Chapter XII

_A wedding party.--Strange ignorance of the Sicilians.--The
tavern at Giardini.--Ruins of Taormina.--Remarkable
theatre.--Cities on mountain-tops.--Cliffs covered with
goats.--Odd fashion of dressing infants.--Sicilian
husbandry.--A squall in the straits.--Arrival at Messina._

As I approached a little village, I overtook a wedding party going home from church. They were all mounted on asses, and were accompanied by the priest, a fat little round-faced, pleasant-looking fellow, with a three-cornered hat. The bride was a blowzy, hoydenish country girl, all bedizened out in tawdry finery, simpering and giggling to every one, and apparently full of spirits. The bridegroom was a sheepish-looking peasant, who appeared to feel very awkward in his new situation. All the rest of the company were full of fun and jollity, and very readily entered into conversation with me. At first they took me for an Englishman, but when they learnt that I had come from the New World, they stared in utter astonishment: they had never seen an American before, and always imagined we were all Indians or blacks. They invited me to accompany them, and partake of their entertainment, which I agreed to very willingly. I went along with them to the house, where we found more company already assembled, and great numbers of ragged children trooping about to stare at the show. The house was a small, one-story building, and I was afraid they would find it a difficult matter to accommodate so many guests. But presently benches were brought and placed in front of the house, under the shade of the olive trees, and we sat down in the open air. The fare consisted of bread, olives, kid’s flesh, green fennel, fruit and red wine. The old priest was the most jolly and talkative of the whole company, and I may add that he ate and drank as much as any three of them. He sat by my side, and asked me a hundred questions about America: whether the people were Christians, whether they dressed in clothes like civilized people, or wore the skins of wild beasts, whether they did not eat one another, and many more things equally extravagant.

My readers may think it hardly possible that such ignorance can be found in a person pretending to superior knowledge; but instances of the same kind came under my observation so frequently during my travels, that at last they ceased to excite any surprise. It must be borne in mind that the country in which I was travelling is not, like the United States, full of roads, in which crowds of people are continually hurrying backwards and forwards; and full of newspapers and books, which are constantly circulating through the country, and carrying knowledge to the remotest village in the Union. There are but two or three roads, deserving of the name, in the whole island of Sicily, and hardly such a thing as a newspaper. Very few books are printed here, and general knowledge, even among the better sort of people, is very scanty.

Being in a hurry to proceed on my journey, I could not wait till the close of the entertainment, but mounted my mule just as the company had struck up a dance. I travelled till sunset, when I reached a little fishing town called Giardini, romantically situated under the brow of a high hill, with the sea at the foot. I found a snug little tavern in a street which ran along the shore, where I put up for the night. The host was a simple, good-natured old man, in a red cap, and his house was quite comfortable, though small for a tavern. From my chamber window I had a grand prospect of the sea, which came rolling in with a beautiful surf directly under my feet. High rocky hills, with a castle and heaps of ancient ruins, rose up over me close at hand; and far off across the water, the eye rested upon the dark blue mountains of Calabria.

Early the next morning I climbed up the hill over the town to visit the ruins of an ancient city called Taormina, which formerly stood there. I was struck with the beautiful situation of the theatre, which is still in tolerable preservation, although upwards of two thousand years old. This edifice looks directly towards Mount Ætna; so that the spectators always had the magnificent picture of the mountain as a background to the scenery of the stage. It is certainly the grandest situation in the world for such a building. Other ruins abound in the place, but I have not time to describe them. The hill on which this city stood is so steep of ascent that no wheel carriage can go up, though asses and mules climb up and down tolerably well. I remarked that almost all ancient cities in this country were built on the tops of hills and mountains, difficult of access, showing that these communities sprung up in barbarous times, when every town feared the hostilities of its neighbors, and the sea-coasts were perpetually liable to be plundered by pirates. As civilization advanced, the population descended into the plains.

After breakfast, I continued my journey toward Messina. The country still presented the same beautiful and picturesque scenery. Groves, gardens, orchards and fresh green pastures greeted the eye in every direction. Numerous towns and villages were seen perched on the tops of almost inaccessible mountains; town above town and castle above castle, mounting into the air. Sometimes the road passed under high rocky crags, where I saw herds of goats hanging over my head and clambering among the dizzy precipices. Often the tinkling of a bell aloft caused me to gaze upwards, when I beheld numbers of these adventurous animals sticking against the rocks like flies on the side of a house, and seeming ready to fall on my head every moment. The fields were full of laborers at work, ploughing and hoeing. They all wore white cotton caps, and a group of them at a distance looked like a flock of geese. These white caps afford a better defence against the sun than a covering of any other color. The sun here is very powerful, and a sun-stroke is dreaded more than any other accident from the weather.

In one of the fields I saw a countryman ploughing, while his little infant child lay under a tree; the mother, I suppose, had run off to gossip. Nothing can look more droll than one of these little things in swaddling-clothes. They wind long bandages of cloth tightly round the child from head to foot, so that it looks very like an Egyptian mummy, without being able to kick, wince, or sprawl, but may be rolled about like a stick of wood. This little fellow was stuck up against a tree, as stiff as a turkey skewered and spitted for roasting, his eyes rolling upward to the sky, and winking like a toad in the sunshine. I could not help bursting into a roar of laughter at the sight. The man stopped his oxen and looked round, intending, as I thought, to give me some rude greeting; but seeing me so convulsed with merriment, he joined in, and laughed as heartily as I did. I asked him if the children did not suffer from this tight swathing. He said no, but, on the contrary, they were very fond of it. I told him I doubted this very strongly; but he assured me the children never complained of it, and that was proof enough. I afterwards found this practice was common throughout all Italy.

I did not see a cow during the whole journey; horses too were of rare occurrence. The country people hardly ever own these animals; but, instead of them, use goats and asses, which are much cheaper. Pasturage for cows and horses is expensive; but the goats can clamber among the rocks and nibble the herbage that grows beyond the reach of man. The asses feed upon thistles, and any sort of coarse vegetation. The multitude of these animals makes the landscape look exceedingly picturesque to the eyes of an American. Nothing can be more diverting than the frolics and caperings of the little kids, as they gallop round their mothers while feeding. The young donkeys look very comically; they are ragged, scraggy and wild, and I have been many times startled by their uncouth appearance when I have met with them browsing among the lonely mouldering ruins. If it were not for their long ears, they might be taken for young lions.

I continued to pass rich cultivated fields and immense groves of olives. About the middle of the afternoon I came in sight of a wide extent of the coast of Calabria on the opposite side of the straits. The land was black, craggy and mountainous, with steep and rugged chasms. Nearly opposite, I could discern the white walls of Reggio. The sky, which had hitherto been clear and serene, now became obscured, and dark clouds gathered in the north-east. Presently I observed great heavy, spongy masses of cloud rolling down the Calabrian mountains toward the sea, looking very ragged and wild. I judged that a squall was about to burst upon us, for this narrow strait, hemmed in by mountains on each side, is particularly subject to sudden and violent gusts. The sky continued to grow blacker, and presently the wind came down the strait with a most furious blast, lashing the sea up into a perfect foam. There were twelve or fifteen vessels in sight, standing up the strait, when the squall came on. Among them were a Neapolitan sloop of war and an English merchant brig. The rest were small vessels with latine sails. All except the Englishman took in sail at the first appearance of the squall; they were familiar with these parts, and knew what was coming. The Englishman, thinking there could be no danger, kept all his canvass spread, when, in an instant, the blast struck him with such force that both masts snapped off like pipe-stems, and the vessel lay a mere hulk on the water. A heavy shower of rain came pouring down the next moment, which drove me into a house for shelter, and when the sky cleared up, there were no vessels to be seen. I continued my journey, and just after sunset arrived at Messina.

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

There is sense in truth, and truth in virtue.

A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities.

The Oak and the Reed.

A FABLE.

An oak stood on the bank of a river, and growing at its foot was a reed. The oak was aged, and its limbs were torn away by the blasts of years; but still it lifted its head in pride, and looked down with contempt upon the reed.

At last there came a fearful tempest. The oak defied it, but the reed trembled in every fibre. “See,” said the oak, “the advantage of strength and power; see how I resist and triumph!” While it spoke thus, a terrible rush of the gale beset it, its roots gave way, and it fell to the earth with a tremendous crash! But while the oak was thus destroyed in its pride, the humble reed bowed to the blast, and, when this was past, it arose and flourished as before.

Thus it is that the weak and the humble are often safe, when the strong and proud are dashed to the earth. Humility is a great virtue, for it teaches us to submit to the ways of Providence, and not to place a proud dependence on our own strength, which, after all, is but weakness.

Sincerity.

“Emma,” said Mr. Robinson to his daughter, “I could not help feeling hurt to-day at the very cool way in which you greeted your cousin. I thought my child was warm and affectionate, and had, besides, an especial love for Eliza.”

“So I have, papa,” replied Emma, blushing, “and I should have expressed pleasure, only I had just said I hoped no one would come to prevent my writing some letters this morning.”

“But, my love, that is a poor affection which could not stand such a trifling self-denial.”

“Indeed, papa, you do not understand me: I did not at all mind relinquishing my intention, and I thoroughly enjoyed my cousin’s company.”

“Then why did you not receive her joyfully?”

“Simply because I was afraid of being insincere. To speak so differently in the space of a few minutes, I thought would be like the man who blew hot and cold from the same mouth.”

“Oh, now I see and respect your motive; but still, Emma, it was a mistaken one. Were you _really_ pleased to see Eliza?”

“Oh yes, papa.”

“And could you have had your choice, which would you have liked--to keep the morning to yourself, or to spend it with her?”

“To spend it with Eliza; because I can write to-morrow, and she could not come again this week.”

“Well, then, without the slightest insincerity, you might have said, ‘I am glad to see you.’ And even in cases less clear and decided, a well regulated mind, schooled in habits of self-denial and attention to the feelings of others, will find sincere pleasure in gratifying those feelings, even at the sacrifice of its own wishes. Instead, therefore, of lowering our expressions to suit a _selfish_ heart, let us pray and strive after that Christian sweetness, which will enable us to use pleasant words and looks of kindness, without being chargeable with hypocrisy. Indeed, the law of kindness, thus dwelling upon our lips, may prove a means of imbuing our hearts with a similar spirit. The inward feeling and the outward manner will act mutually, strengthening each other. In future, therefore, Emma, do not hesitate to manifest that amiability, which I feel assured it is your desire to possess. While, on the one hand, it is a blessing to have such a strong sense of uprightness as makes the conscience tender; on the other hand, we shall find it important to have our ideas of duty well defined, lest conscience, being needlessly shackled, should become a timid or even an erring guide.”

“I view the matter now, papa, in its true light, and will try both to feel and appear agreeable. But, really, when staying with Mrs. Merlin, I did see such turns, and twists, and contradictions, often occurring in the course of five minutes, that, in order to avoid such despicable deceit, I have almost run into the opposite extreme. Of course, I have mentioned the subject to no one; for it would ill become me to remark on the conduct of an elder and superior, who has always treated me kindly: though, for ought I know, my visit might have been very unpleasant. But may I, papa, tell _you_ the curious history of the refusal of an invitation, the day after I arrived, and ask you what you think of it?”

“Certainly. I have just said it is important to have well defined views of right and wrong, and shall, therefore, be most happy to assist in forming yours.”

“Well, then, papa, we were walking in the garden after breakfast, when a note was brought to Mrs. Merlin; she glanced her eye over it, and then, turning to me with a smile, said, ‘How perplexing! I wished to enjoy you entirely to-day; I have several things to show you; but Mrs. Morley invites us to dinner, and I have already declined her favors three times. What shall we do? You _have_ a cold.’

“I replied, ‘I should greatly prefer a quiet afternoon with you, but I have no cold that deserves to be named.’

“Mrs. Merlin stood for a few moments gazing up into the clouds, with the note in her hand; then all at once, in a very animated tone, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, we can manage it; only look how heavy the clouds are. I shall press your slight cold into my service, and say, if it be fine, we will give ourselves the pleasure of going; but should it rain, our friend must kindly excuse us. Rain it will; so we shall please ourselves, and not displease any one. The visit _might_ have proved tolerably agreeable, but we shall spend our evening much more pleasantly at home.’

“The answer was dispatched, and afterwards, as we came in from a drive, Mrs. Merlin said to the servant, ‘James, watch the weather, and let me know the moment it begins to rain.’ The rain came just in time to serve our purpose. So when Dr. Merlin returned from his medical round, we sat comfortably down to dinner; in the midst of which, my _first_ surprise began. ‘We were invited to Mrs. Morley’s to day, dear,’ said Mrs. Merlin; ‘but I knew you would be tired, and not fit to go, and I should not have liked to leave you alone, so I declined it.’

“The doctor thanked her with a grateful smile, which I could not help thinking was very little merited. Trifling, however, was this variation, compared with the hypocrisy of the following morning, when Mrs. Morley herself happened to call. I looked so provokingly well, that Mrs. Merlin was forced to say ‘she really hoped my cold had almost departed; but, being an only child, I was such a precious charge, that she sometimes felt almost a nervous responsibility. I told my friend,’ continued she, ‘what an agreeable visit it would be, and charged James to watch the weather to the very last minute.’ Now, papa, both these assertions were, _in a sense_, verbally true, but do you not think, in reality, they were falsehoods?”

“Most assuredly. I would not knowingly have placed you under such influence upon any consideration. I cannot feel sufficiently thankful, my love, that you were not contaminated. The reaction produced on your mind is harmless, compared with what assimilation would have been. We will take care how we subject Mrs. Merlin again to such a nervous responsibility.”

“Yet, papa,” observed Emma, half frightened at the decision with which her parent spoke, “Mrs. Merlin is uniformly kind to me; and she is often an improving, and always a most entertaining companion. The society, too, which I meet there, is calculated to impart a little polish, of which I have considerable need.”

“No, Emma, I would not give a farthing for such varnish. May your character shine _throughout_ with Christian brightness, springing from the cultivation, not the destruction of principle. I thought more favorably of Mrs. Merlin; for with characteristic dexterity, when conversing with me, she has suited herself to _my_ taste. Even now, however, I would not speak with severity; she has been brought up under much disadvantage, and possibly persuades herself that these subterfuges are harmless, polite, and ingenious. I trust one day she will judge more correctly; but in the mean time I should grieve to subject you to such familiarity with deceit as might lessen your abhorrence of it. I can never consent to any future intimacy with Mrs. Merlin, till I have reason to regard her as a recipient of that grace, which teaches truth in the very heart. You remember the hymn, Emma,--

‘Let those who bear the Christian name
Their holy vows fulfil;
The saints, the followers of the Lamb,
Are men of honor still.

Still with their lips their hearts agree,
Nor flattering words devise;
They know the God of truth can see
Through every false disguise.

They hate the varied hosts of lies,
In all their crooked lines;
Firm to the truth until they rise
Where truth resplendent shines.’

“And now, my child,” continued Mr. Robinson, “let us turn our inquiries upon _our own_ hearts.

‘Does no dark sign, no ground of fear,
In practice or in thought appear?’

“How strange it is that we, who have such high notions of integrity in our intercourse with our fellow-creatures, should so often fail in our transactions with _Him_ before whom all things are naked and open, and who will accept only the worship of the heart. O, my child, when our prayers, our praises, our duties, are laid in the balance, what must be said of them all?”

“They are found wanting,” replied Emma, with deep and solemn feeling.

“_Most_ wanting,” said her father emphatically; “corrupt fruits from a wild and poisonous tree. Let us then take those hearts which God’s word and our own experience declare to be deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked--let us take them to the fountain opened for sin and uncleanness, even the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin. Without his precious atonement and perfect obedience to the divine law, how ruinous must have been our guilt; how utterly naked and destitute our souls! But can we hope that they are pardoned and accepted? Let us seek, also, their daily renewal; continuing instant in prayer, and watching thereunto with all perseverance, let us unsparingly detect all their crooked ways, and pray that the spirit of holiness and truth would work in us to will and to do of his good pleasure. O, how can we sufficiently magnify that complete and great salvation, which redeeming mercy offers to our fallen race? Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for He hath visited and redeemed his people! And blessed be his glorious majesty forever; let the earth be filled with his glory, and let the whole world say, Amen!”

“I _do_ say Amen, papa,” rejoined Emma, fervently; “and I do hope I am truly thankful for those instructions which have shown me the value of spiritual blessings, and taught me also that in simplicity and godly sincerity I ought to have my conversation in the world.”

S. S. S.

* * * * *

“That’s a very bad cough you’ve got, friend Smith.”

“Yes, neighbor Jones, but it’s the best I’ve got!”

* * * * *

The man who is guilty of the theft is frequently the first to cry, “Stop thief!”

The Hyena.

I am a very good-natured person; apt to see things in a favorable light; fond of picking out pleasant objects to contemplate, and am usually able to find agreeable qualities in every body and every thing. But I must confess, that, with all my disposition to be pleased, I can see very little that is pleasant in the countenance of the hyena. What a horrid fierce look he has! His countenance seems to bespeak perpetual hunger and thirst for blood; he looks as if his supper would taste all the better if it were attended by the agonized struggles and cries of the victim upon which he feasts! He really looks as if pain and distress would be but as pepper and spice to his meal.

But the fact is, no animals are cruel; that is, fond of inflicting pain from mere malice. Even the tiger slays but to eat, and the hyena, ill-favored as he is, has his part assigned to him by nature, and this is a useful one to man and beast. He is a native of the warm parts of Africa, and the southern part of Asia. He seldom kills an animal except when pressed by want, preferring to feed upon the carcasses of those he may find slain. It is a horrid part of the story of this creature, that he will sometimes go into a grave-yard and dig up the remains of people buried there; and he will, also, follow the march of an army to feast upon the slain after a battle.

Living in hot countries, and feeding upon the decayed flesh of animals, the hyena is useful by removing putrid masses of flesh that would otherwise infect the air with pestilence. He is thus a scavenger, and shares with the vulture the task of delivering the countries they inhabit from fruitful causes of fatal disease. Though we may not admire the face of the hyena, still we perceive that the world could not well do without him.

There is a common notion that the hyena is so wild in his nature as to be untamable; but this is a mistake. The creature is frequently tamed in India, and then lives quietly about the house like a dog. He is attached to those who are kind, but is spiteful and revengeful to those who abuse him.

This change in the character made by training, is a strong proof of the force of education; for not only is the tamed hyena made gentle in reality, but his countenance is actually rendered mild and inoffensive. This shows that the character is written in the face, and bids young people beware how they let their passions mark themselves upon their countenances.

Jewish Women.

We do not read that a Jewess was to be seen among the crowds of priests and the rabble who insulted the Son of man, scourged him, crowned him with thorns, and subjected him to ignominy and the agony of the cross. The women of Judea believed in the Savior; they loved, they followed him; they assisted him with their substance, and soothed him under afflictions. A woman of Bethany poured on his head the precious ointment which she kept in a vase of alabaster; the sinner anointed his feet with a perfumed oil, and wiped them with her hair. Christ, on his part, extended his grace and mercy to the Jewesses; he raised from the dead the son of the widow of Nain, and Martha’s brother Lazarus; he cured Simon’s mother-in-law, and the woman who touched the hem of his garment. To the Samaritan woman he was a spring of living water. The daughters of Jerusalem wept over him; the holy women accompanied him to Calvary--brought balm and spices, and, weeping, sought him at the sepulchre. His first appearance, after his resurrection, was to Mary. He said unto her, “Mary!” At the sound of that voice, Mary Magdalene’s eyes were opened, and she answered, “Master!” The reflection of some very beautiful ray must have rested on the brow of the Jewesses.

Story of Philip Brusque.