 | DISCUSSION. Isabel, or, Sicily |  |
DISCUSSION.
“The only truly liberal subjects of conversation are thoughts and
actions of universal interest.”
De Stael.
It was the custom of the little party whose journeyings
we have followed, to pass the evenings not
devoted to some engagement, in conversing upon the
experience of the day. Not infrequently the ladies
of Isabel's acquaintance insisted upon her society in
a morning's ride or day's excursion, and the gentlemen
were left to seek amusement by themselves.
They atoned, however, for these occasional interruptions
to their mutual intercourse, by relating on meeting
all that had interested them or was likely to
divert their gifted companion from the sad musings
into which, when unexcited by attractive conversation,
she would almost invariably fall. One evening,
however, both her uncle and Vittorio were unusually
and Isabel herself began to wonder at the spiritless
mood which had overtaken them all; and eagerly
inquired what had occupied her companions since
breakfast.
“We have been,” replied her uncle, “in scenes
well calculated to awaken thought; we have been
contemplating the states to which all human beings
are liable; we have been among the insane and the
dead.”
“I am, perhaps, to blame,” said the Count, “for
having taken your uncle to two such places in one
day, but it was quite accidental. We first went to
the Capuchin Convent and descended into the catacombs.
An old brother of Portuguese origin, who
speaks a little English, was our guide. He seemed
pleased with the opportunity thus afforded for exercising
his almost forgotten acquisition, and continually,
as we threaded these sepulchral chambers,
repeated verse after verse from that impressive
chapter of Ecclesiastes descriptive of the vanity of
life. As he preceded us, with his coarse brown robe
and grey beard descending over his breast, ever and
anon reciting in a hollow tone these memorable passages,
so appropriate to the scene, I could not but
think the guide was singularly adapted to his vocation.
The long, wide galleries of this extraordinary
sepulchre are crowded with niches, in which stand
the frames of men, dressed in their professional
garbs,—the priest with his cassock, the friar with
his hood; their fleshless eye-sockets and set teeth
halls. The floor is covered with coffins;
the sides walled with skeletons; every thing betokens
the abode of the dead, and the light of day and
echo of a living footstep seem startingly unnatural.
A tinsel crown clasps the bare skull of the king of
Tunis; and there is one long room in which the
female bodies appear in glass cases, like those in
which the Parisian shopkeeper displays his valuables,
decked out in gay silks and tawdry ornaments, in
horrible contrast with the mouldering bones. Altogether
the spectacle is one of the most singular and
revolting imaginable.”
“The scene at the Insane Asylum,” said Frazier,
“was more satisfactory, though not less dispiriting.
The evidences of care and kindness bestowed upon
beings who in less civilized times were treated as
outcasts, is truly delightful. The Baron Pisani who
originated and now superintends the establishment,
attends to his duty with an intelligence and philanthropy
which merits imitation. There are gardens
and grottoes, and even a little amphitheatre to amuse
the inmates. Frescos on every side please the eye;
fountains murmur to soothe the ear. Work is provided
to distract the attention of the insane from the
single corroding idea in which their malady so often
consists; and firmness and affection seem to be the
ever-present principles by which the wayward creatures
are ruled and guided.”
“It is the boast of many of these deranged people,”
continued the Count, “that they have constructed
song in vogue among them, declaring that it is not
they that are mad, but the unhappy toilers for this
world's aims who are without the walls of their
retreat. Indeed every thing is done to banish from
their minds all consciousness of their desolate state,
and they cherish an affectionate respect for the
Baron, the manifestations of which are truly beautiful.
Still, no arrangements, however excellent,
can obviate the painful impression of such a scene.
In our walk round the institution we beheld every
degree and variety of this terrible form of human
suffering. The cries of the frantic echoed from
their gloomy cells; here sat a miserable hypochondriac
to whose eyes God's sunlight brings no gladness,
swaying to and fro his attenuated frame
bowed down with unutterable dejection; there
walked, in restless misery, a priest upon whose pale
brow brooded the most abject despair. Upon a bench
in a lonely corner, crouched an old man who had
once excelled in science, and is now lingering out
existence in speechless wo. There was a Greek
woman with a fine, open countenance, and pleasant
eye singing to herself. She believes that a superior
intelligence is enamoured of her charms, and the
idea, instead of flattering her vanity, preys upon her
mind as a most undesirable and inauspicious circumstance.
An old artillery captain, with a guitar, was
reciting with much gusto, some passage from Meli,
whose especial panegyrist he considers himself. A
painter, whom disappointment in his art rendered
and the walls of the house and corridors testify to
his industry and skill. As one wanders amid these
stricken beings, how valueless seem the objects, idolatry
to which are such prolific causes of madness—
gain and ambition! Yet before these perishable
shrines men prostrate their noblest endowments, and
lose in the whirlwind of passion their most distinguishing
and god-like attributes. Some, indeed, have
become insane from more touching causes—blighted
affection, wounded honor, bereaved friendship. What
cause for gratitude have we, while we can think
rationally, while the light of reason burns clear, and
the soul possesses herself in peace; while the harmony
of creation steals with an unbroken cadence
upon the spirit, and the rays of truth fall full and
brightly over the heart; while the blessings of existence
descend gratefully upon the path of life, and the
darker passes of experience throw over it only a
solemnizing shadow and not an impenetrable gloom!”
The sound of bells ringing the Avé Maria now
rose to the ears of the coterie. “That chime,” said
Frazier, “rung not so peacefully over Palermo some
centuries back, when it ushered in a night of the most
horrible massacre recorded in history. There is a
tradition current, I believe, among the islanders, that
this exterminating plot, known under the name of the
Sicilian Vespers, was brought about by a poor fellow
who had suffered greatly from the tyranny of the
French, and who, pretending to be deaf, made the
ear, that on the thirtieth of March, at this hour, all
residents were to be put to death who could not pronounce
the word ciceri (vetches), a test that would
infallibly betray a Frenchman, however well versed
in the dialect of the country.”
“Whatever foundation this story may have in
truth,” said the Count, “the better informed are more
fond of priding themselves upon the address of Giovanni
di Procida, in bringing about that sanguinary
event. He went to Constantinople and informed
the emperor that it was the intention of Charles of
Anjou to attack that city, and recommended him to
furnish funds to the Sicilians to aid their proposed
revolution, which would divert the arms of Charles
from himself. The assistance being promised, he
returned to Sicily and engaged a confederacy of
noblemen to relinquish the island to the King of
Aragon. With the contract in his bosom, he then
repaired to Rome, and obtained the written sanction
of the Pope. Then visiting Peter of Aragon, he
easily persuaded him to proceed with a fleet to the
Mediterranean, and await the rising of the Sicilians,
to seize upon the island. Giovanni then returned
here and completed the arrangement which terminated
in the Sicilian Vespers. This master stroke of
policy, by which the several powers were so artfully
deceived, and the cruel Charles overthrown,
has ever been highly appreciated, for cunning is a
weapon of the value of which the Sicilians entertain
formed the subject of several tragedies, the best of
which was written by Niccolini of Florence.”
“But have you no talented authors?” inquired
Isabel. “Sicilian literature is at present in a very
low state. The strict censorship exercised over the
press is alone sufficient to damp the ambition of those
best fitted to do honor to their country through its
medium. Our national poet is Meli. His poems are
of a pastoral character, descriptive of the beauties
of the country, and filled with the most accurate
pictures of peasant life. To one who understands
the Sicilian dialect, his writings abound in graphic
beauty. He paints altogether from nature, and has
fulfilled to the scenery and manners of Sicily, the
same office of poetical yet true interpretation which
Burns has to those of Scotland. Many of his idyls
are in circulation orally among the common people,
and all classes glory in his fame. There are many
mediocre writers, but the generality who have a
taste for intellectual pursuits, turn their attention to
antiquarian researches or scientific studies. Some
have contributed, as magazine writers and historians,
minor pieces of some merit to the meagre stock of
Sicilian literature. These are written in Italian.
But it is useless to expect great literary results among
a people so situated and educated. It is only where
a sphere is open and education general, that the
foundation may be laid and the motive afforded for
literary development. Men are then interested in
nation of readers springs up, and there will be
writers to meet their wants.”
“And it is not only thus with literature,” said
Frazier; “the low estimation in which integrity—
that key-stone of the social arch is held, may be
traced to want of reverence for those primary ties
which form the basis of every community. In a
country where wine and oil, fruits, grain, and minerals
are so abundantly produced—where crops, by
judicious cultivation, might be trebled, where there
are such excellent facilities for commerce and fisheries,
the want of prosperity cannot be ascribed to
the absence of natural advantages.”
“No,” replied the Count, “the existing poverty of
this beautiful island, which Cicero called the granary
of Rome, is chiefly attributable to inherited evils of
government, and habits of idleness and vice, a disproportionate
nobility, a pampered priesthood, and
an utterly unenlightened lower order. One of the
immediate causes of the reduced circumstances of
the higher rank of Sicilians, is the change made
about twenty years since in the law of primogeniture.
The property which then enabled the eldest son to
live in splendor is now distributed among all the
children, and being still farther subdivided by marriages,
reduces the fortunes of the barons to a score
of slender patrimonies. The immense tax upon
landed property is another drain upon their resources.
The earnings of the common people are half consumed
on such a scale as to allow the hazard of the smallest
sums with a proportionate prize in prospect. They
generally select numbers from the intimation of
dreams.”
“I fancied a half hour's walk the other morning,”
rejoined Frazier, “afforded me a tolerable idea of
the state of things. A delicate looking child begged
a bioch; I was passing on when my servant urged
me to regard the petitioner; “for, Eccellenza,” said
he, “it is the son of a marquis who has lost his all
in law-suits.” A moment after, we encountered a
pale, bright-eyed boy going to school, “what do
you study?” I asked. “The life of St. Luigi, Signor.”
We passed through a market-place. I saw
people of respectable appearance buying everything
for the day's use, even to the charcoal for cooking
and the oil for the night's burning. I never knew
what living from hand to mouth meant before.”
They were interrupted by one of these visits to which
every traveller is exposed. An agate merchant
asked leave to display his rare specimens. A Franciscan
monk tendered some fine olives—the produce
of his convent-garden, and begged an eleemosynary
remembrance, while a picture dealer brought a
long roll of certificates to prove that the Madonna he
offered for sale, was a genuine Monrealese. At length
the several claims of these personages were considered,
and they bowed themselves out of the room,
after bestowing more titles upon the kind-hearted republican
with before.
“If these people had more to do,” said he, “they
would not be so prodigal of their compliments.”
“Nay, uncle,” said Isabel, “there is certainly a kindliness
in their greetings which might well be adopted
by our more laconic people. I know that the blessing
they invoke when one sneezes, their wishes for a
good appetite, and pleasant slumber, their eccellenzas,
and exaggerated epithets of welcome and reverence
are often subjects of ridicule; but in a broad view
are they not gratifying?”
“Yes,” replied the Count, “may we not exclaim
with Sterne: `Hail ye small, sweet courtesies of life,
for sweet do you make the road of it?' I think we
may justly consider one of the redeeming traits of
the Sicilian character, a spontaneous regard, a sentiment
of attachment, and an interest in others, the very
semblance of which is cheering to the heart. An
American in judging of European character, should
bear in mind the circumstances of his own country.
The restless energies of a young nation have been
unfolding around him. He has been encircled by
the machinery of an advancing civilization. He has
been witnessing the phenomena of national growth.
He has lived amid the excitement of constant experiments.
He has been listening to the warfare of
unshackled opinion. The spirit of society around him
has been nicely regulated and duly restrained; social
intercourse checked by mutual reserve, and the expression
by rule, and chilled by the influence of a northern
clime, as well as a calmer national temperament.
Here he is environed by a people wedded to the
customs of past ages, unfamiliar with many of the
improvements of the day, and in some of the arrangements
of life, far behind the age in which they live;
where time is still reckoned by the primitive method,
where the lottery courier outstrips the post, and the
balcony takes the place of the fireside; a people who
display emotion with the freedom of children, who
observe much and reflect little, who enter with childlike
eagerness into gaiety, and, at every age, court
the pleasures of companionship with the ardor of
youth. And who shall say to what extent these
diversities are attributable in the one nation to freedom
and prosperity, and in the other to political depression,
and that hopeless and anti-progressive state into
which the prospects of individuals are thrown by a
long series of despotic influences? Men are generally
thoughtful as they have responsibilities, and energetic
in proportion to their hopes. If the quickness of apprehension
and general talents of the Sicilians were
balanced by reflection, and cultivated by education,
they would become a distinguished people. You
may now witness an aptitude for intrigue displayed
in compassing some trivial end, which if properly
directed might form admirable scientific professors or
diplomatic characters. They understand a foreigner
with remarkable readiness; they converse with their
They are sanguinary under the influence of passion,
but kind when in the least encouraged. In such a
character there are elements of untried force and
progress.”
| DISCUSSION. Isabel, or, Sicily | |