A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

when used by foreign lip.

On the Calabrian coast, the sea-port town of Reggio wore an unusual air

of bustle and animation.

It was a festa day there; and groups of peasants, in many-coloured

costumes, paced up and down the mole; emitting that joyous hum, which

is the never-failing concomitant of a happy crowd. Passing through

the Faro, the vessel’s course lay by the northern coast of Sicily.

The current and wind were alike favourable, as it swept on by Melazzo

and Lascari.

Etna, towering over the lesser mountains, became once more visible; its

summit buried in the clouds of heaven.

On the right, a luminous crimson ring revealed Stromboli, whose fitful

volcano was more than usually active.

The following day our party arrived at Palermo. So pleasurable had been

their voyage, that it was with a feeling akin to regret, that they heard

the rumbling chains of the anchor, rush through the hawse-hole, as

their vessel took her station in the bay.

After going through those wearisome forms, which a foreign sea-port

exacts; and which appear purposely intended, to temper the rapture of

the sea-worn voyager, as he congratulates himself on once more treading

terra firma; our party found themselves the inmates of the English

hotel; and spent the remainder of the day in engaging a cicerone, and in

discussing plans for the morrow.

The morrow came—sunny and cloudless—and the cicerone bowed to the

ground, as he opened the door of the commodious fiacre.

“Where shall I drive to, Sir?”

“What were our plans, George?” said Sir Henry.

“I think,” replied George, “that we only formed one plan to change it

for another. Let the cicerone decide for us.”

He, nothing loath, accepted the charge; and taking his station on the

box of the carriage, directed the driver.

The carriage first stopped before a large stone building. The bell was

rung—a veteran porter presented himself—and our party entered the

court yard.

“What place is this?” said Delmé.

“This,” rejoined his guide, with the true cicerone fluency, “is the

famous lunatic asylum, instituted by the illustrious Baron Pisani. This,

gentlemen, is the Baron!”

Here a benevolent-looking little man with a large nose, took off his

hat.

“So much approved of was his beneficent design, that our noble King, and

our paternal Government, have not only adopted it; but have graciously

permitted the Baron, to continue to preside over that institution, which

he so happily commenced, and which he so refulgently adorns.”

During this announcement, the Baron’s face flushed with a simple, but

honest pride.

These praises did not to him appear exaggerated; for his intentions had

been of the purest, and in this institution was his whole soul wrapt up.

Acmé became somewhat pale, as she heard where they were, and looked

nervously at George; who could not forbear smiling, as he begged they

would be under no apprehensions.

“Yes! gentlemen,” said the Baron, “circumstances in early life made me

regard mental disease as the most fearful of all. I observed its victims

struggling between reason and insanity; goaded on by the ignorance of

empirics, and the harsh treatment of those about them, until light fled

the tortured brain, and madness directed its every impulse. You,

gentlemen, are English travellers, I perceive! In your happy land,

where generosity and wealth go hand in hand, there are, I doubt not,

many humane institutions, where those, who—bowed down by misfortunes,

or preyed on by disease—have lost the power to take care of themselves,

may find a home, where they may be anxiously tended, and carefully

provided for.

“Here we knew not of such things.

“I have said, gentlemen, that chance made me feel a deep interest in

these unfortunates. I sunk the greater part of my fortune, in

constructing this mansion, trusting that the subscriptions of

individuals, would enable me to prosecute the good work.

“In this I was disappointed; but our worthy Viceroy, who took an interest

in my plans, laid the matter before the Government, which—as Signer

Guiseppe observes—has not only undertaken to support my asylum, but

also permits me to preside over the establishment. That, gentlemen, is

my apartment, with the mignionette boxes in front, and without iron bars

in the window; though indeed these very bars are painted, at my

suggestion, such a delicate green, that you might not have been aware

that they were such.

“This is our first chamber—cheerful and snug. Here are the patients

first brought. We indulge them in all their caprices, until we are

enabled to decide with certainty, on the fantasy the brain has conjured

up. From this room, we take them to the adjacent bedroom, where we

administer such remedies as we think the best fitted to restore reason.

“If these fail, we apportion the patient a cell, and consider the case as

beyond our immediate relief. We cure, on an average, two-thirds of the

cases forwarded to us; and there have been instances of the mind’s

recovering its tone, after a confinement of some years.”

“How many inmates have you in the asylum at present?” said Acmé.

“One hundred and thirty-six, eighty-six of whom are males. These are our

baths, to which they are daily taken; this the refectory; this the

parlatorio, where they see their friends; and now, if the lady is not

afraid, we will descend to the court yard, and see my charges.”

“There is no fear?” said George.

“Not in the least. Our punishment is so formidable, that few will incur

it by being refractory.”

“What! then you are obliged to punish them?” said Acmé, with a shudder.

“Sometimes, but not often. I will show you what our punishment consists

in. You see this room without furniture! Observe the walls and floor;

and even the door as it closes. All these are carefully stuffed; and if

you walk across the room, there is no sound.

“We cautiously search violent lunatics; who are then dressed in a plain

flannel suit, and left alone. It is seldom we have occasion to retain

them longer than twenty-four hours. They soon find they cannot injure

themselves; their most violent efforts cannot elicit a sound. Their

minds become calmed; and when released, they are perfectly quiet, and

generally inclined to melancholy.”

They descended to the court yard, set apart for the men. Its inmates

were pacing it hurriedly; some jabbering to themselves; others with

groups round them, to whom they addressed some quickly delivered jargon.

With one or two exceptions, all noticed the entrance of the strangers;

and some of them bowed to them, with mock gravity. One man, who wore an

old cocked hat with a shabby feather, tapped Sir Henry on the shoulder.

“Vous me reconnaissez—Napoleon! votre Empereur!”

He wheeled round, and called for his Mamelukes.

The next moment, a young and interesting looking person came forward,

the tears standing in his, eyes, and extended his hand to Acmé.

“Give me yours,” said he, “as a great favour. I was a painter once in

Naples—and I went to Rome—and I loved Gianetta Cantieri!”

A more ludicrous incident now occurred. At and since their entrance,

our party had heard what seemed the continued bark of a dog. A man on

all fours came forward from behind a group, and with unmeaning face,

and nostril snuffing up the wind, imitated to perfection the deep bay

of a mastiff.

“That man’s peculiarity,” observed the Baron, “is an extraordinary one.

He had a cottage near Catania, and had saved some little wealth. His

house was one night robbed of all it contained. This misfortune preyed

on the man’s reason, and he now conceives himself a watch dog. He knows

the step of every inmate of the asylum, and only barks at strangers.”

From the male court yard, the Baron ushered them to the female, where

insanity assumed a yet more melancholy shape.

A pale-faced maniac, with quivering frame, and glaring eye-balls,

continued to cry, in a low and piteous tone, “Murder! murder!!

murder!!!”

One woman, reclining on the cold pavement, dandled a straw, and called

it her sweet child; while another hugged a misshapen block of wood to

her bared breast, and deemed it her true love.

A third was on her knees, and at regular intervals, bent down her

shrivelled body, and devoured the gravel beneath her.

Acmé was happy to leave the scene, and move towards the garden; which

was extensive, and beautifully laid out.

As they turned down one of the alleys, they encountered five or six men,

drawn up in line, and armed with wooden muskets.

In front stood Napoleon, who, with stentorian voice, gave the word to

“present arms!” then dropping his stick, and taking off his hat to

Delmé, began to converse familiarly with him, as with his friend Emperor

Alexander, as to the efficiency of Poniatowski and his Polish lancers.

“Poor fellow!” said the Baron, as they moved on. “Never was insanity

more harmless! He was once brigade major to Murat. This is his hour for

exercise. Exactly at two, he goes through the scene of Fontainbleau,

What will appear to you extraordinary is, that over the five or six men

you saw around him, whose madness has been marked by few distinguishing

traits, he has gradually assumed a superiority, until they now believe

him to be, in reality, the Emperor he so unconsciously personates.”

In the garden, which was of considerable size, were placed a number of

swings and whirligigs, in full motion and occupancy.

On a stuccoed wall, were represented grotesque figures of animals

dancing; opposite to which, one of Terpsichore’s votaries, with a

paper cap on his head, shaped like a pyramid, was executing agile

capers, whose zeal of purpose would have found infinite favour in the

eyes of Laporte.

Having explored the garden, Delmé accompanied the Baron to a small room,

where the sculls of the deceased maniacs were ranged on shelves, with a

small biographical note attached to each; and heard with attention, the

old man’s energetic reasoning, as to these fully demonstrating the truth

of Spurzheim’s theory.

Acmé, meantime, remained on George’s arm, talking to a girl of

thirteen, who had been selected to conduct them to the carriage.

They entered their names in a book at the lodge, and then, turning to

the benevolent director, paid him some well deserved compliments, for

which he bowed low and often.

The young girl, who had been conversing most rationally with Acmé, moved

forward, and made a signal for the carriage to drive up.

She was a fair-haired gentle-looking creature, with quiet eye, and

silvery voice. She assisted Acmé to step into the carriage, who

dropped a piece of silver into her hand, for which she gave a sweet

smile and a curtsey.

She stood a moment motionless. Suddenly her eye lighted up—she darted

into the carriage, and clapped her hands together joyfully.

“Viva! viva! we shall soon be home at Trapani!”

The tears sprang to the eyes of the young Greek.

Even the driver and cicerone were moved.

Acmé took some flowers from her zone—kissed her cheek—and tried to

change the current of her thoughts; but it was not till the driver

promised he would call again, at the same hour the following day, that

she consented with a sigh to relinquish her journey home.

From the Lunatic Asylum, our party adjourned to the Duomo, and beheld

the coffin, where the revered body of the Palermitan Saint, attracts

many a devout Catholic.

Sweet Rosalia! thy story is a pretty one—thy festa beauteous—the

fireworks in thy honour most bright. No wonder the fair Sicilians