University of Virginia Library

SEGESTA AND SELINUNTIUM.

The rainy season, after several fallacious intermissions,
at last terminated. Its long days of chilly
winds and heavy showers, gloomy skies and damp
atmosphere, more oppressive to the absentee than the
clear and exhilarating though intensely cold air of
more northern winters, gave way, all at once, to the
genial breezes and burning sun of a Sicilian spring.
Anxiously had Isabel awaited these indications of
settled and auspicious weather, and no sooner did
they appear than she urged upon her companions
the expediency of immediately starting on an excursion
into the interior which they had previously planned.

Not without difficulty had she persuaded her
uncle to allow her to be the companion of his visit
to the celebrated antiquities in the adjoining provinces.
He knew that most of the journey was only to be
performed on horseback, and that much discomfort
must be endured in order to reach the desirable objects
in view. But Isabel urged the short period
requisite for the expedition, her great desire to behold
these trophies of antiquity, and that unconquerable
spirit of enterprise and endurance which she had
inherited from her father. These arguments were
not without their influence upon Frazier's mind, but
another consideration tended still more to win from
him a reluctant consent. He saw that Isabel needed
the excitement of change. He remarked, during
the many weeks of rain which had followed the first
bright month of their sojourn in Palermo, that her
thoughts, thrown inward by the outward gloom, which
often made her an unwilling prisoner at home, dwelt
more earnestly and with less of hope upon the idea
that had drawn her abroad. Her cheek had paled;
her eye was less cheerful, and the tones of her gentle
voice, never trained to aught but the ingenuous responses
of the spirit, broke forth in a less buoyant and
heart-stirring music than was their wont. He knew
that a few day's of free communion with Nature, a
short interval of novel observation, and even the brief
courting of fatigue and inconvenience would do much
to divert and relieve her melancholy. Provided,
therefore, with means and appliances almost equal
to those with which caravans enter the precincts of
some desert region, they prepared for a short visit to
the interior of Sicily. To Isabel the change of scene
was delightful. O thou enlivener of our faculties,
stupified by the monotonous circuit of still life,—thou
reviver of slumbering feelings,—thou awakener of
thought,—thou restless spirit of travel! how much
dost thou lead us voluntarily to suffer, how many present
blessings to sacrifice, how many penances to
inflict freely upon ourselves! Urged by thee, we
dare the perils of the sea, and go from the serene
safety of home to the hazardous highway of the world.
We abjure the familiar, the well-tried, and the well-known,
the attached friends, the accustomed scenes,
and the cherishing kindred, and we go forth to begin
life, as it were, anew, to make ourselves homes abroad,
to commune with foreign lands and customs, to take
upon ourselves the cheerless name and the lonely lot
of the stranger. Yet art thou a consolation and a
noble teacher, restless spirit as thou art. Guided
and impelled by thee, how much do we learn! How
do our minds expand with liberality that can see
good in all things, and with love that can find brotherhood
in every human being; how do we draw principles
from the mingled teachings of nature and
society as their united voices variously and eloquently
cry to us on our pilgrim path! We study the great
volume of the world and of creation, not according
to some narrow and local interpretation, but as cosmopolites,
as humanitarians, as men. We weave
ties of fellowship and love, beautiful because so wholly
our own work—the result of the contact of our
own natures with what is congenial in spirit,
though in habit and circumstance utterly foreign.
We thus realize the compass of our minds, the power
of our affections, and the illimitable capacity of our
sympathies. Alas! that the sweet bonds with which
the solitary sojourner binds himself to the warmhearted
and the fair of other lands, to the beings who
in each abiding place, cheer him with kindness, and
solace him with affection, should be so transient;
that just as a home-feeling steals over him, he must
renew his pilgrimage; that at the moment his heart
has made unto itself glad fellowship, he must become
again a wayfarer! This, to the true-hearted and the
grateful, is the greatest sacrifice which travel demands
of its votaries, the most severe tribute which
he lays upon her altar; for all of comfort and safety
that he has forgone fades quickly from memory, but
the obligations of the mind and heart are never forgotten.

Thus felt Isabel as she looked back from Monreale
upon the valley, sea, and city amid which she had so
long tarried. And the painful sense which ever accompanies
the idea of parting faded not from her
mind, until after a long ride among the hills whose
aspect was rather wild and rocky, they emerged
from between two rugged cliffs, and came suddenly
in view of the green valley of Partinico, spreading
from the sea in the same fertility of aspect and level
expanse, which distinguish the plain around the Capital.
The remainder of the carriage road winds
through a country resembling, in every essential feature,

that which they had passed in previous journeyings.
Still the olive trees rose thickly in the
fields, their ancient and gnarled stumps bearing in
sturdy pride the thick and dim mass of foliage,
nourished most mysteriously it wouls sometimes
seem, through the narrowest possible remnant of the
decayed trunk. Still the hills stretched in dreary
ranges and exhibited masses of oxydated rock; and
still the way was skirted with the bluish and spear-like
leaves of the aloe, upon whose thorny edges hung
many a crystal dew drop.

It was but dawn when they left the village which
formed the boundary of the carriage road, and guided
their horses into the path which leads to the site of
the ancient ægesta. The way lay along the edge
of a deep glen. The ranges of mountains opposite
are rock-ribbed, and dotted with cultivated lots, and
the path itself is thickly bordered with overhanging
bushes, clusters of wormwood, and innumerable wildflowers.
From the more elevated parts of this rugged
and narrow path, when the wide slopes on the
right, the green defile beneath, and the clear horizon
beyond, were all visible, the scene was remarkably
picturesque. As they wound slowly along, gradually
coming in sight of its different features, the morning
light stole softly and, in gentle gradations, over the
landscape, now falling goldenly upon some high
mound, now giving a silvery glow to the polished
leaves of a distant and lofty tree, and radiating more
and more broadly a clear light along the eastern sky.
Isabel's gaze was directed to the hills on her left, as the

sun thus silently dispersed from their tops the mists of
night, when, at a break in their line, unexpectedly as
a vision, appeared the beautiful temple, standing in
solitary prominence upon a broad, high hill-top.
The early gleam of the sun fell upon its simple
columns, between which glimmered from afar the lucid
horizon. The lonely position of this chaste edifice
gives a singular and striking effect to its first appearance
rising thus to the eye unawares. No trees interrupt
the view. No adjacent objects distract the
attention. Though by no means lofty or commanding
in its proportions, it is placed so high that when seen
from below, and thus distantly, there is a majesty in
its aspect which is deeply impressive. The timeworn
hue, the graceful pillars, the airy architecture,
the elevated position, induce an immediate and most
pleasing impression. The beholder at once feels
that there is before him a Grecian temple—one of
those few specimens which embalm and illustrate a
principle of art and memorialize an exploded but poetical
religion. The perfect repose of the hour, the
extensive and varied scenery, the lonely position of
this fair vestige, and its tranquil beauty were scarcely
realized by the travellers, ere, like a scenic image, it
was lost to view as suddenly as it had appeared.
The next bend of the mountains veiled it from their
gaze, and left them at liberty to speculate upon its appearance.
This momentary glimpse, however, sufficed
to strike and arouse Isabel's imagination more
effectually, perhaps, than a nearer and longer inspection.
She pondered long upon the devotion to Nature
which the site selected for its erection indicated,
upon the love of the simple so significantly displayed
in its architecture, upon the delightful union of the
beauty of art with the glory of the universe, which
the Greeks understood so well how to combine into
one noble influence to arouse human feeling and address
the sense of the ideal. No one, she thought,
possessing one spark of the soul's etherial fire could
encounter such a temple, encircled by the green hills,
and canopied by the vaulted sky,—at the solemn
hour of morning, without thinking of a superior intelligence,
and yielding to the inspiration of that devotional
sentiment which prompts the human heart to
seek that which is above and eternal; in wretched
ignorance too often it may be, with a most dim and
inadequate sense of its object perhaps; but still
there would be the feeling, the idea of devotion—the
struggling of the spirit to mount—the tending of the
soul heavenward, the uplooking, the inclination to
the spiritual which is man's highest attribute. In
such a feeling there is blessedness. How much might
art and society and experience encourage and call
it forth, were men more inclined to lessen the machinery
and cherish the poetry of life! After winding
round the base of the hills, they came out upon
the almost barren scene which once teemed with the
dwellings of an ancient city. On the summit of a
mountain—itself the centre of an amphitheatre of
hills, are the remains of the amphitheatre of Segeste,
and as one sits upon the highest range of stone seats,
the eye glances over a mountainous and wild region,
embracing a prospect of remarkable extent. Below,
upon a lesser elevation, and in the centre of a dale,
appears the temple—the only other distinct relic of
the ruined city. Its thirty-six columns are much
indented and shattered, and have been partially restored.
As the strangers stood upon the weedy
ground, beneath the roofless architrave, the winds
sighed through the open pillars as it swept from the
hills. A flock of goats were ruminating upon the
slope which declined from the front of the building,
and scores of birds, disturbed by the intrusion, fluttered
and wafted above their heads.

“This Doric structure,” said Vittorio, “is supposed
to have been dedicated to Ceres, and is no
unworthy token of the city it has survived, whose
foundations were laid soon after the Trojan war, and
the destruction of which is attributed to Agathocles.
This tyrant's anger was provoked by the ægestans
having asked aid from the Carthagenians to resist
his usurpations. How beautiful appears such an
architectural relic, standing alone in the midst of
these wild sweeping hills—a lone memorial of departed
ages—invoking the traveller to remember that
here once flourished the arts of life, and swelled the
tide of humanity in grandeur and prosperity, where
all is now solitude and dreariness! No sound but the
tinkling bells of that browsing herd, and the wild
hymn of the free wind meets our ears. No human
figures enliven the scene, save that group of herdsmen
leaning on their reeds. All is lone and silent.
Yet as we look upon these columns which violence

has mutilated, and time stamped with decay, and
trace the lines of human workmanship; as we at
one view contemplate the regular position of the
pillars, the cornice, the pediment, the broad steps,
the simple majesty of the design, and mark the evidences
of human thought,—how clearly does this
isolated object bring home to the spectator, the thought
of those who once gathered about this portal in familiar
conclave, and to whose eyes this temple was as
well known as the landscape of our native place to
us! For ages the morning has gilded these columns
as at this moment; for ages they have been bedewed
with the tears of the solemn night. Centuries of
revolution, and of nature's annual decline and renovation
have passed on, and still it stands venerable
and alone—a mute chronicle, unshadowed by one of
the many edifices that rose around it—the recordless
monument of the city it adorned.”

After leaving this interesting spot, the way became
more void of the signs of life and cultivation. Now
and then they passed a lettiga with its complement of
passengers and attendants. This is the national carriage
of Sicily. It consists of a kind of box, like the
body of a carriage, rudely painted with the effigies
of saints and martyrs, and secured to two poles
which are supported in front and behind upon the
backs of two mules. The constant tinkling of the
bells, and the uneasy motion of these animals, combined
with the narrow dimensions of the vehicle,
render it a comfortless conveyance. The extensive
hill sides and plains in this region afford pasturage to

numerous flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, and
occasionally patches of more productive soil were
covered with the blue blossom of the flax, or, green
with the newly-sprung grain. There was a forbidding
aspect, however, in most of the scenery, especially
when a cloud veiled from its wide surface the
cheerful sunlight. Our travellers were not the less
sensible of this lack of pleasing features in the landscape
that they were fresh from the companionship
and living language of a metropolis. Who has not
felt, after a long abode in town, when he has found
himself alone in a thinly populated country, a certain
strangeness of position, arising from the unwonted
absence of the sights and sounds of multitudinous life?

“It seems sometimes well,” said Isabel, “to quit
thus the circle of busy life, to leave behind us the
symbols of social refinement, and to come forth into
the loneliness of Nature. We return to these enjoyments
with a new delight.”

“I doubt,” replied Vittorio, “if any but travellers
can thoroughly appreciate the blessings of civilization,
the amenities of cultivated society, and what Lamb
calls `the sweet security of streets.' It is by contrast
that we realize their charms. And I know no change
more delightful than that from days of wandering in
a scantily habited country, to our accustomed round
of friendly visits, and social pleasures, where are congregated
the dwellings of our kind environed with
the graces, the courtesies and the refinements of
social existence.”

Frazier, who had dismounted and rambled to a

little distance, returned with his hand full of herbs.
“Look,” he exclaimed, “while you have been idly
speculating, I have botanized to some advantage;
for in this little walk I have discovered several wild
plants which, in their cultivated state, garnish our
tables. It proves how fertile in useful productions
are even the barrenest parts of the island. Here, for
instance, is a bunch of wild asparagus, almost as
good in appearance as is sold in the markets of
America.” “You would find it rather bitter, though,”
said the Count, laughing; “but we are approaching
a finer illustration of the richness of the Sicilian
soil.” As he spoke they came in view of another of
those rich plains, which occur at intervals along the
coast, and afford the greatest contrast to the desolate
chains of mountain scenery which extend back for
miles from their borders.

There is an ancient quarry at the distance of a
few miles from the now impoverished town of Castel-Vetrano,
at which travellers repose on the route we
are describing, if haply they are provided with the
appurtenances to secure comfortable slumber, and
bid defiance to the attacks of the insects which infest
the country-houses of the island. The ride thither
is dreary, and the first note-worthy object which
meets the eye, is Pantelleria, looming up from the
sea at a considerable distance, its two mounds, if the
day be fine, clearly defined against the horizon.
This island is the wretched abode of most of the
state-prisoners of the kingdom of Naples. The old
quarry is situated in the midst of a cultivated field.

There is a large mass of granite bearing the most
obvious marks of having been anciently cut for architectural
purposes. Two or three circular blocks
of about nine feet in diameter remain standing, and
were evidently intended as parts of enormous columns.
It is curious to remark that the manner of working
this quarry was evidently to cut the blocks for use
directly from the mass, instead of first excavating
fragments and then shaping them as is the modern
custom. Vittorio bade Isabel notice this as a proof
of the economy of ancient labor. The difficulty
there must have been in transporting these huge
segments was another subject of wonderment. “If it
were not for these rank weeds, and this thick coat of
moss,” said Frazier, “one would think the work
was abandoned but yesterday. How plainly you can
trace the lines of the chisel! Yet this scene of action
was thus suddenly deserted many ages ago, and
has apparently been undisturbed since save by the
traveller's footstep.”

On quitting the place to visit the site of Selinuntium,
which city was evidently indebted for its most lasting
material to this very quarry, they found the path
far different from that they had threaded since morning.
It was a lane thickly bordered with myrtles
and flowering shrubs, which perfumed the air beneath
a sunlight so vivid that they were glad to guide their
horses beneath the trees which overhung the way.
There was a mingled wildness and garden-like beauty
in this sequestered road which charmed Isabel, and she
was delighted to find in many of the floral emblems,

that seemed to smile upon her from their waving stalks,
or meekly court a glance from below, many of the
flowers which at home were deemed worthy of assiduous
culture. Through the openings in the hedge,
here and there, were visible the thatched and hive-like
tents of carbonari and the cheese-makers. Near
the former a wreath of blue smoke curled gracefully
upward; and about the latter the cattle lay in groups
with their stag-like heads motionless, giving a rural
and picturesque air to the otherwise deserted scene.
From this shady and soothing way they came out
upon a sandy beach, upon which broke in gentle
murmurings the blue waters of the sea, and ascending
a high cliff, were at the foot of the lesser pile
of ruins which indicate where stood the ancient
Selinus. Between this spot and the opposite elevation
was the port of the city, now choked up with
sand; and the plain above the farther promontory is
covered for a considerable space around, with the
massive remains of the temples of Selinuntium.
These fragments, with the exception of two or three
columns which still rise in stern pride, seem to have
been thrown down by some violent convulsion of the
earth. They are all in a style of severe simplicity,
and the vestiges of the largest edifice indicate its
size to have been grand beyond conception. There
is something unique, even to one very familiar with
the trophies of antiquity, in the appearance of this
mass of ruins. Broken columns, capitals, wall-stones,
and architraves huddled promiscuously together, and
bearing few traces of time's corrosive touch, but
rather wearing a hue of freshness and undiminished
strength. Their position, however, and the herbage
and wild flowers which grow luxuriantly amid and
around them, sufficiently vindicate their claim to the
title of ruins. The sea-breeze stirred the flowing
hair of Isabel as she sat upon one of these huge fragments
between her uncle and Vittorio, while their
purveyor arranged their collation upon the wide slab
of a fallen pillar. She looked sea-ward, round over
the verdant plains, and then upon these noble and
prostrate remains, and the glad harmony of Nature
seemed to blend with the solemn music of Antiquity
and move in one deep, rich and softened cadence
over her heart. “If toil and enduring material could
secure the perpetuity of human temples,” said the
Count, “one would think that these would have
remained unharmed, and stood now in stolid grandeur
as at the hour of their completion. Yet one earthquake,
perhaps of momentary duration, long since,
laid their proud columns in the dust. How triumphant
are the energies of Nature! How transient the
mightiest efforts of Art! See what a vine has spread
its tendrils over this capital, and note that brightly-painted
lizard glide fearlessly over this splendid segment
of a majestic column.”

“Yet, after all,” said Frazier “why moralize over
a few blocks of granite, which were quarried,
carved, and reared into a gigantic structure, and having
served their destined purpose, were hurled down
to crumble on the earth? Rather look upon these
fertile fields, and that line of fishing boats, and rejoice

that the resources of the earth are ever renewed, so
that with due labor and care men, age after age, are
provided with the necessities of life and the bounties
of Providence.”

“It is, I believe,” said Isabel, “because the Count
has faith in other wants than such as these that he
speaks mournfully of these ruins. He sees an evidence
of devotion to something beyond and above
physical life. They are mementos of sentiment,
taste, and mind. They bespeak a love of the grand
and the beautiful, and therefore it is saddening to
think of their downfall and behold their decay. Yet
methinks it were more consoling to remember the
eternity of the principle that gave them birth; to
think that Art's divinest product is but faintly typical
of human capacity—to think that the more completely
vain seem the embodiements of genius and feeling
now, the more conscious is the spirit of a nobler
sphere and an immortal destiny.” Isabel's eye and
cheek glowed, and her voice was firm in its sweetness,
as she spoke. Her travelling hat was thrown
back, that the refreshing air might visit her brow
more freely, and as she thus uttered her young but
warm conviction, even her uncle's smile changed to
a gaze of admiring affection, and the earnest eyes of
Vittorio were thoughtfully fixed upon her face. She
seemed to him like the lovely genius of the scene—
the inspired prophetess heaven-appointed to interpret
its teachings.