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Ly you Pasion Ce as et oy rg zits 5 oe > ff she ar ee ay OF ats Aur. cas ae Reicha th sh we sate eae f ns hao RAS Be 2 alas : sarah eu berate i : wis era Z oe Pe es Soe . ae Po ry Tee oe sk hy Pye Be Hae aesLIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA IN MEMORY OF KINGSLAND SPENCER PRESENTED BY HIS DAUGHTER MRS. JOHN V. COCKCROFTed r Re een ean abdtneenl ooo ed ee a ee ee n i § i ) ‘ a r fi ; -eeteet neta my te te a. a a eit hen ee tie eed i 1 A | | j f ee ee ee — -+e++2 con amet oT —< Te eeeTe SE ft 7 VISTAS IN SICILYer en. een me yrene Oe ee ne ee iii eteteee -_ i \ t ' ee tenella ciate eeniin bie eae ce ee keeaay ee eer ee et Se kl ye awh) bier | eeee eet alm AIR cate a rae ne el ee ie ee ee oe ee i ee eer re St ear id oe Rees ee ee eee Te ov — rt v S wo Qy oO — oY > aS o > # oO oO + ar co oO c o ‘0 —~” ov A +2 3 Le oO v Oo _ op & wt ~~ © S ae v Mi 8) ae Ee = a — sn otalMis TAS i Car Ls a BY ARTHUR STANLEY RIGGS F. R. G. S. NEW YORK ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY 1925ak ee A ee ee — ee ee ee Ta paren rege teems a Snr ee > ‘ j i 4 & 5 } Fi t I Oe ee ee a ee Copyright, 1912, by McBride, Nast & Co. Revised Edition Copyright, 1925, by Robert M. McBride & Co. Printed in U.S. A, Published, 1925be eda SS = S ee ple had ee TO MY WIFE | | ee ner ee ee aeSe en ad ee Ppa +e eet ey ne ews ee yp ee eer j 7) p 3 eh ena ee tai ine he a en eee nn ee rdCHAPTER II III DV VI Vil VIIl IX XI XII XITI XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII CONTENTS INTRODUCTION DIscovERY PALERMO A Niaeut or DIssIPATION CATHEDRALS PALACES AND PEOPLE . Tue PuarIn oF PANORMOS . AROUND THE ISLAND Tue Roap To SYRACUSE Tue Harsor AND THE ANAPO SyrRACUSE THE PENTAPOLIS CATANIA AND Mr. AZETNA TAORMINA Some MountTAIN VIsTAs LigHTs AND SHADES Tue Crry tHat Was Tue NortTHERN SHORE Tue WESTERN SHORE Addio, Sicilia! . INDEX PAGE ° i-xiv 17 30 56 74: 87 107 123 133 152 167 178 192 207 215 233 249 269ee ee eee ee a eee ae et ee ee a ot —o mre om Stee i ‘ ; H : ‘ 5 eS oatheatihied Ye eeTHE ILLUSTRATIONS Tue WonDERFUL SicILIAn CarT . Frontispiece FACING PAGE PALERMO, FROM THE Porta NuovA . . . . 12 Mtr. PELLEGRINO AND THE V1A BorGo .. . 13 True Musicat WaTER-SELLER . . .- -« « -« 28 Part oF THE City STREET-CLEANING DEPARTMENT 29 A Piece Birren Our or Coney Istanp . . . 44, AN) “ECONOMICAL KITCHEN . + =. « + 45 Tue Friep-Entraits Man chu 2 Beet a yee leeks AS Tue Hoty BAMBINO OF THE ONIONS. .. . 60 Tue GARIBALDI THEATRE 61 Tur Patermo CaTHEDRAL’S FACADE 76 Kine Roager’s SARCOPHAGUS. 77 hoe MONREALE, CATHEDRAT 3 96 so) 04 a) 92 Tue CreaTION oF Eve, MonrEeEALE CATHEDRAL . 93 INTERIOR OF THE CAPELLA PALATINA . . . . 108 Tan “ PeaTe en ili esenn teaieaatiiantie esate en eee eee - en a a a ie oe a ee ee le ee ee ee VISTAS IN SICILY “Where now, milords? ” he smiled at us cheerily, noting the hand baggage. “To the steamer, Gregorio — to Sicily.” “To Sicily!” he exclaimed, dropping his whip in sheer amazement. “Santo Dio!— why?” The haze of volcanic cinders still hanging thickly over Naples was answer enough, with the added ex- planation: ‘We must breathe; we must rest.” “Yes, but —” His emotions choked him. Here was Naples deserted by the thousands of foreigners whom a few days of Vesuvian bellowings had fright- ened into abject panic. Cabs rusted at the street corners by scores; and now he, too, was to be idle. It was too much! Not even the promise of engage- ment upon our return could dispel the gloom that had wiped away his smile. “Gia!” he grunted darkly, shaking his head. “If the Signort ever return. Who knows, per Bacco! Sicilians are mala gente, brigands, mur- derers—” It was too late to withdraw, notwithstanding Gregorio’s cheerful prophecy, and he drove us to the wharf, a mournful figure drooping upon his box — and we sailed on Friday the 13th, at thirteen min- utes past six! But whether it was because of lack of respect for either fateful numbers or hoary nau- tical superstition, or because of skill upon the bridge, the swift and trim little Galileo Galilei brought us pleasantly in the glorious dawn to Sic- [2]OILOJA ° a 4 S S » Gi { Castelvetrano \\nvs * Indicates rvins of or site of old cities = & oS ¢e ° ¢ Be So ES? tas a, = e445 =i Aer ake §- = 6¢—~d «> “> SS Z /~ Mt A e »™ vane a OCCA 4) is C. 8. Marco C. Santa Croce Syracuse Le C Murto di Porco CATANIA Augusta o Mogare ar . ws on Aimy + np érranova’ af tv Je a eo 3 e e ¢ wi 5 ° = rt a ° o Be Sie & — 4 2 i 3 _ < ° 7 Vv 2 NA ut SCALE OF DISTANCES BY SEA Palermo to Na [3] Marzament ~@C. Passaro @ C. Porto di Pale a ee ee ee i ee C. Scalambra P. Camarsna a ? i ; i H ’ Hf Ni 480 searniles S# Lethon 356 Messina 423 ples Catania Se ei ea Messina ene P Pa — ee od nwtee ; i 1 { ! ) ee ee eee ~~ VISTAS IN SICILY ily, and an hour later Palermo—the capital — shimmered through the smoky mists veiling its Golden Shell. It was an easy and a delightful voyage, the steamer clean, the sea smooth. But if one is sea- fearing instead of sea-faring, he may go comfort- ably from Naples by train, via Reggio and the Strait of Messina, only two miles across by ferry. Or, if he be a sea-roving globe-trotter, he may take one of the numerous Mediterranean liners leaving New York the year round, and make the trip with- out a single change all the way to Palermo; and these vessels are so large and so steady that the trip is robbed of half its terrors to the most timid soul. But if money is an object, it is better to go by way of Italy, where little commutation books for Sicilian travel, called tessere, are to be obtained. Each tessera is a small pocket coupon-book sold in every large city, from Rome southward, from Feb- ruary to June. The books contain detachable cou- pons which entitle the holder to a discount ranging all the way from ten to seventy-five per cent in the cost of transportation, food, lodging, merchandise and amusements in the theaters. They cost ten lire (two dollars) apiece; and it is necessary only to fill out a given leaf with the date, the names of the stations to and from which the holder wishes to travel, and to present it at the station to obtain the discount on accommodations in any class desired [4]DISCOVERY on railway trains and steamers. A saving so large may be effected by its use that the transportation cost of the trip melts almost into insignificance. It seems too good to be true, but there is a rea- son for it. Count Florio, of the Florio-Rubattino Steamship Company, one of the most public-spirited men in Sicily, to popularize the island as a place of resort, to stimulate local travel in the best months of the year, and so to augment the revenues of both people and island, persuaded the Government to grant special rates on its railways by giving a sixty per cent discount on his own private steamers. Va- rious large stores, theaters, cafés and hotels per- ceived the reason in his argument, and quickly fol- lowed his example. Moreover, as the Annual Sport- ing Reunion is held in Palermo during the late winter, it was felt——as proved to be the case — that inducements in the way of discounts on the cost of everything would considerably increase the pat- ronage and make the annual games and races much more a feature of the island than ever before. Curiously enough, for a people so fond of red tape, the Sicilians have not smothered the tessere with senseless regulations. The concierge of your hotel can fill out and present the book for you when you wish to leave a city; the railroad ticket agent is not concerned with anything but your signature; and there are no difficulties about photographs as identification. But woe to the person who gives se1 iu t i E { i ' i ; i i i ¥ } i ; aie ———— VISTAS IN SICILY his tessera to a careless concierge! Half a dozen others may have done the same thing at the same time, and the tessere have become mixed. Unless one wishes to forge the usually almost indecipher- able Italian name on the little green leaves, no ticket is forthcoming, no matter how fluent the explana- tion given; and a new book becomes a necessity. These winter and spring months are ideal for travel in this Mediterranean isle. In every age Sicily’s climate has been sung as halcyone, and in the days when Cicero was questor under the Roman rule, he did not exaggerate greatly when he said that there is never a day when the sun does not smile at least once. Not even Mentone or the other resorts along the Riviera can boast of a warmer or more sensuous charm than Sicily. Jan- uary, which is the worst and rainiest month of the Sicilian winter, is very like the first two weeks of May in the northern part of Europe; and a short time later, when travel begins to waken the island, the sun shines clear and hot, an overcoat is wholly unnecessary except in the evening. Ripe and green fruit and blossoms are to be seen at the same time on the orange and lemon trees, and by April the scraggy old olive trees bend be- neath the weight of their dull green fruit, just be- ginning to blush with purple. The air is full of the scent of myriad flowers, and the railway tracks, sometimes for miles, run between hedges of ge- [6]DISCOVERY raniums — six to eight feet high — whose pungent fragrance fills the flying trains. The summer cli- mate is as mild and salubrious as that of the winter, for even in July and August the average is not more than seventy-seven or seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit; about the same as in our own Atlantic States. Occasionally, during one of the African siroccos that sometimes sweep across the island, the mercury rises to an hundred or so; but the sirocco is a rare occurrence, fully as apt to occur in mid- winter as in summer. In a climate of this sort the jaded city-dweller, searching for health and rest, finds an ideal environ- ment, and while the hotels are not the equals of the fashionable New York and London hostelries, they are comfortable and moderate in price; and many of them have splendid gardens attached, where one may have tea, or rest and wander at will among the scented bowers. One boasts a considerable aviary, and another, perched at the very edge of a precip- itous crag, serves refreshments upon a stone prom- enade with the blue African Mediterranean right be- low, and the peaks of the Dark Continent faintly suggesting themselves through the mists of the horizon. Many of the best-known of these hos- telries are located at historic spots, where history and imagination can conjure xp the past vividly — aided, perhaps, by a too generous dinner. More than one traveler has fought the siege of Taormin= 7en eet eee ee ee ee ett top ema, . P sal a ee ee ee ee ee ee elon ote alee ele VISTAS IN SICILY all over again in his post-prandial dreams, and gone tumbling down the nine-hundred-foot slopes with the Greek tyrant, to wake up on the stony floor of his own bedroom! Notwithstanding, the food is good, except in the more remote districts, where goat’s flesh is usually the literal piéce de résistance. In many of the hill centers the wine of the country, the vin ordinaire, as the French put it, is remarkably pure and good, while for general attractiveness and cleanly condi- tion, the hotels as a class rank very well indeed. Not so much can be said for the servants, for the Sicilian accepts dirt as a thing given of God and therefore not to be too severely quarreled with under any circumstances; yet he does his best to live up to the finicky notions of the foreigner who, to his unprejudiced eye, is so jaundiced. And the Si- cilian’s best, in his efforts to please the stranger, is a very warm-hearted and genial best indeed, full of cheery smiles, of the utmost willingness to fetch and carry, of entire devotion, sometimes to the point of doing actual violence for his patron. It is characteristic of the people, indeed, that, having so long served for nothing, they should wel- come the chance to serve for their own profit and pleasure combined; and the service is as pleasant to reward as it is to receive. Furthermore, the reward need not by any means always take the form of cash. In Italy everywhere one goes it is always tip! tip! [8 ]DISCOVERY tip! But in Sicily it is a delight to learn that one often secures as much for a smile and a gracious word of thanks as for a cash gratuity. In fact, tips are not infrequently refused. I shall never forget the expression that crossed the face of a schoolboy to whom I once offered half a lira, ten cents, for some trifling service. There was hurt pride in the rich brown eyes upturned to mine as the dirty little paw waved away the coin without a word. Another time, in the course of a detailed exploration of a prominent agricultural school in Palermo, the young priest in charge remonstrated with me, half in amusement, half in indignation, be- cause “you offered my mama money!” To the apologetic remark that it is very hard to know when not to offer money, since everyone elsewhere in Italy expects it, the young philosopher, as cordial and proud as he was abjectly poor, helped himself to one of my cigarettes with a neat word of thanks and replied: ‘‘ Ah, but here it is different! We are a simple, kindly folk in Sicily, always ready to do whatever we can for the well mannered foreigner. And, friend, when you go out, do not try to corrupt my boys with money,” was his parting admonition regarding tips for any of his pupils. This picturesqueness of character extends to face and costume as well, and in the remoter places the dress and faces of the ancients may be observed, striking a curious note of contrast with the ex- [9]VISTAS IN SICILY ceedingly modern and well appareled folk of the larger centers. Only fifteen miles by carriage from Palermo, back in the mountains at Piana dei Greci — an Albanian colony founded during the latter part of the fifteenth century —the peasants still hold dur- ing festival time to their rich and exceedingly beau- tiful costumes of embroidered silken gowns and breeches heavily picked out with gold. And a cos- tume wedding can usually be arranged for the bene- fit of the interested visitor, who is expected to pay the officiating priest and make a modest gift to the newly married young couple. But ancient or modern though the costume be, the demeanor of the wearer is almost invariably the same, courteous and respectful— one might even say eager—to give nothing but pleasure to the stranger. And this is true even of the cab-drivers. We had come to Sicily weary to exasperation of the importunities and rascality of the Neapolitan jehus — Gregorio was a smiling exception. ‘To our de- light we found ourselves able to take a ride in Pal- ermo, of half a mile or more, in a clean, well-kept barouche, drawn by a well-fed little Arab stallion, for ten cents— and no tip necessary or expected. The prices for longer excursions were on the same basis, and for weeks we had the services of a cab, a magnificent horse, and the peerless Gualterio, for about two dollars a day, including what to the Si- cilian mind was a generous gratuity. And the Frq] Fg a - — a, r , oe OA veDISCOVERY riage “ran sweetly,” as Gualterio assured us it would; nor was it—vin his own words — “ dirty, like some!”? Of course, the Sicilian cabman, for all his courtly manners and engaging smile, his soft voice and his continual appeal to the ladies, with the set phrase “La Signora vuol’ andare — The Lady would like to ride?” (as she usually did, to the enrichment of the cabby) is not much more to be relied upon for facts, or as a guide, than his breth- ren in Naples or anywhere else in the world. The first time we saw one of the numberless slender stone towers that dot Palermo from end to end, rising to a height of about twenty feet, covered with fine vines and dripping countless tiny streams of water, Gualterio smiled angelically when asked what it was. “‘It is very simple, Signore,” he replied instantly. “Tt is one of the watch towers, built to enable the guards of the royal Chateau of La Favorita to keep watch over the entire estate at once.” It seemed a curious thing that royal guards should combine duty with the pleasures of a cooling showerbath; but when I appeared to doubt it, Gualterio simply pointed at the iron ladder leading from top to bot- tom outside. ‘“* Behold,” he said. ‘“ Are not the ladders still there by which the guards climbed up and down?” Later we found the structures to be irrigating towers, as useful as they are picturesque, which is saying a good deal. How to make a cab- driver truthful is a recipe one seldom or neve* [11] a ‘ J iH 4 ; eeD ‘ F : 4 | H } ’ } bi H ! f i i } | { ; i : 4 t Hy H ‘ i ‘4 | i i t ; i } ——e ne ee ee VISTAS IN SICILY learns. Perhaps there is a way, but his fictions are so harmless and amiable, so entirely diverting and in- genuous, that it seems a pity to spoil a child of Na- ture with ironclad rules for veracity. Nor is the cabman the only Sicilian given to hyper- bole or metaphor. The tendency is marked in all primitive peoples — a large part of the Sicilians are still primitive —to tell an inquirer the thing they suppose he most wishes to know; and the Saracenic blood in the Sicilian has doubtless left him a certain heritage of poetic imagination and exaggeration for the most utter commonplaces of life. At any rate, this inclination is found throughout the island, and it does not, except to the flustered tourist-in-a- hurry, seem a peculiar drawback or fault. Indeed, it rather adds to the fascination of the people, who appear to fit perfectly into their environs. Wild looking young girls, cherry-and-olive of skin, gossip- ing about the central fountains of their home towns, bear huge replicas of red Greek amphorai upon their well poised heads with all the grace of Greek maidens. Sprightly little goatherds, whose heads are the heads of fauns, and whose half naked and ruddy bodies are often clad in skins, ramble over the precipitous hills with nimble herds able to crop a living from mere stone-piles; and the fauns, Pan- like, pipe to their goats strains Theocritus might have loved. Swart mountaineers dress like their own rough hills in shaggy clothes topped off by [12]9 alermo, “the Panormos of old... looks straight out toward the rising sun.— nt ee mt pt et re ee te ET mt eR ey * tote a ee i Pi uN 3 j j i eee Se ee eee rol LY “- ae. ne Monte Pellegrino looms square and massive at one tip of Palermo’s crescent harbor.DISCOVERY — big rough shawls; and seamen clump about, afloat and ashore, in boots and “oilers,” or barelegged. The city folk are equally artless, with their tiny marionette theaters, their homeless meals in the open air markets, their goat-blessings, their imnumerable other feste. And the Sicilians are not the only entertaining characters one meets. Sometimes our own country- men — more often countrywomen ! — are not far be- hind them. At a little mountain hotel, one evening at dinner a vivacious, black-haired, sloe-eyed, young woman with the air of one who comes, sees and con- quers, told me in a breath her name, place of resi- dence, father’s occupation, and asked for my cre- dentials. I was rather stunned, but one of her com- panions — there were five of them in all — reassur- ing me by “ Oh, don’t mind Dulcie! She’s all right,” I admitted my identity. With characteristic American energy the trippers ‘“¢ did” the town in one day, and long before we were ready for breakfast the next morning, drove away in an ancient barouche crammed to the guards with luggage, and drawn by three horses so rickety we wondered at the daring of the five women in accept- ing it. Dulcinea—have I her name right? — perched beside the grinning driver, her agile hands full of guidebooks, umbrellas and so on, gesturing with the fluency of Sicilian temperament itself, took in everything with a last comprehensive glance, and [13] r 4 ey z= i a a _, bie et ee ee ne IT ee llel Ne eee —o eianieetiinhaiaeemn eatin en eto ee ee ee eee INR = se meet ate wd VISTAS IN SICILY commanded the triumphal equipage to move. The hotel manager stood by the door blinking and dazed. Drawing a hand across his brow as the chatter died away in the distance, his lips moved in something that doubtless was a tribute to the ‘* wonderful Americans! ” In another dining room a weighty German, seat- ing himself ponderously, drew from his pocket a sort of dog-chain which he carefully threw around his neck and attached by a spring clasp at either end to his napkin, spread carefully under his expansive chin. By the way, many Germans travel in Sicily; they seem especially interested in its classical his- tory. The caretaker in one of the latomie in Syra- cuse complained: ‘‘ Most of the people who have been here this year were Germans. Me, I do not like the Germans. They have no pockets! Now Amer- icans are grand. ‘They are all pockets.” After we left he may have concluded that some Americans are very German. There are many English, too, for they are everywhere; sometimes interesting, some- times not. Besides these folk of to-day, legend and fable have peopled the island with myriad nymphs and god- desses, gods and demons and heroes, equally inter- esting. Here in the smoldering caverns of Atna dwell the grim Sikel gods of fire. There in the lofty central plateau is the very pool beside which Proserpina was weaving her daisy chain when [14]DISCOVERY stolen by Pluto and carried away to be queen of the nether world. High on the peak of an ancient west- ern hill is the dueling ground where Hercules wrestled with King Eryx. And off the eastern shore are the very rocks the Cyclops Polyphemus hurled in his impotent rage at the escaping Odys- seus. But song and story are not necessary to invest the natural scenery with its full share of beauty and importance. The Sicilian Apennines, like forked lightning, zig-zag sharply down from the northeast corner to the central southern shore — the rugged, cloud-piercing backbone of the island. Greek temples, great golden honeycombs of myth and his- tory, tower up from hilltop and swale of emerald spangled with the gold of spurge and buttercup, splashed with the impish fiery tongues of countless poppies ; bright groves of orange, lemon, citron, alm- ond and carob trees in both fruit and flower scent the air with almost overpowering sweetness; broad brown fields bear acres of the dull green prickly pears; an occasional huge plot of ground newly plowed, with moist red furrows, waits open-lipped, to receive seed or shoot; and everywhere, acre upon acre, extend the vineyards, low-trellised and green, till from a height the country that the gods loved looks like a huge crazy quilt, folded and rumpled and vivid, dropped from the finisher’s hand and left lying where it fell. [15]VISTAS IN SICILY Picturesque towns on the very tips of inaccessible crags, walled about and defended by Nature, give perfect pictures of isolation. Other towns, white cities springing up from the golden sands of the Af- rican sea, coquette with the emerald waves that lap hungrily at their very doors. And the dashing tunny-fisheries off-shore—the brilliant sunshine glinting on the flapping white sails —the water boiling about the frantic monsters as they plunge and struggle to escape the stabbing gaffs of their captors; the water red and green and black at last, and the long line of huge, gleaming bodies — like titanic Spanish mackerel varnished an opalescent black — strewn upon the white and sparkling beach! What more could man wish to see?II PALERMO OST of the passenger steamers come into M Palermo shortly after dawn, and in the pleasant, vernal weather of late winter, or in the real spring, the great bay is a waveless sheet of gilded beryl, dotted here and there with small boats so still they seem sculptured, in strong relief against the purple outlines of the cliffs at either horn of the bay. On the right, Monte Pellegrino looms square and massive; on the other horn’s tip Monte Zaffarano peers through the vapors, and the bay between their rugged shoulders is pent off from the sea by the slender arms of moles springing out- ward from the shore. Inside these breakwaters, solemn, black trans-Atlantic liners await their passengers, and flocks of rakish small boats, with queer, high, projecting cutwaters and painted in every dazzling, garish color that fancy can suggest, hop about like so many water-beetles. Prosaic fish- ing smacks full of rich, soft colors and melting lines idle along to lazily lifted sweeps, or linger beside the mole. And rusty little “cargo-boats that ’aven’t any ’ome” contrast sharply with the trim white Florio-Rubattino liners. [17]a ee es ely meen Santi matinee te ee em et ip Somat ar erg ip — eet 3 etre rer VISTAS IN SICILY Early as the hour is, half of male Palermo seems to come to the dock to shout a cheery welcome as the boat comes in. Throngs of hotel runners and por- ters crowd the wharves, all clamoring for recogni- tion, each trying to drown out his neighbor’s voice; their queer, staccato cries, combative and challeng- ing, sound as if projected from a huge phonograph to float loosely upon the jangling air. Yet for all this eagerness it is hard to find a man not too busy shouting to attend to the baggage. When one is secured, however, he vanishes like a gnome, to return a few moments later with the pleasing intelligence that he has smuggled your trunk through the cus- toms guards, and is ready to perform prodigies with your handbags. Palermo’s modern commercial port is distinct from the ancient harbor of La Cala, now devoted almost exclusively to small fishing craft and row- boats because of its shallowness. Between the two basins projects a blunted little promontory, the re- minder of that ancient tongue of land which di- vided the bay of Panormos of old. On that pro- jecting finger of ground the Pheenicians built their mighty city, which looked straight out toward the rising sun. Yet no one knows what its ancient name was, nor what the citizens called themselves; we know it only by its Greek name of Panormos, All-Haven. And though the Pheenicians have passed completely from the entire earth, and the [18]PALERMO Greeks remain a great Nation, this city which the Phenicians founded is still Sicily’s most beautiful and prosperous center, while the wonderful Greek metropoli of Akragas and Syracuse have dried up like mummies within the battered outlines of their once splendid shells. Palermo has long and deservedly borne the name of La Felice, The Happy. It is a white city with houses of pearl and roofs of carnelian, shimmering with golden sunlight against the dark background of vine-clad hills on the horizon and the rich green of the most fertile plain in the island, that sweeps, a vast natural amphitheater, from the edge of the sea up to the seats of the white gods on the cloud- veiled crags. Splendidly set is the city in the warm lap of its Conca d’ Oro, the Golden Shell that blooms with countless orange and lemon trees whose golden fruits flash amid the glossy green of the foliage and give the rolling plain its name. Pink and white alm- onds, citron, palms, ilex and pomegranate make it a great botanical garden, perfumed with the jasmine of Araby, the geranium, the pallid lily and the rose. The system of irrigation introduced cen- turies ago by the Saracens still obtains throughout this favored plain, increasing its productiveness twenty-fold. Fringing the city, splendid villas and great beautiful gardens bring a blush to the emerald cheek of the rolling environs. One feature of parks and gardens throughout Sicily that no American [19]VISTAS IN SICILY — can fail to notice is the lack of prohibitory signs, such as “ Keep off the grass.” ‘Do not pick flowers.” ‘* No trespassing under penalty of the law.” Royal, noble or ordinary, these grand floral and arboreal displays are open to the public prac- tically all the time, yet no one is ever offended by débris left by picknickers, by broken-off twigs or blossoms. ‘The Sicilian knows that an infraction of the rights of the owners would result immediately in the closure of these parks and gardens, and he re- spects his privilege of entry. Many who come to Palermo do so expecting to find a typical south-Italian seaport, indescribably filthy, and teeming with guides and beggars — as determined as their native fleas to make a living from the visitor. To all such the reality comes as thrice welcome. They find a city beautiful, teeming with life and color, brilliant and irresistible, its citizens well dressed, orderly and courteous, at least so far as the traveler sees them. They congest the narrow sidewalks in an easy-going, gossiping, arm- in-arm throng never in a hurry and never to be stirred to haste by the polite “ Permesso, Signori! ” of the foreigner. Rather when urged to speed do they stop short to stare in amazement at such a phenomenon as anyone pressed for time. Handsome shops with alluring window displays line the principal thoroughfares, which run through the city in a huge cross. Clean, convenient trolley [ 20 ]PALERMO systems vein the capital’s face with crows’-feet in thin gray lines; enticingly black and narrow little vicoli thread devious ways among the houses, where the curious may wander unafraid, and unashamed of his curiosity and interest. And every alley, every byway and passage is spotlessly clean; while the gardens of the city, scattered with prodigal lavish- ness throughout even the business section, are beauti- ful beyond description. At first the senses refuse to take in anything more than a strange, exotic, gorgeous medley of light, color, sounds; an unfath- omable jumble of men and animals, of quaint build- ings and strange vehicles, of street cries weird but melodious, of the faintly scented brilliant atmos- of the half-revealed, half-guessed-at Soul of phere the City. Perhaps the two main streets constitute the best monument the Spaniards have left behind them. They may not have cared for Sicily; but for them- selves and their convenience and comfort they cared much. So the Spanish viceroy, Don Pedro de To- ledo, ran a fine broad street straight from the smil- ing sea through the middle of the town, and called it for himself, the Toledo. It is now the Corso Vit- torio Emmanuele — practically every city of any importance in Italy has testified in this same way to its love for the united country’s first king. Cross- ing this ancient Toledo is the other highway, the Via Maqueda, laid out by another viceroy, the [ 21 ]ee oa ee ate eee car ee ee a ae ee i ee ee —- VISTAS IN SICILY Duque de Maqueda, a short time later. The curious square —it is an octagon, by the way — where these two streets intersect at right angles, is called by the whimsical Sicilians the Quattro Canti, or Four Corners. The facades of the abutting build- ings are concave, and each affords lodgment for statues of a Season, a Spanish King and a female saint — who might be in a deal better company ! Our first morning on the Corso we were halted by a terrific outburst of sound from the very heart of the throng. “What’s that?” I exclaimed, swinging my camera into position. ‘“ A fight; somebody being murdered? ” But La Signora was not minded to be left a widow in a strange land for the sake of a putative photo- graph, and halted me. The cry stopped: as we lis- tened it began again. Angry and defiant, bellicose even, it rose clear and strong above the noise of the street, held a moment, faded in slow diminuendo into the beautifully clear note of a great and playful animal baying for sheer joy of his own strength. The sauntering crowds paid not the slightest atten- tion to the amazing volcanic outburst of vocal fire- works; not one of the alluring shops beside us was emptied of its customers; the tiny Sardinian donkeys in the shafts of the gayly painted little carts did not even lift an ear, but pattered gravely onward; and we, moving with the crowd, looked sheepishly at one [ 22 ]PALERMO another when we reached the corner. Standing in an angle of two house walls was a little seller of sweetened water, holding his big red amphora by one ear, his gaudy little yellow-red-blue stand bright with clinking bottles and glasses. As we stopped, he stunned us again with his musical bellow, and knowing we would not buy his “ Aaaaacquuuu- aaaa! Aaaaacquaaaaaaaa d-o-l-c’!”’ struck a pic- turesque attitude and posed for us instead. He is there yet — or another water-man is, for it is a fine corner for business. Along the Via Maqueda and its continuations, the Ruggiero VII and the Avvenida della Liberta, the fashionable corso, or afternoon driving promenade of all classes, takes place. ‘The handsome street is an endless chain of moving vehicles of every de- scription. Here a spanking team of blooded bays with silver-mounted harness draws the smart London trap of a young Florio; there a rickety old barouche, guiltless of varnish for many a long year, so crowded with a stout family party of six that its rheumatic springs creak, and the wind-broken old hack who pulls it feels his waning powers severely taxed. A splendid young Arab, full of blood and pride, pulling a new victoria, follows a ducal cart and precedes another overflow meeting, this time a stag party. Flashily dressed young gallants with cigarettes and straw hats a l’Anglais, loll back in decent traps and carts, making sheep’s eyes at the [ 23 ]eee el saltipenet eed teenies re ee Sd eh le ee ee ee a ee ee ee ke VISTAS IN SICILY demure young girls who ride in maiden reserve be- side their silent mothers. Every Palermitan who can, rides in this social promenade. What matter if his vehicle be but a cheap hired victoria; what if he go to bed supper- less; has he not had the supreme delight of playing milord in elegant leisure among the nobility and the rich forestieri (tourists) who take the air on the city’s stateliest avenue? It not infrequently transpires that one carriage, one horse and one coachman are owned — and alter- nately used — by two or three families. The coach- man in all probability not having been paid for a year or two, cannot afford to run away; the emaci- ated steed, not having had a really square feed of good sweet oats for an equally distressing period, could not run away if he would; and if both horse and driver should by fell conspiracy bolt, the faith- ful old carriage would quickly fall to pieces rather than have any part in the undoing of its worthy owners, Those of the nobles too poor to own a carriage alone, and far too proud to appear in hired ones, are not too proud to adopt the tactics of their humbler brethren, and go shares in an outfit with other nobles of equal pretensions and as poor as themselves. Only one extravagance marks the com- mon ownership of what might be called these “ party rigs.” Each count or baron or prince naturally [ 24 ]PALERMO boasts “arms” as the the insignia of his rank; and these symbols must of necessity embellish his carriage doors, that he who walks may know at a glance the name and fame of him who rides. From this dilemma the Sicilian has contrived an ingenious escape. Each noble has his own set of emblazoned doors. So when the tired horse brings his High- ness the Prince back to his “ palace,” presto! off come the princely doors, on go the ducal or baronial ones, and his Grace the Duke or the Baron rides serenely off in his own private equipage! Of all the vehicles in the world, there is nothing, however, to equal the Sicilian cart, carved, yellow, paneled with lurid paintings that run the gamut of myth and history. One we saw had upon its panels scenes representing Columbus sailing from Palos and discovering America; a bloody fight around the cit- adel of Acre; the hermitage of Santa Rosalia ; and on its tailboard a vivid presentation of the massacre of the Vespers. These carts are never very large, as carts go; but they are so marvelously wrought, they ought surely to come under the provisions of the law which forbids the exportation of any works of art. Wheels, shafts, axles, the edges of sides and posts and tailboards are all worked into neat geo- metrical designs, and on the axle is a carving built up clear to the bottom of the cart, a mass of intri- cate scroll-work and gingerbread, in the middle of which sits the patron saint of the fortunate owner. [25 ] F | , i 4 i] ‘ j i i } ti : ee ld eeVISTAS IN SICILY “If you expect a cart-driver to tell you the truth, make him swear by the saint sitting upon his axle,” is almost a proverb in Palermo. Would there were saints on the cabs, too! Often the horses’s decorations are equally fan- tastic, with a three-foot cock feather rising between his ears, an apoplectic purple bouquet of yarn upon the saddle, and plenty of shrill little bells at jingly intervals all over. These gorgeous outfits are used for ordinary delivery work, and after working hours the family put chairs in and go for a ride in state. The bit is as queer as the harness: it isn’t a bit at all, but a plate of spring-steel strapped loosely over the horse’s nose, an horizontal prong project- ing on either side. Attached to the prongs, the reins give the driver complete control over his an- imal, since by pulling them he gently but effectively cuts off the beast’s breath. This makes runaways impossible, and besides, is much more humane than a bit of the usual sort. The city’s street cleaning department is not such a joke as it appears. Looks are not its strong point — keeping the town immaculate jis. The carts are simply scaly old specimens of these bril- liant equipages; and the animals are tiny Sardinian donkeys, as pretty and gentle as any pet lamb, and scarcely bigger. One velvety little g-ay beauty we saw on the Via Maqueda was undoubtedly heart- broken at having such disagreeable work to da, We [ 26 ]PALERMO talked to him and petted him, but to all our caresses he made not the slightest response, merely hanging his head and suffering his fate silently, like the brave little beast that he was. Perhaps it is the cleanliness of these streets that makes the people use them as drying-rooms. In Naples they wash in the streets, and hang the clothes from window to window in narrow alleys. But in Palermo the people go much farther —they cover the facades of their very finest houses with linen which flaps in plain sight even during the fashion- able corso on the broad avenue. On this same Via Maqueda are the two large thea- ters. The Massimo, or Largest Theater, is a splendid structure, well named, for it is the largest theater not only in Italy but in all Europe, a digni- fied adaptation of ancient Greek ideals to present day needs. A block farther on is the Politeama Garibaldi, with a Roman triumphal arch entrance, and a two-storied Greek colonnade encircling fres- coed walls whose polychromatic decorations are so exceedingly Pompeiian they suggest that Palermo may be the birthplace of a new renaissance in Italian art. The Sicilian of any class is always picturesque, always individual. He could scarcely be anything else if he tried, and the life of the masses in the city is like a show at the theater — a shcw, at that, in which even the supernumeraries are ever imbued [27]sda ee ad aot re meietnarnens Fark conti ee ee een as et ee ee ee VISTAS IN SICILY with due regard for the proper setting and action of the piece. There is no more typical specimen of this condensed picturesqueness than the water-seller, whose bellow has musical quality and charm, as you discover after your first shock. He calls up Egypt and the streets of Cairo. Really, he is the survival of an ancient Arab custom. You find him every- where, especially among the lanes of the Fiera di Pascua, the Easter Fair, a piece bitten right out of the heart of Coney Island. The Easter season, by the way, is an exceedingly fortunate time to spend in Sicily, because of the multitudinous festivities going on. For the Fair, great bare sheds spring up over- night in the square beside the Massimo, mushroom- like —a sunstruck Babel of crazily built and deco- rated shops and stalls and booths where everything imaginable is to be bought, from tinware and toys to rosaries and vegetables. About the booths ed- dies a jovial mob, pushing, chattering, playing practical jokes on one another, eating candy and the dubious Sicilian equivalents for frankfurters and kraut. Bands blare out fitful, horrible music from the roofs or windows of small sheds curiously mounted with painted legends or astonishing pic- tures in which the lack of perspective is the most prominent feature, unless it is the artist’s entire disregard for the principles of anatomy. “ Bar- kers ” in plate armor manufactured out of ancient [ 28 ]ee os te ee “The water-seller, whose bellow has musical quality and charm.”oem ety te a a et es + tt eet eee eee ee Ee ee a ee ot ees eee ee a a en en ee Ho © wn wo vo Qy Py oO = wn © o 4 ° -_- w ao oO ~ wn ~ ° & ao ~ c & ~ 5 ; © Py vo oO + OO es 5 w ee oO w vo vo te ~ n A >> we VY o Go ESPALERMO kerosene tins from which the odor has by no means departed, vie with ridiculous clowns and short skirted dancers in proclaiming the attractions of their rival marionette and “ minstrel” shows. And everybody wants to pose. Indeed, the Sicilians have a good humored mania for getting in the way of the camera, even when they know they are not wanted there and will never see a single copy of the picture. I leveled my camera at one queer stall, and in- stantly the people sprang together solidly, com- pletely obscuring the booth, each man crying to his neighbor: “ Aspett’! Aspett’! Il fotografo!”’ In vain I pleaded. In vain Gualterio shouted and threatened and argued. The merrymakers laughed, and nodded, and stood like statues. In the confu- sion an important policeman stepped up, saluted respectfully, and said: ‘ Excellency will be kind enough to move out into the street again. He is at- tracting citizens, and blocking the entire square.” Then he began unhurriedly turning over the human kaleidoscope. [ 29 ] a i i +] ty ri j 7 1 |i a a a ee a ae a ee ae Til A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION ALERMO is chimneyless. Hovels and _ pal- P aces alike have no fires, except for cooking, and among the poorer classes very little of that is done at home, the people being steady pa- trons of the cucine economice, or “ economical kitchens,” especially of those in the vicinity of the great public markets. Anxious to see these typical aspects of city life in tabloid form, we had our own dinner early one even- ing, and told Gualterio to take us through the poorer quarters, to show us the people getting their suppers, both at home and in the old market. Obey- ing literally, he drove us through countless piccolié vicolt or narrow alleys, dark little canyon-like slits between the houses. Strange shadowy forms flitted about under our horse’s very feet; black doorways gave yawning glimpses of deeper gloom beyond, lighted only by a tiny candle; here and there we passed vague sil- houettes — a hungry man standing, hat on, before a table or sideboard gulping down his meager din- ner, or a woman, Rembrandt-like, knitting, mending, reading, or amusing a child, in soft relief against [ 30 ]A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION the murk of the interior. Sharp cries from the driver warned away the children sitting in the street, so narrow that the wheels of our carriage scraped the house walls on both sides while going through; women knitting slipped their chairs momentarily back into the doorways in order to let us pass. Street lamps at long intervals twinkled feebly, and after six or eight such streets were tray- ersed we emerged into the glare and brilliance of the slightly depressed Piazza Caraccioli, home of the Fiera Vecchia or Old Market. Halting the victoria on one side of the square, we wandered about on foot among a bedlam more pic- turesque than, and fully as noisy as, the Easter Market. To describe the scene adequately is im- possible —no one who has not seen it can gather more than the vaguest idea from any printed de- scription of this vivid cross-section of lower class Sicilian customs. Dazzling light and pitchy darkness alternate sharply, with no intermediate nuances of softer shadow, and the hurrying people rush hither and yon like so many busy ants. Adding to the con- fusion of the scene, the peddler and vendor shout out their wares: ‘“ Water!” “Olives!” “ Arti- chokes!” “ Fish!” A chorus of lesser cries swell into diapason invitations to buy all manner of things one does not wish and can not possibly use, and there is much good natured chaff for the fore- [31] ee ee Pe eae ——— —— O ; ' iOe en en ee eee s ieietaiaien aetaeee ee Ponti nae ee ee? hein, + aay ergo s— fame ~ VISTAS IN SICILY eee stiert. Men, women and children by the score are everywhere, some eating where they stand, some carrying food home. Small pails of gleaming charcoal bear upon their heads great kettles of boiling artichokes. Steam and aroma from the cooking meats and vegetables ; the smoke of lamps, candles and torches and burn- ing fat and grease in the frying pans; escaping gases from the ranges in the “ economical kitchens,” from the charcoal fires, and from the coal stoves; the innumerable smells of fresh vegetables, meat, fish, both salt and fresh, cut flowers and goats, with an additional tang of cheap wine, gushing from big casks into pails and bottles in the open shops, mingle in a composite odor by no means as un- pleasant as might be thought. The whole scene is a delight to the eye. Here is a good sized wine shop, its front entirely open, showing two rows of casks and an imposing array of copper bright as the sun; yonder a vegetable store completely covered with onions suspended in long strings, bunches and wreaths, decorated fancifully with green leaves and little rosettes which afford a background of decidedly striking type for an image of the Holy Bambino, itself of onion color, and barely discernible among the rustling strings of bulbs over the door. Beside us a tiny restaurant, its front all gas- range, yawns enticingly, while opposite glows the [ 32 ]A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION fiery eye of an artichokeman’s tiny charcoal fire. Vendors of fried entrails and stomachs squat beside their frying pans and baskets, perforated ladles in their hands, exactly like our frankfurter men; while water-men with their highly colored stands full of clinking glasses swing along, bellowing cheerfully. Great gaudy signs in blue, red and yellow pro- claim the prices of empty eggs, strung on threads, or impaled upon wooden spearlets, and stuck up over the front of a shop. Evidently the Palermitan distinguishes as we do between “eggs,” ‘“ fresh eggs” and “strictly fresh eggs,’ for the price varies considerably. However, the careful buyer we watched trusted not in signs or portents, but weigh- ing each egg carefully as he bought, placed a dozen or more of the fragile things in his coat pockets de- spite the throng. Why a purchaser never comes home with an omelet in his clothes is a mystery, for we found it exceedingly difficult to work our way through the crowd. Yet, when I questioned the egg-seller he declared that no one ever broke an egg. A man with a pretentious stand like the American quick lunch counters stood behind a narrow smoking counter full of hidden fire, bearing a frying pan on top. On his left a bowl of strong shredded cheese faced other dishes of butter and rolls. He was a very popular caterer, too, for while we stood watch- ing him a number of customers came up, giving an order in the peasant dialect which we could not [33]VISTAS IN SICILY understand, and the proprietor with a deft turn of his hand split a roll, covered it liberally with a rich thick layer of shredded cheese looking lke tooth- picks, placed upon that a few scraps of the meat he was cooking below, and deluging the whole with a spoonful or two of boiling grease, served up the tit-bit to his eager customer. In Sicily the butchers sell the offal and entrails of slaughtered animals, which in America are turned over to the soap manu- facturers or thrown away. ‘The kitchen-man who buys them cuts up the stuff, boils it in its own fat, and sells it in the reeking buns at a penny apiece. The sturdy Sicilian seems to enjoy and thrive on this horrible mess, and even the children come toddling up to clamor for their share. Macaroni of all sorts, curled, fluted, twisted, frilled, chopped into squares and lead pencil lengths, woven, braided into shapes numberless, decorates sev- eral of the stalls. Other booths sell candles; others, shoes ; still others, nothing but cheese. Cobblers are everywhere, although it seems impossible — in a town where so many people go barefoot — that one- tenth of the shoemakers, who work from six o’clock in the morning until nearly midnight, can find any- thing to do. Notwithstanding this external pov- erty, however, there are in the houses of the very poorest in practically every section of the town sewing-machines, whose tireless treadles throb and pulse by day and far into the night, the seamstress [ 34]A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION bending over her work lighted only by the spasmodic flickerings of a little candle. Tiring after an hour or so of the bustle and con- fusion and glare, we set off again. In and out we wound, as in a dream, peopling the streets with imaginary rascals ready to rob or kidnap, until at last in a small open square we came to the brilliantly lighted wineshop and café of Sainte Rosalie, whose proprietor, himself partly French, thus Gallicizes the name of the town’s patron saint, and at the same time adds distinction to his café in the eyes of lower class Palermo. We stopped curiously, and the pro- prietor, immediately forgetting his patrons, invited us to get out and inspect the place. Filling almost one entire side of the large front room is a huge stove built of mortar-covered brick- work, upon which bubbled a couple of cauldrons, one full of goats’ stomach, the other containing scraps of something or other. Both smelled good — but how they looked! Opposite the stove hung meat which had been fresh that morning; piles of vege- tables completely filled up the counter and various tables. All the coppers and cooking utensils were spotless, and marvelous to relate, there is a real chimney, and running water, both hot and cold. Sometimes you see a house which has a genuine iron cooking stove — but it stands in the parlor and the stovepipe is thrust conveniently out into the street above the closed lower half of the front door. [35]t " Hi i ; 1 t j F Ml } 4 } ) f i i f ' | i i : i , , A i F i A t I H VISTAS IN SICILY The café is divided into two parts by an arch, and no curtains being hung, the diners can see per- fectly how their food is being cooked. Leading us through into the Sala di pranzo, the proprietor, with a sweeping bow, waved us into two chairs at a table beside two native couples who were taking their be- lated suppers. The peasants greeted us frankly and pleasantly, the women smiling, and the men doffing their caps with a hearty “ Buona sera, st- gnori! ” Not knowing exactly what was expected of us, we ordered vino e pasta, supposing we would receive some sour, fiery fluid, and the bad Sicilian bread. Instead there was set before us a large flagon of reddish-brown, rather heavy dessert wine, a little too sweet to be palatable to Americans, but never- theless delicious. Clean though coarse napkins and glasses accompanied it, and delicious almond sweet- cakes in far greater quantity than we could eat. The price of this refreshment was so ridiculously small that we wondered at first whether Boniface had not made a mistake. Our trip through the market and the piccoli vicolt thus pleasantly finished, I told Gualterio to take us to the theater. That anyone would be willing to miss a minute of pleasure he must pay for was incomprehensible to his simple mind. Draining his beaker at a gulp, he nearly dropped the glass in astonishment. 36)A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION “ Ma— signore! E troppo tard’! Ora si finisc’ ul prim’ atto!” he exclaimed. “It is too late! The first act is surely over! ” “Oh, I did not mean the fine theaters where the rich people go, but a little theater, a theater of the people — where you go when you have an evening to yourself.” A curious expression came over his face, but mak- ing sure that we knew what we were talking about, he drove rapidly to the door of a dirty and dilapi- dated looking house in a small side court. Though we did not expect marionette shows to be given ina very splendid auditorium, we were scarcely prepared for this, rather hesitating to enter. The door was divided, the lower half closed, the upper open. Inside hung a short, flapping black curtain, while about the door loitered a little group of street urchins who dodged up when the door- keeper’s back was turned, to peep eagerly into the slit of brilliance that revealed the stage between the upper edge of the half-door and the bottom of the curtain. As we, too, peeped, Gualterio whispered that here was a theater whose audience numbered the very poorest and the humblest in the city, adding apolo- getically: “ Perhaps it is too poor for Excellency. I have been here and enjoyed the performance, but Excellency is accustomed to the fine theaters, and the Signora may not like this very well.” [37]; ; H j f { i ; } 1 t ( H i i i y ted ee ee ee! VISTAS IN SICILY On the contrary, that was exactly the sort of theater we did wish to see. The glimpse we got through the open door of the auditorium however, was not reassuring; and furthermore there was not a woman present. I knew all about the custom of the Sicilian theaters, which announce two different sorts of plays —‘“‘ To-night for men;” “This is a play for ladies.” Naturally, seeing no sign of the more particular sex, I jumped at the conclusion that this must be a man’s night. But disturbed by our conversation outside, the doorkeeper-proprietor and at least half of the audience politely arose and in- sisted that we should enter. With some misgivings we did so, paying two cents apiece for seats. After- ward I learned that the impresario had charged us exactly double what anyone else paid. The seats consisted of a few hard wooden benches without any backs, and the one reserved place in the entire theater — which was a room perhaps thirty feet square with two galleries some five feet above the floor on both sides — was a single broken-backed kitchen chair perched upon one of the benches in the middle of the house. The only well dressed man in the room, who occupied it, gallantly sprang down at once, and with a delightfully courtly bow and smile assisted the protesting Signora to his place. The audience numbered about forty or fifty fisherman, peddlers, a cabman or two and a mis- cellaneous collection of as jovial looking pirates as [ 38 ]A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION ever scuttled a ship or slit a throat. But for all their appearance, they behaved exactly like Amer- ican opera-goers, and the stir that our entrance made set every tongue chattering at a lively pace. The stage stretched across the end of the pit at a height of perhaps three or four feet above the floor, and on a rack of some kind at the left of the place where the footlights should have been, was a quantity of wilted green vegetables. Thinking of what happens to inferior actors in the rural districts here, I inquired with some anxiety if the vegetables had been laid aside for that purpose. But the man to whom I spoke, missing the joke entirely, re- plied with the utmost simplicity: ‘‘ Oh, no, Gius- eppe laid his pack there because it was too big to place between the seats.” How homelike it would seem to the weary street hawker in New York, could he but stop at the theater on his way home, and occasion no remark by leaving his left-over stock in trade at the feet of the actors for the time being. As soon as La Signora was ensconced upon her uncertain “ reserved seat,’? the men who sat beside me on either hand began to explain the play in what they probably considered words of one syllable. The fancily dressed young man at my right seemed impatient at the remarks of my white-haired left- hand neighbor, who smelled strongly of tar, and whose sixty years and showerbath dialect made him [39 ]Hi Mi i ) i j t i i Hi L t a i : if i ' i t { I } i : ; i i i Se Ce ae ee VISTAS IN SICILY both attractive and unintelligible to me. Both men talked at once and at high speed. In the meantime everyone else all over the house was talking cheer- fully; and the play was proceeding as calmly as though there were no interruption. Between the two explanations, neither of which I could under- stand, I had considerable difficulty in catching the words of the play, which was being read by a gentle- man whose lungs must have been rubber and whose throat brass. He stood back of the proscenium somewhere and bellowed or whispered in fine frenzy at every dramatic point, as the marionettes per- formed their astonishing evolutions. The puppets were handsome armored figures about three feet high, clothed in glittering plate and chain armor, accoutered cap-a-pie, their shields properly blazoned and their surcoats faithful models of the garments worn by the ancient knights. Marching, filing and counter-filing, they made ad- dresses to the accompaniment of stiff, clattering gestures, fought duels of deadly outcome with clash- ing weapons and rasping wires in the glare of half a dozen smoky oil lamps, and moved about easily, manipulated by the expert hands of operators who were standing in the wings. Every little while a human hand would burst into view, grotesquely gi- gantic compared with the puppet whose fate was in its keeping. The play was one of the familiar favorites, repre- [ 40 ]A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION senting the endeavors of invading Moors to convert Christian Sicilians to Mohammedanism, but the author was somewhat mixed in his history. Beside the Sicilians and Moors he worked in Frenchmen, and before the play was over, the story was that of a struggle between the two Christian nations, the Mohammedans obviously forgotten. The wicked, wicked Frenchmen were, of course, defeated, and their bloody schemes met with the noisy condemna- tion of the little crowd, while their opponents, the ancestors of these same street boys and hucksters and fishermen, won as hearty approval. In the interval between the fourth and the last acts I had a chance to inquire of my neighbors why there were no women present. Both men regarded me with astonishment, and the younger answered first. “Women? Women in the theater? Why, the theater is not good for them. I never bring my woman! ” Evidently a foreign woman was different, and none of the audience seemed to regard it as strange that one should be among them. As we came out into the fresh night air, Gualterio was apologetically solicitous, a little nervous as to the success of his experiment in bringing us to this particular theater. But our manifest satisfaction with our night of dis- sipation speedily reassured him, and all the way back to the hotel he sang canzone to his chunky lit- tle Arab out of pure joy and thankfulness. [42]Neen a a ee ee ee ee ae ee ee IV CATHEDRBEALS season is an especially good time to be in Palermo. On Easter morning the great Court of the Lord before the Cathedral is a surprising pic- ture. Upon the heavy stone balustrade enclosing it sixteen massive saints meditate benignly in the scented air. ‘The great gray cement yard, flowers all colors of the rainbow, marble Santa Rosalia — patroness of Palermo — the huge church itself: all are bathed in the most brilliant sunshine imaginable. Words and pictures alike fail to give any adequate expression of it. The noise and unrest of the busy Corso are forgotten in this magic precinct; smiling, happy men, women and children stream through the yard, picturesque in their holiday attire; while from the windows drones the chant of the Mass, like the buzzing of a swarm of kindly bees hovering over the flowers. The white glare of the Egyptian desert is never more blinding than a Silician spring morning radiance. Though the service calls, religion in Sicily takes small heed of the antics of foreigners, and if one [42] T has already been pointed out that the EasterCATHEDRALS chooses to stay outside in the courtyard and take photographs, it causes not the slighest comment. The main charm of the Cathedral lies in the curious blending of its different forms of architecture — Arabic, Norman, Gothic; which produces a dashing and almost whimsical effect in its fine arcades, its rich friezes and battlements, its interlacing arches, and its airy turrets outlined against the blue sky. Two graceful flying arches connect the Cathedral with the campanile or belfry which, as is often the case, is separated from the Cathedral proper — in this instance across the street. The vast struc- ture as a whole is the very epitome of Sicily’s many sided culture and art during her high tide of glory, the Norman period. A witty Englishman has fitly remarked that the badly restored and whitewashed interior, however, is of the “ railroad station type.” In the south aisle chapels, though, are the ex- cellent tombs of the kings, the grim and silent last homes of the marvelous Frederick, that * Wonder of the World,” of Henry VI, The Butcher, of Con- stance the Broken-Hearted, and of others. A great crimson porphyry sarcophagus holds the dust of King Roger, of whom it has been well said indeed that he was “ one of the wisest, most renowned, most worthy, and most fortunate princes of his time” (Freeman). Kneeling Norman nobles carved in white marble upbear the simple, boxlike mass of porphyry upon their armored shoulders. What an [43] J ; i i ‘ A 5 i , } J H “a } iyi ! / { i : ij ( iN ! ! Hi H H i i u aia gaia peecen atte denim eek ote ee VISTAS IN SICILY eR ee er Te fet expression of the homage of the people! The simple inscription, in Latin, reads: IN QUIET AND PEACE, ROGER, STRENUOUS DUKE AND OF SICILY FIRST KING, IS DEAD IN PANORMOS, THE MONTH OF FEB- RUARY IN THE YEAR 1154. So it would seem that we are not the first people to discover ‘‘ the strenuous life! ” And King Roger’s life was certainly strenuous. But it was nothing at all compared to the career of his father, who landed stealthily in Sicily by night with a handful of trusty knights and men-at-arms, captured Messina before breakfast, and stormed on through the island, felling the Saracens like so many saplings. ‘The Norman conquest was distinguished throughout by the most impossible feats of both per- sonal valor and consideration; the island was ready for Roger to knit together and administer when he succeeded his father, and played the role of law- giver and organizer to his fiery parent’s conquests. And young Roger rose even higher than his father. Where he had been Count, Roger made himself not only King of Sicily, but ruler of a considerable part of Southern Italy as well. What manner of man he was is shown by an ancient mosaic still on the wall of the church of the Martorana, a remarkable example in itself of Norman-Sicilian art. Notwith- [ 44 Jin the Easter Fair, a piece bitten right out of Coney Island.” -armor.. ““*Barkers’ in plate 1 i ‘ 4 i , ' i; : { ; I A a tnt” anna “Vendors of fried entrails . . . squat beside their “The people are “ewer baskets.” steady patrons of the Economical Kitchens.”CATHEDRALS standing the tremendous temporal power of the Popes in those days, this descendant of the vikings refused to be crowned by the papal legate, and the mosaic represents him placing the diadem upon his head with his own hands. The Martorana church was built by the King’s High Admiral, Giorgios Antiochenos, a versatile gentleman indeed, who amused himself while on shore leave or duty by building bridges and churches, importing silk weavers and generally play- ing the constructive and highly intelligent official, whose good works have long outlived himself. Throughout the island it is eminently proper to keep the key of a building as far away from its door as possible— it is the custode of La Mar- torana who gives open sesame to the Sclaéfani Pal- ace. As you drive over, he ticks off its history on his bony fingers with the precious key: Built in 1330; afterward a grand hospital; to-day a barrack for the Bersaglieri or mountain riflemen. Prac- tically the only remaining evidence of its former grandeur is a tremendous fresco attributed to a long-forgotten Flemish painter, on one of the walls of the courtyard. The fresco, measuring some eighteen feet in height by about twenty-two in length, is called Il Trionfo della Morte, The Tri- umph of Death, and its name is fully borne out by its grisly realism, as the white horse and his ruth- less skeleton rider trample down those who wish to [45]VISTAS IN SICILY live, and ignore the wretched who plead in vain for release from their misery. With the latter group stands the painter himself, palette and mahlstick in hand; it is said he was taken ill while a guest in the palace. Perhaps the painting commemorates his feelings during that unfortunate experience, It is frankly ugly — there is no other word to ex- press it — yet it still clings to the white wall and produces an astonishing effect, especially when one remembers that it is a faithful expression of the re- ligious feeling of the epoch it stands for. While we were studying it, a well-fed American-in-a-hurry, evidently a person of importance Baedekering through Sicily, rushed into the court, asked abruptly if that were the great picture, thrust both hands into his pockets and, with feet wide apart, appraised it a few moments in patent disgust. It costs about a lira and a half — something like thirty cents of our money — to see the fresco. Pulling out a hand- ful of loose change to pay the custodian, the stranger glanced first at his hand, then back at the painting. “Thirty cents! Thirty cents — that’s exactly what it looks like!” he exploded, and was off before we could get our breaths. That Palermo had queer taste in the old days is indicated by the Scléfani fresco; and further evi- dence is not lacking in the crypts of a Capuchin monastery, a short distance outside the Porta Nuova. [46]CATHEDRALS ——— — The vaults, long ago used as a burial place by the wealthier families of the city, contain at present some eight thousand embalmed bodies. This sub- way full of mummies is divided into several sec- tions, the men and women segregated from each other and from the monks and priests, who have a gallery apart. Some of the bodies are in coffins or caskets of various sorts, but many have been hung up by the neck in cords like hangman’s nooses. Some skulls are entirely fleshless, while others are partially covered. Hands whose fingers have shrunk to black bits of petrifaction hang loosely from rotting gloves which now appear sev- eral sizes too large. Heads have slipped back to stare up at the cobwebbed ceiling, turned sidewise with most diabolical leers, moved forward as though to combat the visitor. Not a single skull is ex- pressionless, even if devoid of flesh. Some are jocose, some piously sad, some morose, some menac- ing and grim. Within the artillery barrack a little farther out, is a ragged tower some thirty feet high that repre- sents the ancient villa of La Cuba. An Arabic frieze about the bare exterior suggests the residence of some haughty old Emir of Palermo. The iconoclastic archeologists, however, have shattered the popular belief by deciphering the inscription to prove that no Saracen ever lived there, but that the mansion was erected in 1183 by the grandson [47]tetientn ein nie dein nah oe A eel ee aaeetiot tated ee eee ee ste S oe OR Te a ee eens VISTAS IN SICILY of Roger, King William II, “ The Good,” of whose reign one chronicler of the period wrote: ‘ There was more security then, in the thickets of Sicily than in the cities of other kingdoms.” Modesty, though, could scarcely have been the most conspic- uous of that monarch’s many virtues, for the in- scription reads: “In the Name of God, clement, merciful, give heed. Here halt and admire. Be- hold the illustrious dwelling of the most illustrious of the kings of the earth, William II.” Tired out one night after a long day following the hounds through the forests outside Palermo, this same King William II, “The Good,” lay down to sleep on a hill overlooking the city. And in his sleep, he dreamed: Out of the glades floated the shining figure of the Virgin, mysterious and inspir- ing, telling the awestruck monarch that the church he had sworn to build for her must be erected on that very spot. Slowly the dazzling vision faded, and when he awoke William named the hill Mon Reale — Royal Mount — at once beginning to pre- pare for the most splendid church in Sicily, a house of prayer worthy of both its divine patroness and its royal founder. In 1174 the actual construction began, and eight years later, thanks to the pious aid of the King’s mother, Margaret of Aragon, the Duomo of Monreale was solemnly consecrated. It was, how- ever, unfinished outside, and to this day its barren [ 48 ]CATHEDRALS exterior hints nothing of its interior magnificence. Around the Cathedral sprang up a populous lit- tle city of jammed-together houses along constricted, hilly streets, and eight centuries have not changed the town appreciably. It is possible to ascend by tram this crested slope upon whose brow the Middle Ages still reign. Unfortunately, the cars are not personally conducted to stop at the best viewpoints, so it is better, though more expensive, to take a cab. Once in a while in Europe the recognition of class distinction grips an American with a strangle-hold. That day in the Monreale tram it seized me, when a fat, overdressed middle-class woman of forty or so began to give herself more airs than a duchess. With her little son, she was taking up room enough for four ordinary people, when a spotlessly neat old peasant woman, with a decent murmur of apology, sat down in the half-vacant space alongside. The bourgeoise flared like a Sans Géne, jabbed at her parcels brusquely, and told her loudly not to intrude upon her betters. It was then that I wished for a second-class car, to save the old woman from such gratuitous effrontery. The Cathedral rises like a fortress before the town; its main doors — between two massive square towers, giving upon a dusty little square — are rich bronze leaves full of low-reliefs from Old Testament history. The first impression on entering is of a dazzling blaze of golden light, beating upon and [49 ] Ce el “ ee. Se ee oS —_ = pete en eedas i all at a a da Dei aa ee ee ee ee ee ae ee aon VISTAS IN SICILY beaten back from golden walls with stunning effect, in which the details of design and ornamentation, for all their clarity and importance, are so marvel- ously subordinated that they but add to the glowing display. Though the superb glass mosaics cover an area which Baedeker — with ‘‘ Made-in-Germany ” accuracy — declares to be 70,400 square feet, the lower walls are all pure white marble, with an upper border and slender bright-colored bands which run perpendicularly through the spotless white like the embroidery upon a holy robe. The vast nave and aisles are light and airy. There is complete ab- sence of any artificial decoration—no tawdry, meaningless images, no hideous ex-votos to distract the eye. Harmony is the keynote of every inch of the decorations; from pave to rooftree there is not one inconsistent or jarring note. The great dome of the main apse is completely filled by a bust of the Christ in the same glittering, marvelous, indescribably mellow glass mosaic that covers thousands of square feet upon the walls. It is the face of the man traditional, the visage of one whose appearance has been handed down from father to son since the beginning, the likeness of a founder, a prophet. And the still, solemn wonder of it fills one like the recurrent chords of a great and stately harmony. It is the one feature that stands out high above the blinding golden haze. “Not a jarring note”— and yet, who that has [50]CATHEDRALS seen those forty Old Testament mosaic tableaux on the upper walls can help recalling his first start of amazement at their literalness. They speak a dia- lect of art; they translate the Bible stories that the uneducated medieval mind could not read, into something that everybody could understand. A snow-white Eve worming her way out of an equally pallid dreamer’s side, and afterward decorously in- troduced by God Himself to Adam, is startling enough. But how about Noah, draped by a modest son, while in the vinous slumber brought about through a too generous testing of the liquid sun- shine of his own vines? No details of these ancient histories was too insignificant or too broad for the artificers to weave lovingly into their master-work ; and nothing could better illustrate the pure sim- plicity of the medieval mind to which anything Biblical was holy, and fit for presentation to all the world. One of the most noticeable features of the Duomo is the clearness and delicacy of every detail. In St. Mark’s in Venice, time has blurred and defaced almost everything and the better part of the mosaics is crumbling into soft decay; but here in Monreale the delineation is so vivid and sharp, each color so soft and pure in tone, it seems as though the master workman had laid down his tools but yesterday to pronounce his chef d’euvre complete. We are apt to think of cloisters as gloomy, for- [51]ee e+ et te ee ee ee ee it aa! nee iy ie Ra AE oy ee | VISTAS IN SICILY bidding places, where half frozen monks with blue lips and hair shirts shiver about their religious tasks and wish—if they are human!—they had never been born. Of course, there are such cloisters — but not here in Monreale, where the glorious sun- shine bathes all that is left of the monastery King William erected for his Benedictine monks beside the Cathedral. Pleasant cloisters these, warm and blooming and fragrant with ozone and the perfume of the flowers. And very pleasant, indeed, very much worth while, must have been the lives of the jovial Benedictine brothers during the high and mighty reign of William the Good! Even after seven hun- dred years the silent arcades are lovely, filled yet with slender columns about which climb ribbons of mosaic and garlands of living vines to set off the different capitals —the finest examples of twelfth century carving in the world. Every capital is different, and almost every one tells a story. The visitor can unravel for himself ancient legend or Bible story, picking out old familiar figures here and there in the mellow marble; or if he chooses, he can meditate upon the curious fact that the Normans were producing this glorious work in the island of the sun long before Giotto was born. Monreale’s streets are rugged and steep, but very clean and decent. The Monrealese, instead of naming their Corso for Italy’s first king, have named it for the town’s most famous son, the seventeenth [52]CATHEDRALS century painter Pietro Novelli, whose studies of the monks are moving figures, clearly establishing him as the foremost materialist Sicily ever produced. On the Corso is Grado Salvatore’s three-boy-power macaroni factory, a queer, rambling, black sort of a cavern, lighted only by the front door. A maca- roni-machine looking for all the world like Benjamin Franklin’s old hand printing press occupies the front on one side; and Salvatore himself sits in the little blue and white tiled sink before it, fanning and snipping the wriggly paste as the boys twist the screw and force it out in long strings. On the other side of the partition is a cluttered-up sales- room where every imaginable shape of macaroni and spaghetti decorates the shelves. Behind all is the mixing-room, joyously dark; and you may handle the doughcakes to make sure they are pure and clean! No matter if your hands are very dirty, after your sightseeing; the good folk of Monreale will take no particular harm after what they have doubtless experienced at other hands. None the less, as a general thing the interior of a Sicilian paste shop compares favorably with that of an American bakery, and the workers themselves are quite immaculate, with soft, clean, pink hands like a woman’s. After it comes from the press, the macaroni is cut into six-foot lengths and hung up outside the shop to dry in the sunshine. By the time it has [53] seo Ra aati is | etienen tie en er eta ~-_ma RNS or g++ Ae ee ee ee ee ee VISTAS IN SICILY ee ee i I ee er ne 4 ee ey heeten deci ce ete aad tare niet aries fant cei oar re ee ee " ee collected sufficient dust and germs to make it stiff — two or three days are usually long enough — it is cut into package lengths and sold. In Southern Italy it often occupies a good part of a roadway, or even hangs over a busy coalyard; but in Sicily both its manufacture and sale are cleaner and more wholesome; and the macaroni made in Termini is famous for its quality. Whether it is something in its manufacture, or some subtle quality of the flour from which it is made, the Sicilian pasta seems gen- erally to have a flavor and a delicacy lacking in the Italian variety. The three juvenile assistants — boys who had the haunting native eyes of soft yet gleaming brown dusk, lustrous as old Marsala wine full of the sun — did not seem in the least to mind the drudgery of turning their endless screw. But while we were handling doughcakes in the black backroom with genial Salvatore, they stopped “ twisting the twist ” and somehow managed to spread the news through- out the entire village that there were strangers within their gates; and a crowd of small boys, beg- gars, and others who seemed to have no occupation gathered at the front door, demanding vociferously that they be photographed, chaffing each other and us, and arranging themselves according to their own ideas of a picturesque group. While there was no stately ceremony to welcome us, the freedom of the town was clearly ours after [54]CATHEDRALS that picture taking. Nobody asked for so much as a copper penny, and gruff, cheery voices called after us heartily: ‘‘ Buon viaggio! A rivederci, signori! Good-by! Come back again!” And Monreale has been branded as a town $ 199 ‘whose beggars are very importunate Bad as the Sicilian beggars are supposed to be, we experienced less annoyance from them through- out the island than from their pertinacious brethren of Naples and the mainland generally. At the brow of the hill is a terrace garden, the ‘“ Eden Restaurant ”— where-by all means you must take tea. The little establishment amuses rather than disappoints; and though it scarcely justifies its grandiose title, it commands a view that no doubt suggested the name to its proprietor. Falling away from its feet, the hill cascades down in great billows to the cool green and orange sea of the Conca d’Oro. And when the trolley car turns the shoulder of the hill, in Palermo — misty and dun in the gathering dark — lights like jewels flash out in scintillating ripples that spread and widen and sparkle as you race down the dusty mountain road, leaving medieval Monreale silent and spectral behind. [55]eet re ee geen ee et eo tia nD a ce ee ee ee cteetini iene etme tte ocean he ee V PALACES AND PEOPLE | (gees * in Italian is a flexible and generic term, and the examples of “palaces” one sees in Sicily give an entirely new sense of the elasticity of the Italian language, and the freedom with which the people use it. Palazzo means really any building or struc- ture of any sort where wealthy, a noble, or a royal family lives now, or ever has lived; and some of these structures are as remarkable for their disreputable appearance as others are for their beauty and rich- ness, resembling nothing in the world so much as American tenement houses. One such is unforget- table — a dingy white, square, four-storied building with green shutters and a large central doorway, owned and occupied by a titled and wealthy family whose members move in the highest society through- out the island. The ground floor is taken up en- tirely by stables, the servants, and rats as large as kittens. The mezzanine floor above is given over to two insurance companies, whose signs cover a consid- erable part of their story. Above, the really noble family lives in stately fashion. It was when idling up the Nile that we first met [56]PALACES AND PEOPLE the older son of the family. Becoming friendly on desert and river, the Sicilian confided in me his de- sire for a northern alliance, readily admitting the difficulty of reconciling his fiery temper with that of any wife he might choose among his own people. “Td like an American,” he declared, shrugging, “but if I can’t get her, Dll take an English girl. With cool northern blood in their veins, my children might well show the virtue and strength which has made you Anglo-Saxons what you are. You see, here in Palermo I am a wealthy man. I am ‘ Your Grace,’ ‘Your Highness.” But in New York or London or Paris I am only one of ‘those poor Sicilians.” I should like to marry a wife whose in- come, together with mine, would enable us to live as becomes the nobility in those cities.” I made as diplomatic a reply as possible, but I am very much afraid that the gentleman left me feeling that Americans are after all a cold and un- appreciative people, though he did express a desire to continue the acquaintance in Palermo. When we reached that city, we learned from various sources of the aggravating inhospitality of the romancing nobility, one of whose favorite pleasantries consists of ardent solicitations to foreigners to call, and the presenting of cards which, upon scrutiny, are found to bear either no address or only the Italian legend for “ General Delivery.” Nevertheless, to our surprise, he called on us the [57] ; ; Eha Matt mete eat eee a a en ee a nn ee ee ee ee ee a — a om ehttieatiathth pateeneee Ue tet 2 een de ee ee ee Sater” en ee et — VISTAS IN SICILY morning after his return from an extended trip through the Holy Land, and learning that we in- tended to leave the next day, insisted that we drive out with him that afternoon. About three o’clock we were informed with great éclat that “ His Ex- cellency the Egregious Lord X —” did us the honor to await us. Ready at the door to bow us out to the emblazoned barouche with its black-liveried coachman and lackey hovered an unsuspected con- gregation of obsequious hotel employés. Many of them we had never before seen; none of them had hitherto deigned to notice our daily peregrinations in Gualterio’s coach of state. But now that one of the dear nobility they reverence almost as much as in medieval times recognized us socially, we were quite plainly persons of consideration. Our splen- dor, however, was short-lived. We had time only for a swift visit to a handsome club with extensive grounds, to the Caffé Massimo for a taste of its famous green-almond ices, and to the Giardino In- glese for a glimpse at its botanic charms, for we had an engagement for tea at the American Consu- late. It had not taken us long to arrive at the conclu- sion that Consul Bishop was a very Bishop of Con- suls, and it was due to his kindly interest and hints that we enjoyed considerable intimacy with the life of the people, and also had a good opportunity to see under actual conditions not only the delights of [58 ]PALACES AND PEOPLE being a foreign representative of the United States, but also the drawbacks of such a position. Inci- dentally, it is, generally speaking, both wise and pleasant to introduce one’s self at the Consulate im- mediately on arriving in a foreign city where a stay of any length is comtemplated. In case any un- toward incident should arise later, such acquaintance with the consul would prove of inestimable advan- tage, and would save unpleasant and wearisome in- vestigations of one’s right to American citizenship and his character. And if the consul prove, as is now generally the case, a man of parts and charm, the result will prove most happy for the visitor who desires to see and know the best the city can afford. The royal residence in Palermo, rising from the Piazza Vittoria, the highest point in the city, is scarcely more remarkable than many of the private palazzt. Ordinary as Palace and Piazza are now, in medieval times this was the fortified citadel: a place of arms and chivalry, of turrets and bastions, of fortresslike buildings forming the defensive key to the city. But little have Time and the barbarous restorer left. First comes an arcaded court, then two flights of marble stairs, and then room after room, tastelessly over-decorated. One marvels at the dullness of royalties who could so slavishly consent to the stuffy vulgarity of these apartments, when before them was a model in the room declared to [59]VISTAS IN SICILY have been King Roger’s own. Its mosaics have faded not a whit in the long centuries; design and color hold soft and true to the walls, and this kingly chamber in its dignity and splendor shames the tawdry display of the monarchs who came after. Time spent in such rooms is wasted. The Cappella Palatina, or royal chapel, is a tiny temple richly embellished with marvelous mosaics, but so smothered by the encroachments of the formless Palace that half its beauty is lost for lack of light. It is not even a structure by itself, but a part of the main building, which King Roger added about 1132 in honor of Saint Peter, to whom he dedicated it. Perhaps, because of its position, or perhaps by de- sign, the nave and aisles were left almost unlighted ; but seventy-five feet above, the architect pierced the dome with eight apertures, to flood apse and chancel with a glorious nimbus of sunshine, which finds a fit mirror in gleaming walls inlaid with golden glass. The illumination is, however, confined entirely to the choir save for an hour or so in the morning, when the sidewalks glow with the genius of their artist creators— and fade as one watches into shadowy old tapestry. At first it is a darkly mys- terious place, indistinctly peopled by spectral fig- ures on every side. Then slowly, as the eyes hab- ituate themselves to the gloom, out from the mellow background lean strong, stern figures. Saints and angels pray, plead, wing their way across the walls; [ 60 |3 barely discernible among the rustling strings Li ° e) Oo vo = —s be v > ) W = < S 3 i ° “The Holy Bambino . mz — : |—— ae Se ee ee ed a ae ee ee Lae OR EOD Ae Se i as OLY MENS er [ Fy SITE aa araxeny © ae vt ne ee a NO OF enema : Peer eee sa —~