CHAPTER XXXIV.

NO. 13 BELLEVUE STREET.

June gave way to July, July to August, August to September. Lottie

reigned at Brackenhill, and Mrs. Middleton, whose heart clung to the

neighborhood where she had lived so long, had taken a house on the other

side of Fordborough. Between it and her old home lay an impassable

gulf--none the less real that it was not marked on the county map. It

appeared there as a distance of five miles and a quarter, with a good

road, but Mrs. Horace Thorne, as well as Mrs. Middleton, knew better.

Lottie laughed, and Horace's resentment was so keen that he was almost

unconscious of his pain.

Percival's utter disappearance was a nine days' wonder in Fordborough,

and when curiosity was dying out it flamed up again on the discovery

that the marriage was not only put off, but was off altogether. This

fact, considered in connection with the old squire's will, gave rise to

the idea that there was something queer about Mr. Percival Thorne--that

he had been found out at the last moment, and had lost both wife and

legacy in consequence. "No doubt it was hushed up on condition he should

take himself off. The best thing they could do, but how sad for an old

county family! Still, there will be black sheep, and what a mercy it was

that Miss Langton was saved from him!" So people talked, and generally

added that they could not tell why--just a feeling, you know--but they

never had liked that Percival Thorne.

In September, Godfrey Hammond cut a tiny slip out of the _Times_ and

sent it to the banished man: "On the 15th, the wife of Horace Thorne,

Esq., Brackenhill, Fordborough, of a son."

Percival ate his breakfast that morning with the scrap of paper by his

plate, and looked at it with fierce, defiant eyes. Lottie was avenged

indeed--she would never know how bitterly. He had sworn that he would

never think of Brackenhill, yet without his knowledge it had been the

background to his thoughts of everything. And now the cruel injustice of

his fate had taken a new lease of life in this baby boy: it would

outlive him, it would become eternal. Percival leapt to his feet with a

short laugh: "Well, that's over and done with! Good luck to the poor

little fellow! he's innocent enough. And I don't suppose he'll ever know

what a scoundrel his father was." So saying, he glanced at his watch and

marched off to his work.

Those three months had left their trace on him. He loathed his life; he

had no companions, no hope; he was absorbed in the effort to endure his

suffering. His indolence made his daily labor hateful as the treadmill.

He was fastidious, and his surroundings sickened him. His food disgusted

him, and so did the close atmosphere of the office. But he had chosen

his fate, and he had no heart to try to escape from it, since it gave

him the means of keeping body and soul together. Day after day, as that

hot September wore away, he looked out on a dreary range of roofs and

chimney-pots. He learned to know and hate every broken tile. From his

bedroom he looked into a narrow back yard, deep like a well, at the

bottom of which children swarmed, uncleanly and unwholesome, and women

gossiped and wrangled as they hung out dingy rags to dry. The fierce sun

shone on it all, and on Percival as he leant at his window surveying it

with disgust, yet something of fascination too. "I fancied the sun

wouldn't seem so bright in holes like this," he mused. "I thought

everything would be dull and dim. Instead of which, he glares into every

cranny and corner, as if he were pointing at all the filth and squalid

misery, and makes it ten times more abominable." Nor did the slanting

rays light up anything pleasant and fresh in the bedroom itself. It was

shabby and small, with coarsely-papered walls and a discolored ceiling.

Percival remarked that his window had a very wide sill. He never found

out the reason, unless it were intended that he should take the air by

sitting on it and dangling his legs over the foulest of water-butts. But

when night came the broad sill was the favorite battlefield for all the

cats in the neighborhood. It might have been pointed out as readily as

they point you out the place where the students fight at Heidelberg.

From his sitting-room he looked on a melancholy street. The

unsubstantial houses tried to seem--not respectable, no word so honest

could be applied to them, but--genteel, and failed even in that

miserable ambition. Percival used to watch the plastered fronts, flaking

in the sun and rain, old while yet new, with no grace of bygone memory

or present strength, till he fancied that they might be perishing of

some foul leprosy like that described in Leviticus. And the wearisome

monotony! They were all just alike, except that here and there one was a

little dingier than its neighbors, with the railings more broken and the

windows dirtier. One day, when his landlady insisted on talking to him

and Percival was too courteous to be absolutely silent, he asked where

the prospect was from which the street took its name. She said they used

to be able to see Three-Corner Green from their attic-windows. In her

mother's time there was a tree and a pond there, she believed, and she

herself could remember it quite green, a great place for Cheap Jacks and

people who preached and sold pills. But now it was all done away with

and built over. It was Paradise Place, and Paradise Place wasn't much of

a prospect, though there might be worse. But it was no detriment to Mr.

Thorne's rooms, for it was only the attic that ever had the view.

However, folks must call the place something, if only for the letters;

and Bellevue looked well on them and sounded airy, and she was never the

one for change. This sounded so like the beginning of a discourse on

things in general that Percival thanked her and fled.

It was about ten minutes' walk to Mr. Ferguson's office. There, week

after week, he toiled with dull industry. He could not believe that his

drudgery would last: something--death perhaps--must come to break the

monotony of that slowly unwinding chain of days, which was like a

grotesquely dreary dream. To have flung himself heart and soul into his

work not only demanded an effort of which he felt himself incapable,

but it seemed to him that such an effort could only serve to identify

him with this hideous life. So, with head bowed over interminable pages,

he labored with patient indifference. On his left sat a clerk ten or

fifteen years older than himself, a white-faced man, who blinked like an

owl in sunlight and had a wearisome cough. There was always a sickly

smell of lozenges about him, and he was fretful if every window was not

tightly closed. On Percival's right was a sallow youth of nineteen. He

worked by fits and starts, sometimes driving his pen along as if the

well-being of the universe depended on the swift completion of his task

and the planets might cease to revolve if he were idle, while a few

minutes later he would be drawing absently on his blotting-paper or

feeling for his whiskers, as if they might have arrived suddenly without

his being aware of it. Probably he was thinking over his next speech at

the Young Men's Mutual Improvement Society. They debated high and

important matters at their weekly meetings. They inquired, "Was Oliver

Cromwell justified in putting King Charles to death?" they read

interesting papers about it, and voted the unlucky monarch into or out

of his grave with an energy which would have allowed him little rest if

it could have taken effect. They marshalled many arguments to decide the

knotty and important question, "Does our Country owe most to the Warrior

or the Statesman?" and they made up their minds and voted about that

too. The sallow young man was rather a distinguished member of the

society, and had much to say on such problems as these.

The clerks did not like Thorne. They felt that he was not one of

themselves, and said that he was stuck up and sulky. They resented his

silence. If you do not like a man you always understand his silence as

the speech you would most dislike--veiled. Above all, they resented his

grave politeness. They left him alone, with an angry suspicion that it

was exactly what he wanted them to do; as indeed it was, though he was

painfully conscious of the atmosphere of distrust and ill-will in which

he lived. But he could have found no pleasure in their companionship,

and in fact was only interested in their coats. He was anxious to learn

how shabby a man might become and pass unnoticed in the office; so he

would glance, without turning his head, at the white-faced man's sleeve,

and rejoice to see the same threadbare cuff travelling slowly across a

wide expanse of parchment.

When he wrote to Hammond he said that he was getting on very well. He

could not say that his work was very amusing, but very likely he should

get more used to it in time. He wished to be left alone and to give it a

fair trial. How was Sissy?

Hammond replied that Mrs. Middleton had aged a good deal, but that she

and Sissy were both pretty well, and had got an idea--he could not think

from whom--that Percival had gone in for the law and was going to do

something very amazing indeed. "They are waiting to be surprised,"

Godfrey wrote, "like children on their birthdays. St. Cecilia especially

wouldn't for worlds open her eyes till the right moment comes and you

appear in your glory as lord chancellor or attorney-general, or

something of the kind. I'm afraid she's a little hazy about it all,

though of course she knows that you will be a very great man and that

you will wear a wig. Mrs. Middleton is perhaps a trifle more moderate in

her expectations. I left them to build their castles in the air, since

you had bound me to secrecy, but I wish you would tell them the truth.

Or I would help you, as you know, if I knew how."

Percival answered that Godfrey must not betray him: "I couldn't endure

that Horace and his wife should know of my difficulties; and as to

living on Aunt Harriet--never! And how could I go back to Fordborough,

now that Sissy and I have parted? She would sacrifice herself for

me--poor child!--out of sheer pity. No: here I can live, after a

fashion, and defy the world. And here I will live, and hope to know some

day that Sissy has found her happiness. Till then let her think that I

am prospering."

Godfrey shrugged his shoulders over Percival's note. It was irrational,

no doubt, but Thorne had a right to please himself, and might as well

take care of his pride, since he had not much else to take care of. So

he attempted no persuasion, but simply sent any Fordborough news and

forwarded occasional letters from Mrs. Middleton and Sissy. As the

autumn wore on, Percival began to feel strange as he opened the

envelopes and saw the handwriting which belonged to his old life. He had

an absurd idea that the letters should not have come to _him_--that his

former self, the self Sissy had known, was gone. He read her letters by

the light of what Hammond had told him, and saw the delicate wording by

which she tried to show her sympathy, yet almost repelled his

confidence. She was so anxious not to thrust herself into his

secrets--it was so evident that she would not be troublesome, but would

wait with shut eyes, as Hammond had said, for a birthday surprise and

triumph! O poor little Sissy! O faith which he felt within himself no

strength to vindicate! He answered her in carefully weighed sentences,

and smiled as he wrote them down because they amused him--a smile sadder

than tears. Percival Thorne was dead, and he was some one else, trying

to think what Percival would have said, and to hide his death from

Sissy, lest her heart should break for pity.

It was very foolish? Yes. But if you had parted yourself from every one

you knew; if for five months you had never heard a friendly word; if you

had a secret to hide and a part to play; if you lived alone, surrounded

by faces of people with whom you had no faintest touch of

sympathy--faces which were to you like those of swarming Chinese or men

and women in a nightmare,--perhaps you might have some thoughts and

fancies less calm and less rational than of old. And the more changed

Percival felt himself, the more he shrank from the friends he had left.

November came. One day he looked at the date on the office almanac and

remembered that it was exactly a year since he went down to Brackenhill

and heard of old Bridgman's death. He could not repress a short sudden

laugh. It was half under his breath, but his neighbor, who was at that

moment gazing fiercely into space and turning a sentence, heard it, and

felt that it was in mockery of him. Percival was thinking how seriously

he had considered that important question, "Would he stand as the

Liberal candidate for Fordborough?" Percival Thorne, Esq., M.P.! He

might well laugh as he sat at his desk filling in a bundle of notices.

But from that moment the sallow youth on his right hated him with a

deadly hatred.

December came--a dull, gray, bitter December--not clear and sparkling,

as December sometimes is, nor yet misty and warm, as if it would have

you take it for a lingering autumn, but bitter without beauty, harsh and

pitiless. Keen gusts of wind whirled dust and straws and rubbish in

dreary little dances along Bellevue street, the faces of the passers-by

were nipped and miserable with the cold, and the sullen sky hung low

above the pallid row of houses opposite. Percival looked out on this and

thought of Brackenhill, which he left in leafy June. He was very

miserable: he had always been quickly sensitive to the beauty or

dreariness around him, and the gray dulness of the scene entered into

his very soul. Warmth, leisure, sunlight and blue sky! There was plenty

of sunlight somewhere in the world. O God! what had he done that it

should be denied him?

There was a weary craving upon him that might have led to terrible

results, but his pride and fastidiousness saved him. His delicately

cultivated palate loathed the coarse fire of spirits, and he had a

healthy horror of drugs. Once or twice he had thought of opium when he

could not escape, even in dreams, from the grayness of his life. "This

is unendurable," he would say; and he played in fancy with the key which

unlocks the gates of that strange region lying on the borders of

paradise and hell. But his better sense questioned, "Will it be any more

endurable when I have ruined my nerves and the coats of my stomach?" It

did not seem probable that it would be. If death had been the risk he

might have faced it, but he recoiled from the thought of a premature and

degraded old age, still chained to the hateful desk.

There are times when a man may be cheaply made into a hero. What would

not Percival have given for the chance of doing some deed of reckless

bravery?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A LEVANTINE PICNIC.

We had been a long time in Suda Bay--one of the numerous indentations on

the north coast of Crete--in company with Turkish, Egyptian, Russian and

Austrian men of war. Fighting was going on at intervals on the

mountains--of which Mount Ida and some of the other peaks were covered

with snow--and we could sometimes see from our anchorage the spirts of

white smoke where the Cretans (not "slow-bellies" now) were ambushing

the Turkish columns as they struggled up the mountain-defiles. Egyptian

transports came in and landed their long-legged, white-uniformed troops,

who perhaps bivouacked that night on the shores of the bay, and the next

day were absorbed in the great reticulations of the mountain-island,

which must have seemed a strange country indeed to the Fellah recruits,

to whom the Mokattam Hills were mountains.

_We_ could do nothing in Crete. We were closely bound down by orders,

and sympathies had no play. Hundreds of women and children, the

families of the insurgents, were interned at Retimo in an old fort and

in other similar strongholds. Some were hovering about the south coast,

not far from St. Paul's Fair Havens, in hopes of being taken off from

there. The condition of these people was very pitiable. The Russian

frigate General Admiral had taken one load of them to Greece, but the

pacha in command, Mustapha Kiritli, positively refused to allow us or

the Russians to take any more. The blockade-runners (one of which, at

least, had distinguished herself in our own then recent war) took off a

few, but could not, of course, stay on the coast long enough to

accomplish much without having a Turkish cruiser down upon them. As a

war-measure the refusal of the pacha was right, for the possession of

the women and children gave the Turks a certain hold upon the Cretans

who were bushwhacking in the mountains.

The pacha did give us permission to go down to Retimo to see for

ourselves the condition of the families detained there. They were not so

badly off, according to Levantine notions. They had lentils, oil, flour

and firewood, a shelter for their heads, and their rugs and rags to

sleep under. The Turkish officers asked, What more could people want?

What they wanted was the Turks out of the island for ever, but it was of

no use to say that. Such a remark on our part might have been thought

personal.

Sometimes during our stay we went over to the town of Canea, where the

only things of interest were--first, a red-hot consul, who sympathized

so violently with the Cretans that he had lost all his influence with

the Turks, to whom, of course, he was accredited; and, secondly, the

fine old Venetian slips and galley-houses, in such preservation as

almost to make one fancy that the days of Francesco Prioli, the admiral,

had not yet departed.

At Suda Bay there was a large Turkish camp, which was interesting for an

hour or two. About its outskirts it had a curious collection of

half-savage camp-followers and hangers-on, the close inspection of whom

on their own ground, with their queer ways of butchering and cooking and

what not, was interesting, but not altogether unattended with a spice of

danger to a solitary _Giaour_. We had visited and entertained the

Russians and the Austrians, and they had returned our civilities and

tried to make things cheerful; but we were very weary of Suda Bay long

before orders came permitting us to go over to Smyrna; which place, when

we got there, seemed a very Naples by comparison with Canea.

The Bay of Smyrna is far famed as a fine one. The _imbat_, or

sea-breeze, usually blows every day and all day long, so that, however

close one may lie to the town, the odors from its filthy, narrow streets

are all blown the other way--sufficiently rich, one would think, to

fertilize any soil over which they may be wafted. I suppose there is no

better instance of the whited sepulchre than Smyrna. The view of the

city and its environs from an anchorage in the bay, with the sun shining

upon its blue waters dancing and crisping under the brisk imbat; the

Greek spires and the minarets of the mosques relieved by the cypresses

of the graveyards; the amphitheatrical situation of the whole place,

crowned by Mount Pagus with its picturesque ruined castle, and the fine

mountain-scenery in the background,--must impress every visitor. And yet

nowhere has the plague so often reaped its harvest, owing to neglect of

everything which goes to make life clean and decent.

We had been many days in Smyrna, and had eaten many bunches of grapes,

each as fine as any the spies brought from Eshkol. We had seen the

famous _rahat-li-coom_ boiling in the caldrons, and then flavored and

beaten and drawn, and then had eaten it. We had smoked many okes of

Latakia. We had spent pleasant evenings among the foreign residents at

Bournabat, where the dress-coat and claret-jug and piano represent

Western civilization to the merchants and consuls tired after a long day

in the hot, reeking, noisy town. We had learned to find our way through

the bazaar without a guide, and had bought shawls and rugs in the

Persian khan, driving close bargains, as we thought, after hours of

patient sitting and much smoking and coffee-drinking, and being cheated

frightfully, as we found out afterward on comparing notes with resident

ladies. We had ridden up, on donkeys, to the huge ruined castle

dominating the city, said, popularly, to have been built by the English

Richard, and certainly dating from the thirteenth century, and we had

come down from there in a high state of heat, dust and disgust. We had

been to see figs packed for the market in a place and after a manner

which made us think of the motto of the Garter. We had gone to see the

Whirling Dervishes, and had witnessed the drill of the Turkish nizam at

the grand new barracks. We had visited the English military cemetery

formed in Crimean days, and had experienced a strange home-feeling as we

read the familiar names on the headstones. We had had sailing-parties on

the bay for consuls and consulesses, landing at Sanjak Kalessi to take

luncheon and to see the huge old-fashioned guns in the fort, with their

stone balls (of granite or marble, two feet in diameter), once thought

so formidable. We had been the round of the Greek cafés which flourish

in such numbers in Smyrna, where polyglot concerts and the worst

features of the _café chantant_ seem never to tire their patrons. We had

seen a Persian caravan start--a sight well worth rising early for, if

only to see their outlandish drivers lash the loads upon the camels,

which groan and bellow and scold during the operation, retracting their

hare-lips, showing their long yellow teeth, and projecting from their

mouths the very hideous and peculiar bag of flesh and blue color; in

which condition they attain a point of repulsiveness possessed by no

other animal I know of.

An official reception and visit by the pacha had of course been

accomplished, both parties seeming to be about equally bored by the

ceremony, and Smyrna seemed, for us, to be pretty well "played out." We

were reduced to dropping small coin over the taffrail for expectant men

and boys to dive for through the clear blue water, and to betting upon

the time of arrival of the Austrian Lloyds or the Russian mail-steamer.

Clearly, this was not a wholesome state to be in; and knowing this, a

Good Samaritan, our acting consul, Mr. G----, proposed as a distraction

trips to neighboring places of interest, especially to Ephesus and

Magnesia. They were both to be reached by rail, and so near as to

require but a single day's absence, which was of importance to us, as we

were expecting orders to sail at any moment.

The first-mentioned place naturally attracted us most, from its

association with our youthful studies, both biblical and secular; and so

it was decided that we should make a day of it at Ephesus, and have a

picnic. The party consisted of our consul and his two nieces, very

excellent specimens of Levantine-born people of English stock; an

Armenian gentleman, Mr. A----, and his wife; and three of our officers.

Due preparation was made by kind Mr. G---- in the way of sending hampers

of provision and wine, and in ordering horses to meet us at Aïasulouk,

the nearest station to Ephesus, and about fifty miles by rail from

Smyrna.

We were obliged to start very early in the morning, for there was only

one daily passenger-train each way on the Smyrna and Aidin Railroad. The

road was far from being remunerative to the bond- and stock-holders at

that time, and I fancy it has not been so since. There seemed, indeed,

scant reason for any passenger-train at all, for, besides our own party,

there were only two or three Zaptiehs, truculent-looking fellows, a

couple of English merchants and some rayahs.

The contrast between the bustling noise and modern associations of the

railway-train and the mediæval-looking environs of Smyrna, through which

it threaded its way, was sufficiently striking to occupy one's thoughts

for some time after starting, especially as alongside the railway ran

for some distance the caravan-route, already filled by strings of camels

and their drivers--most picturesque objects in such a landscape. Most

of the native traders prefer that time-honored mode of transportation to

the iron horse, and a large proportion of the merchandise received at

this most important commercial centre came on the backs of camels, mules

and asses. Aidin, the southern terminus of the road on which we were

travelling, is a great dépôt of the figs which we have all eaten from

infancy put up in drums; and the freight of these is one of the

principal sources of revenue to the railway. That more products of the

soil are not sent in this way is rather the fault of the wretched

government than of the rayahs or agricultural laborers. They are ground

to the very earth by iniquitous taxation, and only manage to live from

hand to mouth in what should be a land of plenty.

After the railroad turns southward it follows a broad valley between two

low mountain-ridges, the western one being rather precipitous. Here and

there were ledges which were occupied by the flocks of Bedouins and of

Yourouks (a true nomad race, speaking a Turkish dialect), as well as by

their low, broad black tents, scarcely distinguishable at that

elevation. These people had encroached upon land formerly cultivated and

very fertile--in some places merely in the fallow-time, but in others in

consequence of the proper tillers of the soil being driven away,

hopeless from endless exactions on the part of the greedy pachas and

kaimacans set over them. There was one comfort. They got little from the

Bedawee or the Yourouks, who flitted when tax-time came. These hills had

quite recently been the scene of the exploits of Kitterji Janni, a

celebrated robber-chief not long gone to his account. From all we heard

of him he was not altogether a bad fellow, but robbed the rich and gave

to the poor in a quite Rinaldo-Rinaldini sort of style.

We were already on friendly terms with all our entertainers except the

Armenian lady, the wife of Mr. A----, whom we now met for the first

time. She was still a young woman, tall, with a very comely face and

laughing black eyes, but hugely fat, as Armenians are apt to become

very early. She was dressed in bright colors and in the latest Parisian

style, including the bonnet and parasol. A jolly, wholesome, honest look

and manner prepossessed us in her favor, but, unfortunately, she did not

speak a word of either English or French. Her husband, tall and fat too,

was a good fellow, and, unlike his wife (who possessed only Turkish,

Greek and Armenian), spoke in addition French, Italian and English with

great ease and fluency. Indeed, the Armenians are the best of the

different nationalities of Asia Minor and Syria: diligent in business,

moderately honest, good linguists and accountants, they have more

dignified manners and stability than the Fanariot Greeks, and more

brains than the Turks. They retain their physical type as distinctly as

do the Parsees in India, and are equally ready to turn an honest penny,

_en gros_ and _en détail_.

We rattled along the excellent railway in a style calculated to make the

"limited express" look to its laurels, and in less than two hours drew

up at the station of Aïasulouk. Here the western chain of hills which we

had skirted ceases, and the great marshy plain of Ephesus opens out, the

river Cayster meandering through it. The insignificant station-house and

platform, with a small coffee-house and some dwellings, reminded me of a

prairie station in our Western country. But the eye was at once

attracted by something we should not find in the Western World--to wit,

some ruins, large, roofless, but with solid walls, two domes, some

pinnacles and a graceful minaret. These are the ruins of the mosque of

Sultan Selim, called by the Greeks the church of St. John, though it was

certainly not the church under which the saint was buried. There are the

remains of a Christian church behind those of the mosque, and below a

ruined Turkish castle with a Roman gateway which crowns the hill still

farther north. The apse of this ruined church, also called St. John by

the native Greeks, is still visited and venerated by them.

A ruined aqueduct stalked across the plain from east to west, bearing

high in air the rude nests of numerous storks, which were to be seen

sitting or standing on their nests or flying deliberately to and fro

with that air of being perfectly at home which belongs to storks in

whatever part of the world they may chance to make their sojourn. This

aqueduct received its water from a tunnel in the eastern range, and was

probably the principal source of supply for the city in Roman times. The

ruins of another (tunnelled) aqueduct have been discovered of late years

coming from the mountains to the south of the city; and this is probably

much older than the first named, as the Greeks preferred that mode of

conducting water wherever practicable, their subterranean channels, a

sort of syphon arrangement, being in use long before any of the Roman

aqueducts were built. The fact is, that the Greeks early found out that

water would find its own level, while the Romans, if they knew the fact,

did not always act upon it.

Far off from the railway-station, to the west and south-west, in the

midst of the dreary marshy plain, rose Mount Coressus, about which as a

centre formerly clustered the imperial city of Diana. Hardly a moving

thing was in sight but the flying storks and the waving green patches of

rushes and of grain bowed by the strong imbat, which wafted

cloud-shadows over the rather melancholy landscape. The peasants who

till the arable part of the plain only come down there to work at the

planting and the harvest, and live at Kirkenjee, a town on the

mountain-side. Malaria does not permit them to live nearer to their

work. Indeed, the traces of the swamp-poison were plainly seen in the

faces of the railway employés and other residents in the vicinity of the

station. While we were taking this glance about us our hampers were

deposited on the platform and the train rattled off again with great

briskness, as if time were of any importance, and as if the whole

arrangement were not an anachronism in this part of the world!

We were to return to have our picnic at the ruins on our right, after

which we should be in readiness for the evening train; but just now the

great thing was to get to horse and to finish the necessary

sight-seeing before the heat of the day if possible. And so the horses

were brought up. Such horses! Plucky enough, but small and lean and

scraggy, of all colors and all degrees of ugliness. Three English

side-saddles had been brought out in the train for the ladies, while the

men of the party took the horse-gear provided by the owner of the

animals, instruments of torture known as Turkish saddles. The two young

ladies, light weights, were soon mounted. Then the horse intended for

the Armenian lady was brought up alongside the platform, and her husband

placed her upon the side-saddle after a careful tightening of girths.

When the horse, which seemed lighter than his burden, moved away, the

saddle at once began to turn in a very deliberate fashion, depositing

the fair rider gently upon the ground. There they were, the rider seated

quietly upon the turf, and the side-saddle pendulous between the horse's

legs, the animal apparently much puzzled to know what to make of the

strange machine, but evidently not intending any such nonsense as

running away. The men rushed at the animal, righted the saddle, and

hauled away at the girths until the horse became quite wasp-like in

form. He was then led back to the platform, and the lady's ponderous

form was once more placed on the side-saddle, only to repeat the turning

operation, gravity asserting itself with all the ease and certainty

belonging to natural laws. Our laughter was by this time uncontrollable,

the good-natured Armenian joining in it heartily, and a consultation was

held to determine what was to be done. She was out for a day's pleasure,

and evidently did not mean to be left behind. Finally, it was determined

that she should take one of the other saddles; and she mounted one

accordingly, the horse then moving off slowly, but well enough, as the

weight was evenly balanced. I have seldom seen a jollier sight than that

portly dame, in her resplendent skirts and spick-and-span French bonnet

and parasol, mounted _en cavalier_.

Having discreetly and safely accomplished this difficult piece of

business, we all set off by a narrow footpath, muddy in many places,

toward the site of the ancient city. We passed patches of cultivated

ground here and there, a good deal of which was tobacco, but for the

most part our way was through marsh-grass and low bushes. Nearly a mile

north-east of the ruins of the city we passed what the best authorities

positively say are the ruins of the temple. The archæologists have been

quarrelling over this point for generations, and some think that the

ruins are those of a great Christian fane. The fact is, that almost all

the ruins have been quarries of building- and lime-stone for centuries,

and those edifices which stood farthest to the east and north-east, as

the temple did, suffered most because most accessible.

I do not propose to inflict upon the reader a list of the ruins which we

saw, some well authenticated, and some not. It is not every mind,

however well regulated, that will bear the personal inspection of ruins,

much less a catalogue of them.

We passed on, still westward, skirting the rocky Mount Coressus, on the

western side of which was the great theatre, then in process of

excavation by Mr. Wood, who has since published an elaborate account of

his discoveries. Far toward the west stretched the ruins where had been

the markets, the stadium and the ports, with crumbling walls and towers

of all stages of antiquity, Greek, Roman and Byzantine. One of the

towers or forts, on an elevation to the westward, and of somewhat

cyclopean construction, passes popularly for "St. Paul's Prison."

Far to the west glittered the sea in the Bay of Scala Nova, and beyond

rose the mountains of Samos, still famed for fruity wine. It is

generally supposed that the sea once came up to the site of Ephesus, but

there is no good reason for the belief. The Cayster has undoubtedly in

the course of ages brought down and deposited much soil, and has formed

a delta, but we know that in the palmy days of the city a long canal,

with solid quays of cut stone, led the ships up to the two ports. The

remains of these canals have been traced for a long way, showing that

the distance to the sea was always considerable, while the ports are

still defined by the extra-luxuriant growth of bulrushes and cat-tails.

We had stopped at the theatre to examine the curious sculptures

collected there by the excavators, and to enjoy the view. To do this we

all dismounted, with the exception of the Armenian lady, who mildly but

firmly declined to descend, no doubt feeling that there would be a

difficulty in remounting where there was no railway-platform. In her own

mind she no doubt said with MacMahon, "J'y suis! j'y reste!" Mounting

again, we rode round to the south of Coressus, passing along a regular

street, with the remains of paving and curbing, parallel with the

southern wall of the ancient city, which ran along the declivity of

Mount Pion. Here was pointed out the tomb of St. Luke. Extensive

excavations were being made near here under English auspices, and tombs

were daily being discovered, both pagan and early Christian. On the very

day of our visit a substantial tomb had been exposed, cut clearly and

deeply into the stone of which was the inscription in Greek, "Alexander

the Rich."

The sun by this time was more than warm, and we were three or four miles

from our luncheon. So the horses' heads were turned toward Aïasulouk; on

which sign of being homeward bound they developed a speed little to be

expected from their looks and previous conduct. Passing a breach in the

wall of the ancient city, more tombs and the remains of an extensive

colonnade, we came out upon the marshy plain which we had crossed once

before, having completely circled Coressus. On the left, as we rode

along, the ruins of the church dedicated to the Seven Sleepers were

pointed out to us. The church or chapel was cut out of the solid rock as

to the walls, with a groined roof of stone. We have all heard of the

"Seven Sleepers" from our boyhood, perhaps the toughest yarn incident to

that period. The Turks and Persians have their legends about them as

well as the Christians. The Mohammedans preserve one set of names and

the Christians another, so an inquirer may take his choice. The Moslems

certainly make the most of the legend, for they place the names of the

Sleepers upon buildings to prevent their being burned, and upon swords

to prevent them from breaking; and they preserve the name of the dog

which was shut up with them. The legend refers to the persecution of the

Christians in the reign of Diocletian--some say the Decian persecution.

The story goes that seven noble youths of Ephesus (being Christians and

under persecution) fled to this cave for refuge--were pursued,

discovered and walled in. In this dreadful condition they were

miraculously put into a sleep which lasted, some say two, some three,

hundred years.

The Koran relates the tale in a circumstantial way, regarding Moslems

persecuted by Christians of course. It declares that the sun, out of

respect for these young martyrs, altered his course, so that twice in

the day he might shine upon the cavern. The name of the dog, "Kit Mehr,"

has always appeared in the traditions of the Mussulmans, but I believe

no name has been preserved for him in the Christian story. This dog,

having consumed three hundred years in standing erect, growling and

guarding his masters' slumbers, was for his faithfulness considered

worthy of translation to heaven. He was admitted to that beatitude in

company with Abraham's ram, Balaam's ass, the foal upon which Jesus rode

into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, and Mohammed's mare upon which he

ascended to heaven.

What says Alcoran?--"When the youths betook them to the cave they said,

'O our Lord! grant us mercy from before thee, and order for us our

affairs aright!' ... And thou wouldst have deemed them awake, though

they were sleeping; and we turned them to the right and to the left; and

in the entrance lay their dog with paws outstretched. Hadst thou come

suddenly upon them thou wouldst surely have turned thy back on them in

flight, and have been filled with fear of them.... Some say, 'There

were three, their dog the fourth;' others say, 'Five, their dog the

sixth,' guessing at the secret; others say, 'Seven, and their dog the

eighth.' Say, 'My Lord best knoweth the number: none save a few shall

know them.' Therefore be clear in thy discussions about them, and ask

not any Christian concerning them. Haply, my Lord will guide me that I

may come near to the truth of this story with correctness.... And they

tarried in this cave three hundred years, and nine years over."

Half an hour brought us back to Aïasulouk and the mosque of Sultan

Selim. Here everything seemed still more quiet than when we left. Even

the storks were sitting or standing in a meditative posture, not one

flying about. The railway porters and some rayahs were lying on the

platform in the enjoyment of their midday slumbers, their heads and

faces carefully wrapped up in their capotes, while their bare, bronzed

shanks and huge feet, in shapeless red shoes, projected in what seemed

absurd disproportion to the rest of their bodies. I must make an

exception. There was one wide-awake individual awaiting us, the owner of

the horses. He was no sooner paid for the hire of his animals than,

tying them fast, he went into the miserable little café; and we found

the animals still made fast, still saddled, unwatered and unfed, when we

took the evening train, the owner being descried in the house of

entertainment at work at a nargileh, and evidently the worse for raki.

It is rather a difficult thing to acknowledge, in the face of the great

ruins then about us, with all their associations, that the thought of

our dinner was by this time uppermost in the minds of nearly all our

company. I have generally found, however, in much journeying about this

wicked world, that the amount of condescension and interest with which

one looks upon ancient remains depends very much upon the company in

which one finds one's self, the state of the weather and the state of

one's stomach.

Our worthy entertainer was a man of the world, and understood this

little trait of humanity; so he led us straight to the roofless mosque,

where we were shaded from the afternoon sun, but at the same time had

his cheerful reflection from the upper part of the marble walls, from

which trailed and waved lovely vines and parasites. There we found,

spread upon a spotless cloth which rested on a clean-swept though

cracked pavement parqueted in different marbles, a most delightful and

plentiful luncheon. Shawls and rugs were placed, and we fell to at once,

the Armenian lady playing her part as manfully as she had done in the

saddle, and causing grilled fowls, kibabs and claret-cup to disappear in

a way which reflected upon the capacity of some of the males of the

party.

We had nearly finished our repast when a gypsy-woman peeped in at one of

the doorways, but with instinctive good manners retired again until we

had done with dessert and cigarettes were lighted. Then she came into

the huge unroofed hall in which we were, and brought a pretty girl of

about twelve and a boy of ten, who danced for our amusement a wild sort

of prance with a castanet accompaniment. The mother then begged leave to

divine our fortunes from the coffee-grounds in the cups, with the

contents of which we had just wound up our feast. There is this

difference between Levantine coffee and that made in our Western World:

_grounds_ are essential to the one, and are eagerly shaken up and

swallowed, while in our parts the grounds are the opprobrium of the

cook. There were, however, grounds enough left for the gypsy. But she

made a very mild use of them mostly, predicting "good health and a good

fig-season" to an American officer who did not grow figs and who had the

constitution of a horse. Then she took a handful of pebbles, shells and

the small cubes of stone extracted from ancient mosaic floors, and threw

them broadcast upon a very dirty cotton handkerchief, predicting from

their relative positions the fortunes of the two young ladies. As

interpreted by one of the servants the prediction was decidedly hazy. It

may have lost in being translated, but it amounted to this: "Him husband

hab--werry good: plenty piastre got." A very small gratuity sent our

gypsy friend off perfectly satisfied after salaams and kissing the hands

of all the men of the party. Nobody ever kisses women's hands in the

East--at least in public.

The conscientious member of the party, who "understood we had come

mainly to inspect the ruins, and not for a picnic," and who had all day

been very uncomfortable at the slight put upon antiquity by our light

conduct in the face of so many centuries, now insisted upon at least a

glance at the fine ruins in which we then were. They were well worthy of

a close inspection, but I don't propose to inflict a description upon

the reader. I may, however, mention a particularly picturesque minaret

of very solid construction. Up the winding steps of this we all filed

except the fat lady, who sat on the pavement below cross-legged, smoking

a cigarette and smiling up at us benignly through the blue wreaths

circling round her head from under the Paris hat.

After enjoying the view of the plain and the encircling hills with the

satisfaction of persons who had "done" the thing and had not to do it

again, we began to inspect the minaret itself and the dressed stone

parapet against which we leaned; and there we found the name of the

everlasting English (or American) snob who seems to pervade the universe

for the sake of cutting or writing his name and the date of his visit

upon every coign of vantage to which he can get access. Our Armenian

friend, Mr. A----, pointed out that there were few Italian names in this

record of fools, and scarcely any French or German; but Herostratus

appears weak in comparison with our English and American travellers in

the desire for cheap fame, for he had only to make a fire, a thing done

in a very few moments, while the travelling snob must have worked

industriously for an hour or two, and made his hands very sore, and

probably spoiled a knife, in satisfying his aspirations.

The portals of this mosque are very fine. No doubt the greater part of

the material for the building came from the ruins of Ephesus, but the

portals and other principal points are of original design, and most

undoubtedly erected by true architects and sculptors. They are

Saracenic, not quite up to the examples we find in Spain and in Sicily,

and in a modified and debased form in Morocco and elsewhere on the coast

of Barbary. The inscriptions from the Koran are most elaborately and

beautifully cut, and still in excellent preservation. The Moslem

peasantry would not touch them, and the Christian rayahs are afraid to

do so. There are, of course, no figures of men, or even of animals, but

the charmingly correct arches and doorways, and the delicate tracery

above them intermingled with Arabic characters, give a lightness to the

portals which is hardly to be found anywhere east of the Alhambra or the

Sevillian Alcazar.

But I must leave the ruins, for by this time the sun was sinking, giving

the plain on which so many important events had occurred a more weird

and deserted look than ever. The _cavass_ in charge of the servants was

beginning to be fussy, in fear that while we were dawdling about the one

train might come and go, and the _sitts_ and _effendis_ be left to the

limited accommodations of Aïasulouk for the night. So we filed down to

the station, the servants preceding us with the hampers upon their

heads, and the Armenian lady stepping out after them fresh and

fair--indeed, much fresher than most of us, who were rather tired after

the unusual exertions of the day.

As we retraced our morning's track we saw the same black tents of the

Yourouks and Bedawee, the smoke from the fires of which mingled with the

evening exhalations from the valley. Hundreds of sheep, horses and

camels were now gathering close about the tents which had seemed so

entirely deserted as we passed in the morning. There was no other moving

thing to be seen as we rode north and the evening closed in--no lights

in peasants' houses or fires on their hearths, for the Levantines are

"early to bed and early to rise;" in addition to which custom they have,

under the present paternal rule, acquired the habit of remaining as much

out of sight as possible.

When we came into the station at Smyrna the night had fallen. A few

flickering lamps and lanterns made the darkness visible, and except the

porters and necessary officials there was not a soul there, Turk or

Frank, to take the slightest interest in our movements. The place was

perfectly deserted and dismal. At last we saw lights approaching, and

another cavass (belonging to our excellent consul) appeared with lots of

lanterns and men "with staves and swords," as becometh a Levantine

consul, and, escorted by these, we walked a long way over the rough,

slippery paving-stones before we reached the Armenian and Greek

quarters. Here people were seen sitting in family groups at their doors

and windows, gossiping with their neighbors and enjoying such evening

air as is afforded by the streets of Smyrna. But they showed, at any

rate, some human interest and enjoyment of life, and we must remember

that they had been accustomed to the smells from childhood. Perhaps the

weaker ones had all died off, for those we saw were very stout and

hearty. In all respects their streets presented a pleasant contrast to

the dark, filthy, windowless, cheerless lanes in the Turkish town, with

the skulking, snarling, mangy dogs disputing one's right of way, and an

occasional encounter with a scowling Moslem, lantern in hand and

homeward bound, who drew up to the wall, and showed by the gleam of our

lanterns upon his yellow face that he inwardly cursed us all for

Giaours, and wondered that Allah in His providence permitted us to

exist. In fact, the Anatolian Turk is still a good Mohammedan of the

time of Solyman, and not one of the degenerate race of Stamboul.

E.S.

A BIRD STORY.

Visible from my study-window, and less than a stone's throw away, is a

cottage, all tree-embowered and vine-covered, which its owners call "The

Nest." All over the house, wherever a bird-box can be placed, there you

are sure to find one. These little homes nestle under the eaves among

the supporting brackets; they hide under the nooks of the gables; they

are perched above the windows; they are indeed to be found wherever you

would be likely to look for them, and in a good many places where you

would never think of looking. Besides these bird-boxes on the house,

there are bird-boxes in the trees, bird-boxes airily placed on high

poles--bird-boxes in all forms, from the plain four-sided salt-box to

the elaborate Swiss chalet and the pretentious be-spired and be-columned

meeting-house. Then there are bird-cages--pretty brass cages, with

tarlatan petticoats to keep the seeds from flying out, and tied with

such dainty bows of ribbon that one has no need to be told there is a

woman in the house; there are capacious cages in which brown

mocking-birds sit all day long echoing back the other birds' songs they

hear; there are dainty glass cages from Venice, in which Java sparrows

carry on their ceaseless love-making, billing and cooing for hours and

hours, as if all life to them was an interminable honeymoon. There is

also a great white parrot, who, perched in a brass ring, mutters and

mutters to himself for hours, and hums snatches of tunes, and calls

imaginary dogs and visionary cats; and when he sees a certain manly form

coming up the garden-walk is wont to cry out in a miserable mockery of

tenderness, "Oh, my darling! I'm _so_ glad to see you!" and then smack

his bill as near like a kiss as he can, and chuckle and laugh and turn

somersaults, and otherwise disport himself as parrots do when they are

pleased.

And while all this is going on there comes running out of the house a

pretty little figure in a fresh muslin dress and with outstretched arms;

and, strangely enough, she says just what Polly has said, and there is a

kiss that is no imitation, and a responsive kiss that fairly puts Polly

to shame; but the bird chuckles and laughs nevertheless.

When all this takes place--and it is no more of an event than the daily

home-coming of our good neighbor and dear friend Arthur Sterling, Esq.,

barrister-at-law,--when this home-coming takes place, all the birds at

The Nest break forth into a merrier song--get so enthusiastic in their

pipings that you'd think, to hear them, that they would split their

throats; and still gladder and sweeter and merrier than their song is

the voice of our dear neighbor's wife, Mistress May Sterling, who pours

forth, in a ceaseless chattering song, a whole day's accumulation of

love--yes indeed, a whole lifetime's accumulation; and while the

rippling flow goes on their two fond hearts sing louder with joy than

any birds would ever dare to think of singing.

How they love the birds! And why not? Since but for a little bird they

would not have been together in this sweet little nest, outbilling and

outcooing the Java sparrows, dwelling in the land of Love's young dream,

in the sunshine of each other's affection, and ready to declare upon

oath that there is no night in their lives that isn't radiant with the

sheen of the honeymoon.

And now I'll tell you the story of a little bird as Mistress May

Sterling told it to me one evening while her Arthur and I smoked our

cigars in the moonlight on The Nest's piazza. No: on the whole, Mistress

Sterling shall tell the story herself: she tells it much better than I

can.

"Why, yes," she says, "I'll tell it: why not? I love to tell it, for,

taken altogether, it is the best story I ever heard of.--Kiss me,

dear."

Arthur having done as he was bidden, Mrs. Sterling begins at once, and

all you and I have to do is to listen:

"When I was young and giddy--ever and ever so long ago, of course:

indeed I was quite a girl then, only eighteen--I was, as you may

imagine, quite a pet with my father--don't laugh, Arthur: you know I

was--and quite a belle too, I can assure you, with lots of young men

flinging themselves at my feet and swearing all kinds of oaths about

fidelity and everlasting affection, and all the other things that young

and enthusiastic--"

"And inexperienced," put in Arthur.

"Don't interrupt me, sir. Where was I? Oh yes!--that young and

enthusiastic and inexperienced people are accustomed to swear. And my

father, who was very stern and had old-fashioned notions--and has now,

for that matter, dear old papa!--said that, whatever befell, he would

not on any account give the least encouragement or the slightest

permission to any lover till I was past twenty years old. Not that I

cared, only it was such fun to hear the men talk, and me looking

unutterable things and saying softly, 'You must never say anything to me

on this subject again till you have papa's consent: he would be very

angry if he knew what you've said already'! You see, I knew papa's

will--it is unchangeable as granite: at least I thought it was--and I

felt perfectly safe.

"This was, you know--no, you don't know--but it was the year I came out

in society. And I used to go to receptions and all sorts of things with

papa, and receive his company, and sit at the head of the table, and

keep house, just as my mother would have done if she'd been living. I

hardly remember mamma: I was not four years old when she died. And

society and people's admiration seemed so glorious! I declared I'd never

marry, but go on to the end of my days saying 'No' to any man that asked

me, and enjoying such a lot of pity for the poor fellows. I deliberately

hardened my heart, as many a girl does at that age, and fairly

pitied--yes, actually pitied--the girls that were so weak as to fall in

love and get married. I think papa used to encourage me in the feeling,

for he didn't like to think of losing me out of the house, and he a

judge and a Congressman, and having ever so much company, and nobody but

dear old-fashioned Aunt Jane to help him receive them if I was to leave

him.

"When father was re-elected to Congress we had a glorious reception at

our house in the country, and among others that came to it was a Mr.

Sterling, the son of my father's college chum, and a promising young

sprig of the law, father said. He came to stay a day or two in the house

as a visitor before the reception, and was to leave the morning after it

took place."

At this point in the narrative Mr. Arthur bethought him of a letter he

must write, and begged to be excused for a time--a piece of rare good

sense on his part, considering how much the story had to do with

himself.

"During his stay we had been a good deal together. I had been his guide

to all the famous spots in the neighborhood, and he had been chatty and

bright, and amused me greatly. We had a little chat in the conservatory

that evening of the reception, and I told him I was sorry to have him

leave.

"'Thank you,' he said. 'I would rather hear you say that than anything

you could have said, except one.'

"'What is that, pray?' I asked.

"'That you would like to see me here again.'

"'Oh,' I replied, 'I never give invitations: papa does that. Of course

he'll be glad to see you again.'

"'And you?'

"'Why, since you insist upon my saying it, I shall be glad too: you

amuse me greatly.'

"'So might a tight-rope performer or a performing dog, I suppose?'

"'No: I don't care for such amusements. I like to hear the talk of

bright men, and you strike me as a very bright man.'

"'It is only the reflection of yourself, Miss Bronson,' he said in a

cold society tone, which, strange to say, pained me, and I replied that

I didn't care for compliments: I had plenty of them, and they palled on

me.

"Then he said, 'Do you want me to tell you the truth, the out-and-out

truth--the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God?'

"'That's an oath, Mr. Sterling,' I said: 'don't commit yourself.'

"'I do commit myself--I came here to commit myself. I want you to hear

me out and believe that I realize fully the solemnity of what I am

saying. I have sought this opportunity to tell you that I love you, Miss

Bronson.'

"Strangely enough, I wasn't the least moved: I don't think my heart beat

the least bit faster; and I said, 'Why, Mr. Sterling, how can you know

anything about me? How can you love me, when you've known me only two

days, and seen me always on my best behavior? I am a very unlovable

person: if you only knew me well you'd soon find it out. Of course, if

you love me, it is all very well for you to tell me so, but I can't

understand why you should.'

"'Is that all you have to say to me, Miss Bronson?' he asked earnestly.

"'Why, what can I say? You don't know me, and I don't know you; and you

think you love me, and I don't love you at all. I'm fond of you in a

certain way, to be sure, but love is quite a different thing. I never

shall love anybody very much except papa: I never intend to. I'm very

kind to you, Mr. Sterling, to talk to you as I do. In a few weeks, when

you've all but forgotten my existence, you'll think of me just enough to

be grateful to me for talking to you as I have. Love isn't a mushroom to

spring up in a night: it is an oak to grow and grow, and only come to

perfection after years and years. You don't love me at all, Mr.

Sterling: you only think you do.'

"All this time he stood silent, looking more awkward than I ever saw him

before or have seen him since. Then he put out his hand and said, 'I'll

bid you good-bye, Miss Bronson: I'm going early in the morning. I shall

not see you then, so I'll say good-bye now. I am going abroad in a few

days.'

"'Abroad! where?' I hadn't heard of it, and I felt a strange sort of

pang--of surprise, I thought.

"'To Leipsic, to finish my studies. I shall be gone a considerable

time--two years at least. When I return I shall come to you and repeat

what I've said to-night.'

"'Oh no, you won't: you'll forget all about it. I'd much rather you

would. Please don't feel bound to come back: I release you from your

oath, and I shall not expect you.'

"I don't know what more we might have said, but there was a flutter

among the vines by the door, and we thought some one was near us. We

were just returning into the adjoining dining-room when a little brown

bird flew out into the light, and, hopping about among the flowers,

began chirping in a sad sort of way that caught our attention at once.

"'It is only the little widow,' I said.

"'Lost her mate, eh?' Arthur said carelessly. He wasn't Arthur then, you

know, but Mr. Sterling.

"'Yes: he's deserted her. She built here in the vines last spring when

the conservatory was all thrown open. They were such a pair of lovers,

she and her mate! She raised two broods of little ones, and it was quite

a domestic revelation for me to see them, they seemed so fond of each

other, and so happy, and so loving. But a month ago, when the plants

were brought in and the cold nights began to come on, he left her, and

she has been sad and heartbroken ever since.'

"'Perhaps he'll come back to her by and by,' said Arthur.

"'Oh no: he'll no more come back to her than you'll come back to me.'

"'Then he's sure to come,' replied Arthur; and just then my father came

to look for me and bid me join the other guests.

"I didn't see Arthur again that night, and the next day he was gone. I

never missed anybody so much. Nobody and nothing seemed to fill his

place. I went into the room he had occupied, and found there a glove

that he had left behind. I took it to my room and said, 'I'll keep it

for him till he comes back.' I tried to speak lightly, and was surprised

and angry at myself that the trivial thought seemed to mean so much.

"The winter wore on, and the little forsaken bird remained in the

conservatory, and sometimes would fly into the room, and I felt a lonely

sort of sympathy with it. I used to take the bird in my hand sometimes

and call it a poor thing, and talk to it, and tell it that it was no

worse off than many a poor girl or many a young wife, for men were like

her mate, and promised all sorts of things they didn't mean, and

couldn't be faithful if they tried. After a while we went to Washington,

and I saw a great many people and received a great deal of attention.

The Prussian ambassador had a brother visiting him--a Baron

Dumbkopf--very handsome, very rich, very distingué, and soon very

attentive to me. He was constantly at our house, and he was agreeable

enough and easy to talk to, and very obedient, and very seldom a bore. I

rather liked him, and papa liked him exceedingly. I wasn't at all

surprised when one day he suddenly became sentimental and ended by

offering me his hand.

"'Have you spoken with my father on this subject?' I asked.

"He had not: would I give him permission to do so? I told him that I

should not even consider his proposition for a moment till he had talked

with my father; that I never intended to marry without my father's

consent; and as for falling in love, I was sure I should never do that.

"So he went away to talk with my father, and I felt safe. I hadn't an

idea papa would do as he did, you see; but the truth is, papas are not

to be depended upon--at least, not always.

"The next day my father called me into the library and asked me if I

loved Baron Dumbkopf.

"'No,' I said, 'I don't love him.'

"'Do you like him?'

"'No.'

"'Do you dislike him?'

"'No: I am quite indifferent to him.'

"'He is of a very good family and of excellent character,' said my

father.

"'I know all that,' I replied. 'Do you wish me to marry him, papa?'

"'I can't say that I wish you to, my daughter, but if you loved him I

should be pleased for you to have such a husband.'

"I was never more surprised in my life. Then he told me a great many

things about the baron--how universally he was esteemed, what a position

he held in society, how wealthy he was, how honorable and how good.

These things I knew before. They certainly had weight with me in favor

of the baron: I think they would have had with almost any girl. I asked

my father if he had given the baron any encouragement, and he replied

that he had left everything between the baron and myself for settlement.

"The next evening the German came again to woo me with my father's

sanction. He became very earnest, and I told him that I would not, could

not, give him any hope. He asked me if it might ever be otherwise, and I

told him I thought not. 'Well,' he said, 'I shall certainly ask you

again. I return to Germany in April, and I shall hope to carry home the

tidings of my betrothal.'

"It was then late in the winter, and pretty soon we returned to the

country, for father liked to be close to Nature when it burst into its

new life.

"How nice it seemed to be once more in the old house! I soon found

myself interested in my old occupations, and most of all in the care of

the conservatory, which was then all abloom with azaleas and other

spring-flowering plants. There too was the little widow, as sad as ever,

but glad to see me back, and more than ready to resume the old

friendship. We had hardly got into our old routine ways before my father

announced one morning that the baron Dumbkopf was coming down to say

good-bye before leaving for Germany. I knew very well what it all meant,

and I began to think that as it was my father's wish that I should marry

some time, and that as I could hardly find a husband more suited to his

ideas, and that as I probably should never fall in love, I might as well

accept him as anybody. Then I began to think of Arthur. Thoughts of the

two men crossed and recrossed in my mind, closely woven like the threads

in a cloth. I used to go and look at his glove and talk to the little

bird-widow about him, and really was quite angry with myself for having

him so much in my mind and he so long gone.

"At last the baron came. He was a splendid-looking man, and his manners

were perfect. These things tell for so much with girls! He came, and one

morning--I remember it well: it was a cold, blowy spring morning--he

found me alone in the conservatory and renewed his suit. I was petting

the little bird when he found me, and he said, 'Dear little bird! he is

to be envied in having so much tenderness shown him.'

"'It is a female bird,' I said, 'and a forsaken bird, for its mate has

flown away and left it broken-hearted;' and I began at once to think of

Arthur, and fell into a reverie.

"The baron interpreted my little speech and my subsequent silence as

favorable to himself. He really thought I was beginning to pity myself

because he was going away. 'Ah,' he said, 'you know why I have come?'

"'To say good-bye,' I answered.

"'Perhaps, but to say first that I love you still, and to ask you to be

my wife.'

"My heart beat rapidly now, and I think the little bird that I was

holding to my bosom must have felt it, for it began to chirp in a low

murmur as if it would comfort me.

"'Give me a little time to think,' I said; and, strangely enough, all my

thinking was of Arthur and his going away, and his promised return; and

then I said to myself, 'What folly! he has forgotten me. If he had loved

me he wouldn't have gone till he had my word of love in return. He's

forgotten all about me.'

"The baron was gaining ground with me: I was reasoning myself into

something above esteem for him, and I turned to put my hand in his,

when there was a tap at the window, and the little bird, struggling from

my hand, burst into such a flood of singing that the whole place was

drowned with melody.

"'Oh,' I cried, 'her mate has come back! her mate has come back! He is

fluttering against the window. Do let him in, baron, the poor dear,

happy little thing!' and I sat down among the azaleas and the budding

Easter lilies and cried like a baby.

"The poor baron did let the little bird in, and side by side we

witnessed the joy of their meeting, expressed in a hundred tender little

caresses.

"At last the baron said, 'You forget, Miss Bronson, you haven't given me

my answer.'

"'And I can't answer you now,' I said. 'Please forget me. Indeed, I

don't know what to say to you: I believe I shall say No.'

"'Don't say anything,' he replied. 'I have done wrong. I have not given

you time to think. I must go now, but a year from now I shall ask you

the same question again, and then you must say Yes or No; and God grant

it may be the first!'

"'You are very good,' I said; 'and a year hence I will tell you if I can

be your wife or not.'

"So the baron went away, and he had hardly been gone a week when I was

ashamed of having been so much affected by the bird's return. The idea

of believing in omens! Then a little time further on there came a letter

from a friend of mine in Leipsic which mentioned Arthur Sterling, spoke

of him as a young man very popular in society--you know Arthur is most

fascinating--and said that he was very attentive to a young American

girl there, a beautiful blond: they were seen everywhere together, and

report said he was to marry her.

"'It is a lie!' I said to myself: 'he promised to come back to me.' And

then I said again, 'Why should I be angry? why should I believe him? I

hardly knew him, and most men are false.' I was such a silly girl, I

thought. Then father was always speaking of the baron: I could see that

he was sorry I had not accepted him at once. And Aunt Jane, she had to

talk to me about it, and say that she couldn't last long, and that

father was getting old, and that I ought to think about getting married,

and--Well, you know how women talk to each other about marrying.

Considering that Aunt Jane had never thought of marrying herself, it

oughtn't to have had much weight with me, but it did.

"The year wore on. Of course I thought a great deal about Arthur, but I

thought a good deal about the baron too. The little bird was no longer

lonesome; and as she and her mate had built themselves a nest, and had

domestic duties to perform in rearing a brood of young ones, they were

too much wrapped up in their own affairs to be very companionable. But

when autumn came again, and the leaves were falling and the cold winds

blew out of the north, that foolish little mate flew off to the south,

and the little forsaken thing came back into the conservatory and wanted

to be comforted. And we did comfort her as best we could. All the winter

through she was in and out from the conservatory to the dining-room,

becoming very friendly and answering to her name instantly: papa had

named her Niobe.

"In due course of time the early spring came round again, and one April

morning there came a letter from the baron. He asked me for my answer:

should he come and take me with him to his German home? I showed the

letter to papa, and all he said was, 'My daughter, he would make you an

excellent husband--such a one as your poor mother would wish for you

were she alive. I hope you'll consider the matter well before you say

No.'

"I thought it all over. Why not? Yes, I would write to the baron and say

Yes. Arthur was away; he'd never come back; he was in love with that

pretty blond. Was it likely I was going to ruin my life for him? I had

too much sense for that. I would just go and throw his old glove into

the fire and all thoughts of him to the winds. So I went for the glove,

and kissed it--foolish thing!--and put it back in my treasure-box, and

went on thinking of Arthur more than ever. Then I remonstrated with

myself for my foolishness, and took my writing-desk in my lap and sat

down in the conservatory to write to the baron. I began my letter 'My

dear Arthur,' and then had to begin again, and started fairly with 'My

dear baron.' Then I tried to frame a proper sentence to start with, but

that desolate little bird came flying to my shoulder, and chirped so

sadly and so persistently that it put me all out.

"'Oh, you poor foolish little thing!' I said: 'anybody would think there

were no other birds in the world but your faithless mate.'

"The bird fluttered and chirped and talked with a purring song, which I

fancied to say, 'Oh, my poor heart! poor heart! poor broken heart!

Alas!' and it was such a strong impression that I put my hand to my own

heart and held on there, while I laid my head on one side till it

touched the feathers of the bird on my shoulder; and so we sat silently

musing.

"What do you think roused us? There was a quick fluttering in the bird's

breast. She flew away from my shoulder: she flew to the top of the

highest azalea, and she sung--oh, how she sung! Joy, victory over doubt,

faith crowned, glimpses of heaven in the spring sunlight,--they were all

in that song. I knew in a minute what had come. I threw open the sash,

and out of the sunshine, borne in with the odors of the new grass and

budding trees, came a little brown bird, tired as from a long journey,

but with a song of greeting that overtopped even the song of welcome

that awaited him.

"I watched them a moment, as if in a spell, and then I tore up my letter

to the baron and tossed it among the flowers; and the tears came in my

eyes, and I said aloud, 'Oh, Arthur, I do love you--I know I do! If you

don't come back I shall die.'

"'Then, dear, you shall not die, for I am here;' and the foolish

boy--for it was Arthur come back and stolen upon me to surprise me--put

his dear strong arms about me, and I was ready to faint, and cried a

little on his shoulder, and he kissed me, and we went in to papa and

talked it all over; and he told me about his finishing his studies and

hurrying home, and all about the blond, a cousin of his who was out in

Leipsic with her mother studying music, and they'd made a home for him,

and said I should know them and they should know me; and it was all

lovely. And the result of it all is, here we are, and we love birds, and

we love each other. And do you wonder at it? And here's Arthur, coming

back from his letters. And, and--Come and kiss me, Arthur."

And so the little lady finished with a kiss, as she had begun, and the

parrot moved uneasily on his perch at being disturbed with conversation

at so late an hour, and the Java sparrows twittered a little; and I rose

to go, only asking, "And the baron?"

"Oh! he's married since--such a lovely wife!--and I dare say is as

grateful to the bird as Arthur and I. You see, he was only

infatuated--Arthur and I were in love."

"Good-night," from me.

"Good-night, good-night," from them; and I heard another kiss as I went

down the walk.

WM. M.F. ROUND.

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

A golden pallor of voluptuous light

Filled the warm Southern night:

The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene

Moved like a stately queen.

So rife with conscious beauty all the while,

What could she do but smile

At her own perfect loveliness below,

Glassed in the tranquil flow

Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams?

Half lost in waking dreams,

As down the loneliest forest-dell I strayed,

Lo! from a neighboring glade,

Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came

A fairy shape of flame.

It rose in dazzling spirals overhead,

Whence, to wild sweetness wed,

Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill on trill:

The very leaves grew still

On the charmed trees to hearken; while for me,

Heart-thrilled to ecstasy,

I followed--followed the bright shape that flew,

Still circling up the blue,

Till as a fountain that has reached its height

Falls back, in sprays of light

Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay

Divinely melts away

Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist,

Soon by the fitful breeze

How gently kissed

Into remote and tender silences.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

POPULAR MARRIAGE CUSTOMS OF SICILY.

The customs of the Sicilian people in regard to the celebration of

marriages are so numerous and so strange that were I to attempt to

describe them all I should furnish not only the material for a volume,

but also for a series of quaint pictures. I shall not pretend to collect

the most of them, but only present a few which will awaken, I trust,

some interest in those who study popular traditions and the comparative

history of customs and usages.

Let us begin by supposing two young people in love with each other. The

parents of the young girl are aware of the fact, but have shut their

eyes because the match is a good and fitting one. When, on taking her

daughter to mass, the mother has noticed her blush on meeting the young

man more than once, she has pretended not to notice it. At night she has

heard some love-song at the door, and seen that her daughter was the

first to awaken at it, but has remained oblivious of this also. She

knows all, and pretends to know nothing--sees her daughter careful about

her dress, often hears mentioned a name dear to her, mentions it herself

with praise, and contributes without seeming to do so to increase that

love which sooner or later becomes a subject of conversation to

neighbors, to friends, to all. The matter is known, and it is time for

the parents of the young man to go or send to the parents of the young

girl to ask her hand.

Here begins the business of the future marriage. The young man's mother

visits the girl's mother, and gives her to understand that they wish to

make the match, and therefore would like to know whether their proposal

is agreeable and what dower the girl will have. The other mother, after

the usual compliments have been exchanged, either gives at once, or

promises to give, a memorandum of all that she is able to bestow on her

daughter as dower.

This is the most usual way of arranging a marriage, but the manner

formerly varied, and still varies, in places. In Noto, in the province

of Syracuse, fifty years ago the mother of the young man put under her

Greek mantle the reed of a loora, and going to the house of a young girl

asked her mother if she had a reed like that. If the match was

acceptable, the reed was found at once: if not, there was no reed, or

they could not find it, or they would look for it.[14] In the county of

Modica the mother selected the future daughter-in-law by trial. She went

to one of the young girls of the neighborhood, and if she found her busy

the matter was settled: if idle, she went home again, repeating three

times the word _abrenuntio_, Sicilianized as well as possible.[15]

The memorandum above mentioned, written, according to traditional usage,

by some one for this particular occasion, is sent wrapped up in a silk

handkerchief which belongs by right to the young man. As soon as the

memorandum is sent and accepted the announcement of the engagement or

the betrothal takes place. On this occasion the relatives of the parties

are present, and at the proper moment one of the parents of the young

girl announces in a solemn tone the future marriage, and makes known the

time (generally it is a matter of years) which will elapse before it is

celebrated. Everything is religiously accepted by the guests and the

interested parties, and after congratulations have been offered a

banquet or supper (technically termed _trattamento_, "entertainment")

takes place, in which a sort of fried pastry called _sfincuini_ plays an

important part, accompanied by filberts, almonds and chestnuts. The

whole is washed down by copious draughts of wine.

The manner in which the betrothal is celebrated is sometimes very

curious. At Salaparuta, in the province of Trapani, the girl takes her

place in the centre of the room: her future mother-in-law then enters

and parts her hair, places a ring on her finger, gives her a

handkerchief and kisses her. At Assaro, in the province of Catania, the

young man presents his betrothed with a red ribbon, which she braids

into her hair as a sign of her betrothal, and does not leave off until

the wedding. This custom is observed in many places in Sicily, and is

called the _'nzingata_ (from _'nzinga_, "sign"). In the county of Modica

the girl is veiled in a broad white veil, tied under the chin with a

purple ribbon. This custom of the ribbon (also called '_ntrizzaturi_,

"head-dress") often takes the place of the formal proposal and

announcement of the betrothal. In a popular song a young man in making

love to a girl offers her a red ribbon, which is the same as offering

her his hand.[16] As soon as the betrothal has taken place, the _fiancé_

must think at once about a present for his _fiancée_. This varies, of

course, according to the ability and taste of the giver. Formerly it was

a tortoise-shell comb, a silver needlecase, a silk handkerchief,

ear-rings, finger-rings, gloves, etc. Now-a-days nothing is left but

rings and a certain silver arrangement to support the hair, and called,

like the ribbon above mentioned, _'ntrizzaturi_. In Milazzo and its

territory the fiancé makes a present of a small gold cross for the neck,

an engagement-ring and a dish of fish.

The fiancée returns the gift, usually with under-clothing,

handkerchiefs, etc. During the betrothal, while the lovers are enjoying

their love, the fiancé does not let the principal festivals of the year

pass without expressing his affection by suitable presents--at Easter, a

piece of pastry containing an egg, or a little wax lamb; on the feast of

St. Peter, keys made of pastry, with honey or confectionery or cinnamon,

according to the ability of the giver. On All Souls' Day he gives candy,

fruit, etc.; on St. Martin's, a kind of biscuit named after the saint;

at Christmas, cakes and pastry containing dried fruit; and finally, for

his fiancée's birthday, something still finer.

We have now reached the eve of the wedding, and the time has arrived for

the valuation of the bride's trousseau--a ceremony known by different

names in different parts of Sicily, but usually termed _stima_. Let us

enter for a moment the house of the bride. Everything is in a pleasant

state of confusion. Friends and relatives of the betrothed have been

invited to the ceremony, and take part in it with an air of satisfied

curiosity. Upon the large bed of the bride's mother is displayed the

trousseau, sorted according to the various articles composing it, while

from lines stretched across the room hang the dresses and suits of

clothes. Near by are tables, chairs and chests of drawers. A woman

called the _stimatura_ ("appraiser") examines each article of the outfit

and appraises its value, announcing the approximate price, sometimes

publicly, sometimes secretly to the accountant. The appraisal is final,

and generally in favor of the fiancée, for the value of the trousseau

goes to increase the dower. Not infrequently the mother of the fiancé

complains of the exaggerations of the _stimatura_, and disagreeable

recriminations follow. Finally, the parents of the bride bestow on her a

certain number of "ounces,"[17] which the _stimatura_ announces in a

solemn tone. If the parents have anything else to give their daughter in

the way of money or silver, they announce it with the utmost gravity,

while the fiancé, for his part, declares that he will give his wife

after his death the sum of twenty or thirty ounces as a gift. This

present is known at Salaparuta by the name of _buon amore_, at Palermo

as _verginista'_--true _pretium sanguinis_ which the giver does not

possess, and which the wife will never receive. At this valuation, in

some parts of the island, each one of the relatives offers to the

parties gifts of jewelry and clothing, which are requited by similar

gifts from the bride and groom.

The civil marriage precedes the religious, which, however, is more

important to the people than the former: hence the evening after the

civil marriage the groom goes about his business as though he were not

yet married. The religious marriage, on the contrary, is a festal

occasion. The hour differs according to habits and family tastes. In

Salaparuta the marriage takes place before night--in Ficarazzi, before

daybreak, a favorite time for those contracting a second marriage. In

Palermo the wedding formerly took place late in the evening or in the

night, whence there was a necessity for attendants with lighted torches.

If the Sicilian Jews preferred to go in the dark to their synagogues,

and considered themselves favored by King Peter when in 1338 he allowed

them to go to their weddings with a single lantern, the Christians were

not satisfied with four or six lights, but wanted twenty or more--an

actual procession. Frederick II. in 1292 limited the number of lights to

twelve only, six for each party. Now, at Palermo, the wedding takes

place at any hour of the day or night, and only the poorest walk to the

church: the others ride in carriages paid for by those using them at so

much apiece. In the first carriage are the bride and her mother and

intimate friends--in the second, the other women in the order of

relationship. The groom occupies the first place in the carriages

assigned to the men: then come his father, brothers and others. The

bride is dressed in various ways, and her dress is called _l'abitu di lu

'nguaggiu_ ("wedding-dress"). In Salaparuta she wears the Greek peplum,

gathered under the arms; in Terrasini, a dress of blue or some other

bright color; in Milazzo, a blue silk skirt with wide sleeves; in

Palermo, a white dress, the _tunica alba_ of the Romans, with a veil

kept on the head by a wreath of orange-flowers. In Assaro (province of

Catania) by an old baronial custom the wedding-ring is presented by a

young man of noble family. Speaking of the wedding-ring, it may be noted

that formerly it was carefully preserved on a table for many purposes,

as at Valledolino the whole dress is kept to be used some day as a

shroud.[18]

There are some parts of the country where the entrance to the church is

also a ceremony. An old tradition of Palermo, grafted on a popular tale,

informs us that in certain districts esteemed somewhat rude by the

inhabitants of the old capital the bride entered the church on

horseback, erect and proud.[19] In Salaparuta she enters by the lesser

door of the cathedral and departs by the principal one, afterward

passing beneath the belfry. In Palermo the newly-wedded pair on leaving

the church enter the same carriage, and followed by relatives and

friends take a drive about the city. It is on this occasion that they

throw to their neighbors confectionery, which they are also accustomed

to present personally. This custom is a Roman one, in spite of the fact

that candy has taken the place of the nuts which the bridegroom bestowed

on the children after the wedding. Outside of Palermo and other large

cities the confectionery is replaced by roasted chickpeas, alone or

mixed with beans, almonds, filberts, etc. On the other hand, relatives

and friends as the bride and groom go by throw after them not only

confectionery, but dried or roasted fruits, wheat and barley; which they

call a sign of abundance. In Milazzo the simple ceremony is turned into

a spectacle: when the pair come out of the church they are suddenly

received by a perfect hail of confectionery thrown by their nearest

relatives, from which they strive to escape by quickening their pace or

running away.[20] In Syracuse salt and spelt are thrown as a symbol of

wisdom, which recalls the _confarreatio_ of the Romans; in Assaro, salt

and wheat; nuts and wheat in Modicano; in Terrasini, nuts, chestnuts,

beans and sweetmeats of honey and flour; in Camporeale, wheat alone. In

Avola (province of Syracuse) one of the bride's most intimate lady

friends, upon the arrival of the pair, presents the bride with an

apronful of orange-leaves, and tossing them in her face exclaims,

congratulating her, "Contentment and sons!" and scatters orange-leaves

also over the sill where the bride must pass. Sometimes she breaks at

her feet two eggs--a truly Oriental symbol of fruitfulness. In the

county of Modica wine is sprinkled before the door and the bottle

broken: when the married pair have entered, the husband is offered a

spoonful of honey, of which he takes half and gives the rest to his

wife. There gifts of sweetmeats, dried fruits, etc. are given to the

guests.[21] In Avola a spoonful of honeyed almonds is presented to each

of the lady-guests--in Marineo (province of Palermo) and in Prizzi clear

honey and a sip or two of water.

The house of the wedded pair is ornamented with flowers, as we learn

from the popular Sicilian song: "Flowers of roses: the bride when she

returns from the church finds the house adorned with flowers." The

marriage _pro verbo de præsenti in faciem ecclesiæ_ is termed

_'nguaggiàrisi_ (and hence the dress above mentioned, _l'abitu di lu

'nguaggiu_), but the contracting parties are not yet man and wife; and

to become so it is necessary to undergo another religious ceremony,

which consists in hearing mass and kneeling before the altar holding a

lighted wax candle while the priest bestows on them the benediction _pro

sponso et sponsa_. The old legal grants (_concessi_) to young girls who

married could not, nor can they now, be claimed without this ceremony;

and the bride does not enter into possession of the legacy which she has

acquired until she shows to the proper person the certificate of her

parish priest that she has been married and espoused (_'nguaggiatu e

sposatu_). The latter ceremony may take place within a year after the

marriage. Widows, according to the Roman ritual approved by Pope Paul V.,

were not formerly, nor are they now, ever _espoused_: nevertheless,

in the seventeenth century there were many examples[22] of widows

blessed a second time in the parish church of St. Hippolytus in Palermo.

We are face to face with a newly-married couple in the midst of people

who have a good breeding of their own; and we, who measure our words and

are ashamed to eat our soup with a wooden spoon, must enter their

cottage and take part in the poor but sincere, joyful and cordial

festival of the evening. Let us betake ourselves for a short time to

Trapani, and look in on one of those modest houses during a

wedding-night.

When the bride and groom return from the church they find at the house

of the former a drink prepared from the milk of almonds and some small

cakes. While at table the groom leaves his wife a moment to go to his

father's house, and returns when the meal is half finished. He remains

with her until midnight, when he takes her to his mother's, where there

is a new celebration, similar to the one that has already taken place at

the bride's mother's. The hour at which the groom goes for the bride is

so scrupulously observed that any delay would be a grave cause of

complaint, and perhaps of quarrels. The first day of the celebration is

called the "festival of the bride" (_fistinu di la zita_), and the

guests are all selected by the bride's mother. The second day is called

the "festival of the groom" (_fistinu di lu zitu_), and the guests are

all the friends of the groom. This ceremonial is, however, not so fine

as that called "of the bride," _di lu macadàru_. The bride, elegantly

dressed, is seated beneath a mirror to receive the congratulations of

her friends. At her right and left are placed seats for relatives and

friends, arranged according to certain traditional laws which no one

ever thinks of violating. The right side is reserved for the relatives

of the groom; and if any one is prevented by ill-health from attending

the festival, the seat belonging to him is either left vacant, or some

friend is sent to occupy it, or a pomegranate is placed in it, or it is

turned upside down. We may note, in passing, that the women alone are

allowed to be seated in the circle: the men, of every age and rank,

remain standing. This custom, and especially the position assumed by

the bride at that time, has given rise to the proverbial expression of

comparison: _Pari la zita di lu macadàru_, which is said of a woman in

gala-dress.[23]

Let us now pass to other parts of the island and share the

nuptial-banquet. Everywhere great quantities of macaroni or of fried

fish are prepared, and the guests eat and drink to repletion. Even the

most miserly are liberal on this occasion, and a proverb advises one to

attend the weddings of the avaricious: _A li nozzi di l'avaru

trovaticci_. The bride and groom, as can be easily imagined, have their

heads full of other things than macaroni and fried fish. At Borghetto

baked beans and pease are served not only to the bridal-party, but also

to the others, to whom, during the banquet, it is the custom to send a

dish of _maccarruna di zitu_--a dish in use also in Modica until within

fifty years. In Assaro there are the accustomed sweetmeats, the cakes of

honey and flour, and roast pease and almonds. At the banquet, where

usually these things are not lacking, they begin with macaroni, which in

Milazzo is poured out on a napkin, with cheese grated over it. Then

follow sausages or roast meat. At the nuptial-banquet of the peasants of

Modica a dish is placed on the table intended to receive the gifts of

the guests for the bride: one gives money, another gold; one a ring,

another a dollar; nor do those who come last wish to be outdone by the

first. At the end of the banquet come the toasts, more or less lively

and witty.