A Love Story, by a Bushman, - [books for 8th graders txt] 📗
![](/uploads/posts/books/2/8/2/1/9/a-love-story-by-a-bushman.jpg)
- Author: -
- Performer: -
Book online «A Love Story, by a Bushman, - [books for 8th graders txt] 📗». Author -
when used by foreign lip.
On the Calabrian coast, the sea-port town of Reggio wore an unusual air
of bustle and animation.
It was a festa day there; and groups of peasants, in many-coloured
costumes, paced up and down the mole; emitting that joyous hum, which
is the never-failing concomitant of a happy crowd. Passing through
the Faro, the vessel’s course lay by the northern coast of Sicily.
The current and wind were alike favourable, as it swept on by Melazzo
and Lascari.
Etna, towering over the lesser mountains, became once more visible; its
summit buried in the clouds of heaven.
On the right, a luminous crimson ring revealed Stromboli, whose fitful
volcano was more than usually active.
The following day our party arrived at Palermo. So pleasurable had been
their voyage, that it was with a feeling akin to regret, that they heard
the rumbling chains of the anchor, rush through the hawse-hole, as
their vessel took her station in the bay.
After going through those wearisome forms, which a foreign sea-port
exacts; and which appear purposely intended, to temper the rapture of
the sea-worn voyager, as he congratulates himself on once more treading
terra firma; our party found themselves the inmates of the English
hotel; and spent the remainder of the day in engaging a cicerone, and in
discussing plans for the morrow.
The morrow came—sunny and cloudless—and the cicerone bowed to the
ground, as he opened the door of the commodious fiacre.
“Where shall I drive to, Sir?”
“What were our plans, George?” said Sir Henry.
“I think,” replied George, “that we only formed one plan to change it
for another. Let the cicerone decide for us.”
He, nothing loath, accepted the charge; and taking his station on the
box of the carriage, directed the driver.
The carriage first stopped before a large stone building. The bell was
rung—a veteran porter presented himself—and our party entered the
court yard.
“What place is this?” said Delmé.
“This,” rejoined his guide, with the true cicerone fluency, “is the
famous lunatic asylum, instituted by the illustrious Baron Pisani. This,
gentlemen, is the Baron!”
Here a benevolent-looking little man with a large nose, took off his
hat.
“So much approved of was his beneficent design, that our noble King, and
our paternal Government, have not only adopted it; but have graciously
permitted the Baron, to continue to preside over that institution, which
he so happily commenced, and which he so refulgently adorns.”
During this announcement, the Baron’s face flushed with a simple, but
honest pride.
These praises did not to him appear exaggerated; for his intentions had
been of the purest, and in this institution was his whole soul wrapt up.
Acmé became somewhat pale, as she heard where they were, and looked
nervously at George; who could not forbear smiling, as he begged they
would be under no apprehensions.
“Yes! gentlemen,” said the Baron, “circumstances in early life made me
regard mental disease as the most fearful of all. I observed its victims
struggling between reason and insanity; goaded on by the ignorance of
empirics, and the harsh treatment of those about them, until light fled
the tortured brain, and madness directed its every impulse. You,
gentlemen, are English travellers, I perceive! In your happy land,
where generosity and wealth go hand in hand, there are, I doubt not,
many humane institutions, where those, who—bowed down by misfortunes,
or preyed on by disease—have lost the power to take care of themselves,
may find a home, where they may be anxiously tended, and carefully
provided for.
“Here we knew not of such things.
“I have said, gentlemen, that chance made me feel a deep interest in
these unfortunates. I sunk the greater part of my fortune, in
constructing this mansion, trusting that the subscriptions of
individuals, would enable me to prosecute the good work.
“In this I was disappointed; but our worthy Viceroy, who took an interest
in my plans, laid the matter before the Government, which—as Signer
Guiseppe observes—has not only undertaken to support my asylum, but
also permits me to preside over the establishment. That, gentlemen, is
my apartment, with the mignionette boxes in front, and without iron bars
in the window; though indeed these very bars are painted, at my
suggestion, such a delicate green, that you might not have been aware
that they were such.
“This is our first chamber—cheerful and snug. Here are the patients
first brought. We indulge them in all their caprices, until we are
enabled to decide with certainty, on the fantasy the brain has conjured
up. From this room, we take them to the adjacent bedroom, where we
administer such remedies as we think the best fitted to restore reason.
“If these fail, we apportion the patient a cell, and consider the case as
beyond our immediate relief. We cure, on an average, two-thirds of the
cases forwarded to us; and there have been instances of the mind’s
recovering its tone, after a confinement of some years.”
“How many inmates have you in the asylum at present?” said Acmé.
“One hundred and thirty-six, eighty-six of whom are males. These are our
baths, to which they are daily taken; this the refectory; this the
parlatorio, where they see their friends; and now, if the lady is not
afraid, we will descend to the court yard, and see my charges.”
“There is no fear?” said George.
“Not in the least. Our punishment is so formidable, that few will incur
it by being refractory.”
“What! then you are obliged to punish them?” said Acmé, with a shudder.
“Sometimes, but not often. I will show you what our punishment consists
in. You see this room without furniture! Observe the walls and floor;
and even the door as it closes. All these are carefully stuffed; and if
you walk across the room, there is no sound.
“We cautiously search violent lunatics; who are then dressed in a plain
flannel suit, and left alone. It is seldom we have occasion to retain
them longer than twenty-four hours. They soon find they cannot injure
themselves; their most violent efforts cannot elicit a sound. Their
minds become calmed; and when released, they are perfectly quiet, and
generally inclined to melancholy.”
They descended to the court yard, set apart for the men. Its inmates
were pacing it hurriedly; some jabbering to themselves; others with
groups round them, to whom they addressed some quickly delivered jargon.
With one or two exceptions, all noticed the entrance of the strangers;
and some of them bowed to them, with mock gravity. One man, who wore an
old cocked hat with a shabby feather, tapped Sir Henry on the shoulder.
“Vous me reconnaissez—Napoleon! votre Empereur!”
He wheeled round, and called for his Mamelukes.
The next moment, a young and interesting looking person came forward,
the tears standing in his, eyes, and extended his hand to Acmé.
“Give me yours,” said he, “as a great favour. I was a painter once in
Naples—and I went to Rome—and I loved Gianetta Cantieri!”
A more ludicrous incident now occurred. At and since their entrance,
our party had heard what seemed the continued bark of a dog. A man on
all fours came forward from behind a group, and with unmeaning face,
and nostril snuffing up the wind, imitated to perfection the deep bay
of a mastiff.
“That man’s peculiarity,” observed the Baron, “is an extraordinary one.
He had a cottage near Catania, and had saved some little wealth. His
house was one night robbed of all it contained. This misfortune preyed
on the man’s reason, and he now conceives himself a watch dog. He knows
the step of every inmate of the asylum, and only barks at strangers.”
From the male court yard, the Baron ushered them to the female, where
insanity assumed a yet more melancholy shape.
A pale-faced maniac, with quivering frame, and glaring eye-balls,
continued to cry, in a low and piteous tone, “Murder! murder!!
murder!!!”
One woman, reclining on the cold pavement, dandled a straw, and called
it her sweet child; while another hugged a misshapen block of wood to
her bared breast, and deemed it her true love.
A third was on her knees, and at regular intervals, bent down her
shrivelled body, and devoured the gravel beneath her.
Acmé was happy to leave the scene, and move towards the garden; which
was extensive, and beautifully laid out.
As they turned down one of the alleys, they encountered five or six men,
drawn up in line, and armed with wooden muskets.
In front stood Napoleon, who, with stentorian voice, gave the word to
“present arms!” then dropping his stick, and taking off his hat to
Delmé, began to converse familiarly with him, as with his friend Emperor
Alexander, as to the efficiency of Poniatowski and his Polish lancers.
“Poor fellow!” said the Baron, as they moved on. “Never was insanity
more harmless! He was once brigade major to Murat. This is his hour for
exercise. Exactly at two, he goes through the scene of Fontainbleau,
What will appear to you extraordinary is, that over the five or six men
you saw around him, whose madness has been marked by few distinguishing
traits, he has gradually assumed a superiority, until they now believe
him to be, in reality, the Emperor he so unconsciously personates.”
In the garden, which was of considerable size, were placed a number of
swings and whirligigs, in full motion and occupancy.
On a stuccoed wall, were represented grotesque figures of animals
dancing; opposite to which, one of Terpsichore’s votaries, with a
paper cap on his head, shaped like a pyramid, was executing agile
capers, whose zeal of purpose would have found infinite favour in the
eyes of Laporte.
Having explored the garden, Delmé accompanied the Baron to a small room,
where the sculls of the deceased maniacs were ranged on shelves, with a
small biographical note attached to each; and heard with attention, the
old man’s energetic reasoning, as to these fully demonstrating the truth
of Spurzheim’s theory.
Acmé, meantime, remained on George’s arm, talking to a girl of
thirteen, who had been selected to conduct them to the carriage.
They entered their names in a book at the lodge, and then, turning to
the benevolent director, paid him some well deserved compliments, for
which he bowed low and often.
The young girl, who had been conversing most rationally with Acmé, moved
forward, and made a signal for the carriage to drive up.
She was a fair-haired gentle-looking creature, with quiet eye, and
silvery voice. She assisted Acmé to step into the carriage, who
dropped a piece of silver into her hand, for which she gave a sweet
smile and a curtsey.
She stood a moment motionless. Suddenly her eye lighted up—she darted
into the carriage, and clapped her hands together joyfully.
“Viva! viva! we shall soon be home at Trapani!”
The tears sprang to the eyes of the young Greek.
Even the driver and cicerone were moved.
Acmé took some flowers from her zone—kissed her cheek—and tried to
change the current of her thoughts; but it was not till the driver
promised he would call again, at the same hour the following day, that
she consented with a sigh to relinquish her journey home.
From the Lunatic Asylum, our party adjourned to the Duomo, and beheld
the coffin, where the revered body of the Palermitan Saint, attracts
many a devout Catholic.
Sweet Rosalia! thy story is a pretty one—thy festa beauteous—the
fireworks in thy honour most bright. No wonder the fair Sicilians
Comments (0)