
a sense of important truths, in the light of which
the darkness and doubt which over-shadowed my
spirit were suddenly dissipated.

“The sun shone clearly as we neared Malta. The
warmth of the atmosphere, the deep blue tint of the
water, and the tones in which we were greeted, made
me realize that I had once more entered the precincts
of Southern Europe. In the distance, more like a
pictorial than a real scene, rose the ancient city. Its
peculiar hue, the long line of massive battlements, and
the darkly wrought domes chained our attention. In a
few moments we were at anchor in the quarantine
harbor between two forts. A clump of verdure
relieved the eye as it rested on the heavy walls, all
wearing the same dim yellow or greyish shade; and
the picturesque figures of the Highland regiment gave
animation to the scene. The view was beautiful after
the moon rose. The shadow of the dark wall on the
calm tide, the soothing reflection of the light, the perfect

repose, was all in striking contrast to the scenes of
bloodshed, and the sounds of death with which my
memory was busy. On the evening of the next day we
received permission to go round to the grand harbor.
As, towed by fifteen boats, we slowly proceeded, at
sunset, from every new point, the city spread out
before us,—the long bastions dotted with moss, at
whose wave-washed foundations the restless tide
now moaned; above them dark ranges of buildings,
and around various craft plying. We entered the
harbor between the memorable castles of St. Elmo and
St. Angelo, and were soon moored by the quay, along
which were swarming the motley crowd ever to be
seen at night-fall in such a place. It was not until
the succeeding evening that we obtained pratique.
As I walked up the Nix-Mangare stairs, the supplicating
voices of the beggars, the silent sternness of
the soldiery, the clanking fetters of the convicts
sweeping the streets, and here and there a shrine,
carried me at once back to my home and the days of
childhood. The intervening space of time seemed
annihilated. Nor was this feeling lessened on entering
our hotel, which had been a knight's palace. The
stone floors, painted walls, and lofty ceilings, were
strangely familiar. A new sense of my loneliness,
of all that I had lost and suffered came over me. I
felt more keenly than ever that I was an orphan and
an exile.

“My companions, without understanding the nature
of my melancholy, strove to divert it, and dragged
me that very evening to a ball given by the officers

of the regiments then quartered in the island. The
display was very brilliant. At the entrance of the
hall were four suits of ancient armour arranged at
the corners of a kind of military tent, and at the
head of the ball-room was a fine staff of colors surrounding
the British escutcheon. The scarlet uniform
of the military, and the neat blue of the naval
officers, the calm faces and light ringlets of the
English damsels, contrasting with the dark hair and
eyes of the Maltese, the national banners and fresh
garlands on the walls, rendered the pageant quite
dazzling. This insignia of joy into which I had
suffered myself to be drawn, instead of alleviating,
served to deepen the gloom which oppressed me.
Gladness was upon every face, and I asked myself
whether there was one amid the multitude, who was
an outcast like myself. As the idea presented itself,
my eye fell upon a countenance which seemed almost
to answer the unuttered inquiry. It was that of a
man beyond the prime of life, whose expression
would have denoted no common familiarity with
sorrow, were it not for a certain tranquil dignity
and benign spirit which softened and elevated its
aspect. As the gaze of the stranger met my own, I
felt that instinctive consciousness of sympathy which
is so impressive yet inexplicable. I watched his
movements; I followed his eye and endeavored to
image his thoughts, till a call to the supper-room interrupted
my sight for a few moments, after which
I discovered that he had left the assembly. My
pillow was haunted by that thoughtful and kindly
face. Its remembrance comforted me as if I had
read there a message of love. I could not account
for these vagaries; and on the following morning
stole away from my companions, and went forth to
make the circuit of the ramparts, to see what effect
a solitary walk would have in dispelling my gloomy
mood. Upon one of the saluting batteries are several
monuments tastefully adorned with trees. Here is a
pleasant promenade. Below, various vessels are
moored; far away to the left is the wide sea, and
immediately beneath, the dingy houses and narrow
streets of the town. Altogether the prospect was
impressive and pleasing. The adjacent memorials
of the dead, the refreshing hue of the shrubbery and
the hum of busy life, with the ocean stretching illimitably,
and shadowed only by a passing cloud or the
wing of a sea-bird, combined to form one of those
happily blended landscapes which embody in mingled
and striking symbols, the idea of nature and art, of
ancient times and modern characteristics, of man
and his Creator. I leaned over the parapet and endeavoured
to catch something of its calm and pleasantness.
But it came not; and I applied earnestly
to myself the words of the poet:

“As if to bless me with the last boon, I saw ascending

to the bastion, the gentleman whose appearance
had so interested me at the ball. We exchanged
salutations and then spoke of the prospect before us.
The voice and manner of the stranger were singularly
winning. By degrees our acquaintance advanced,
and in a week there was knit between us a
bond of sympathy which time cannot sever. I imparted
to my friend what you have so patiently heard.
He repaid me by unfolding the theory of his faith,
which has been my consolation from that hour.
Yet his history, his very name is unknown to me.
Our interviews took place during our daily promenades,
and just as he was about to fulfil his
promise and confide his own experience to me, the
vessel in which he had taken passage for the East
was suddenly ordered to sail, and I had not even an
opportunity of bidding him farewell. The following
day, receiving official permission to return to Sicily,
I immediately embarked, and arrived here an altered
being; for those characteristics and views
which you have so often wondered should appertain
to a native of these regions, are but the result of my
communion with that stranger-friend.”