MOST of the passenger steamers come into Palermo shortly after dawn, and in the pleasant, vernal weather of late winter, or in the real spring, the great bay is a waveless sheet of gilded beryl, dotted here and there with small boats so still they seem sculptured, in strong relief against the purple outlines of the cliffs at either horn of the bay. On the right, Monte Pellegrino looms square and massive; on the other horn’s tip Monte Zaffarano peers through the vapors, and the bay between their rugged shoulders is pent off from the sea by the slender arms of moles springing outward from the shore. Inside these breakwaters, solemn, black trans-Atlantic liners await their passengers, and flocks of rakish small boats, with queer, high, projecting cutwaters and painted in every dazzling, garish color that fancy can suggest, hop about like so many water-beetles. Prosaic fishing smacks full of rich, soft colors and melting lines idle along to lazily lifted sweeps, or linger beside the mole. And rusty little “cargo-boats that ’aven’t any ’ome” contrast sharply with the trim white Florio-Rubattino liners.

Early as the hour is, half of male Palermo seems to come to the dock to shout a cheery welcome as the boat comes in. Throngs of hotel runners and porters crowd the wharves, all clamoring for recognition, each trying to drown out his neighbor’s voice; their queer, staccato cries, combative and challenging, sound as if projected from a huge phonograph to float loosely upon the jangling air. Yet for all this eagerness it is hard to find a man not too busy shouting to attend to the baggage. When one is secured, however, he vanishes like a gnome, to return a few moments later with the pleasing intelligence that he has smuggled your trunk through the customs guards, and is ready to perform prodigies with your handbags.

Palermo’s modern commercial port is distinct from the ancient harbor of La Cala, now devoted almost exclusively to small fishing craft and rowboats because of its shallowness. Between the two basins projects a blunted little promontory, the reminder of that ancient tongue of land which divided the bay of Panormos of old. On that projecting finger of ground the Phoenicians built their mighty city, which looked straight out toward the rising sun. Yet no one knows what its ancient name was, nor what the citizens called themselves; we know it only by its Greek name of Panormos, All-Haven. And though the Phoenicians have passed completely from the entire earth, and the Greeks remain a great Nation, this city which the Phoenicians founded is still Sicily’s most beautiful and prosperous center, while the wonderful Greek metropoli of Akragas and Syracuse have dried up like mummies within the battered outlines of their once splendid shells.

Palermo has long and deservedly borne the name of La Felice, The Happy. It is a white city with houses of pearl and roofs of carnelian, shimmering with golden sunlight against the dark background of vine-clad hills on the horizon and the rich green of the most fertile plain in the island, that sweeps, a vast natural amphitheater, from the edge of the sea up to the seats of the white gods on the cloud-veiled crags. Splendidly set is the city in the warm lap of its Conca d’Oro, the Golden Shell that blooms with countless orange and lemon trees whose golden fruits flash amid the glossy green of the foliage and give the rolling plain its name. Pink and white almonds, citron, palms, ilex and pomegranate make it a great botanical garden, perfumed with the jasmine of Araby, the geranium, the pallid lily and the rose. The system of irrigation introduced centuries ago by the Saracens still obtains throughout this favored plain, increasing its productiveness twenty-fold. Fringing the city, splendid villas and great beautiful gardens bring a blush to the emerald cheek of the rolling environs. One feature of parks and gardens throughout Sicily that no American can fail to notice is the lack of prohibitory signs, such as “$1 $2” Royal, noble or ordinary, these grand floral and arboreal displays are open to the public practically all the time, yet no one is ever offended by dÉbris left by picknickers, by broken-off twigs or blossoms. The Sicilian knows that an infraction of the rights of the owners would result immediately in the closure of these parks and gardens, and he respects his privilege of entry.

Many who come to Palermo do so expecting to find a typical south-Italian seaport, indescribably filthy, and teeming with guides and beggars—as determined as their native fleas to make a living from the visitor. To all such the reality comes as thrice welcome. They find a city beautiful, teeming with life and color, brilliant and irresistible, its citizens well dressed, orderly and courteous, at least so far as the traveler sees them. They congest the narrow sidewalks in an easy-going, gossiping, arm-in-arm throng never in a hurry and never to be stirred to haste by the polite “Permesso, Signori!” of the foreigner. Rather when urged to speed do they stop short to stare in amazement at such a phenomenon as anyone pressed for time.

Handsome shops with alluring window displays line the principal thoroughfares, which run through the city in a huge cross. Clean, convenient trolley systems vein the capital’s face with crows’-feet in thin gray lines; enticingly black and narrow little vicoli thread devious ways among the houses, where the curious may wander unafraid, and unashamed of his curiosity and interest. And every alley, every byway and passage is spotlessly clean; while the gardens of the city, scattered with prodigal lavishness throughout even the business section, are beautiful beyond description. At first the senses refuse to take in anything more than a strange, exotic, gorgeous medley of light, color, sounds; an unfathomable jumble of men and animals, of quaint buildings and strange vehicles, of street cries weird but melodious, of the faintly scented brilliant atmosphere—of the half-revealed, half-guessed-at Soul of the City.

Perhaps the two main streets constitute the best monument the Spaniards have left behind them. They may not have cared for Sicily; but for themselves and their convenience and comfort they cared much. So the Spanish viceroy, Don Pedro de Toledo, ran a fine broad street straight from the smiling sea through the middle of the town, and called it for himself, the Toledo. It is now the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele—practically every city of any importance in Italy has testified in this same way to its love for the united country’s first king. Crossing this ancient Toledo is the other highway, the Via Maqueda, laid out by another viceroy, the Duque de Maqueda, a short time later. The curious square—it is an octagon, by the way—where these two streets intersect at right angles, is called by the whimsical Sicilians the Quattro Canti, or Four Corners. The faÇades of the abutting buildings are concave, and each affords lodgment for statues of a Season, a Spanish King and a female saint—who might be in a deal better company!

Our first morning on the Corso we were halted by a terrific outburst of sound from the very heart of the throng.

“What’s that?” I exclaimed, swinging my camera into position. “A fight; somebody being murdered?”

“The water-seller, whose bellow has musical quality and charm.”
“The water-seller, whose bellow has musical quality and charm.”

But La Signora was not minded to be left a widow in a strange land for the sake of a putative photograph, and halted me. The cry stopped: as we listened it began again. Angry and defiant, bellicose even, it rose clear and strong above the noise of the street, held a moment, faded in slow diminuendo into the beautifully clear note of a great and playful animal baying for sheer joy of his own strength. The sauntering crowds paid not the slightest attention to the amazing volcanic outburst of vocal fireworks; not one of the alluring shops beside us was emptied of its customers; the tiny Sardinian donkeys in the shafts of the gayly painted little carts did not even lift an ear, but pattered gravely onward; and we, moving with the crowd, looked sheepishly at one another when we reached the corner. Standing in an angle of two house walls was a little seller of sweetened water, holding his big red amphora by one ear, his gaudy little yellow-red-blue stand bright with clinking bottles and glasses. As we stopped, he stunned us again with his musical bellow, and knowing we would not buy his “Aaaaacquuuuaaaa! Aaaaacquaaaaaaaa d-o-l-c’!” struck a picturesque attitude and posed for us instead. He is there yet—or another water-man is, for it is a fine corner for business.

Along the Via Maqueda and its continuations, the Ruggiero VII and the Avvenida della LibertÀ, the fashionable corso, or afternoon driving promenade of all classes, takes place. The handsome street is an endless chain of moving vehicles of every description. Here a spanking team of blooded bays with silver-mounted harness draws the smart London trap of a young Florio; there a rickety old barouche, guiltless of varnish for many a long year, so crowded with a stout family party of six that its rheumatic springs creak, and the wind-broken old hack who pulls it feels his waning powers severely taxed. A splendid young Arab, full of blood and pride, pulling a new victoria, follows a ducal cart and precedes another overflow meeting, this time a stag party. Flashily dressed young gallants with cigarettes and straw hats À l’Anglais, loll back in decent traps and carts, making sheep’s eyes at the demure young girls who ride in maiden reserve beside their silent mothers.

Every Palermitan who can, rides in this social promenade. What matter if his vehicle be but a cheap hired victoria; what if he go to bed supperless; has he not had the supreme delight of playing milord in elegant leisure among the nobility and the rich forestieri (tourists) who take the air on the city’s stateliest avenue?

It not infrequently transpires that one carriage, one horse and one coachman are owned—and alternately used—by two or three families. The coachman in all probability not having been paid for a year or two, cannot afford to run away; the emaciated steed, not having had a really square feed of good sweet oats for an equally distressing period, could not run away if he would; and if both horse and driver should by fell conspiracy bolt, the faithful old carriage would quickly fall to pieces rather than have any part in the undoing of its worthy owners.

“There is nothing to equal the Sicilian cart, carved, yellow, panelled.”
“There is nothing to equal the Sicilian cart, carved, yellow, panelled.”

Those of the nobles too poor to own a carriage alone, and far too proud to appear in hired ones, are not too proud to adopt the tactics of their humbler brethren, and go shares in an outfit with other nobles of equal pretensions and as poor as themselves. Only one extravagance marks the common ownership of what might be called these “party rigs.” Each count or baron or prince naturally boasts “arms” as the insignia of his rank; and these symbols must of necessity embellish his carriage doors, that he who walks may know at a glance the name and fame of him who rides. From this dilemma the Sicilian has contrived an ingenious escape. Each noble has his own set of emblazoned doors. So when the tired horse brings his Highness the Prince back to his “palace,” presto! off come the princely doors, on go the ducal or baronial ones, and his Grace the Duke or the Baron rides serenely off in his own private equipage!

Of all the vehicles in the world, there is nothing, however, to equal the Sicilian cart, carved, yellow, paneled with lurid paintings that run the gamut of myth and history. One we saw had upon its panels scenes representing Columbus sailing from Palos and discovering America; a bloody fight around the citadel of Acre; the hermitage of Santa Rosalia; and on its tailboard a vivid presentation of the massacre of the Vespers. These carts are never very large, as carts go; but they are so marvelously wrought, they ought surely to come under the provisions of the law which forbids the exportation of any works of art. Wheels, shafts, axles, the edges of sides and posts and tailboards are all worked into neat geometrical designs, and on the axle is a carving built up clear to the bottom of the cart, a mass of intricate scroll-work and gingerbread, in the middle of which sits the patron saint of the fortunate owner.

“If you expect a cart-driver to tell you the truth, make him swear by the saint sitting upon his axle,” is almost a proverb in Palermo. Would there were saints on the cabs, too!

Often the horses’s decorations are equally fantastic, with a three-foot cock feather rising between his ears, an apoplectic purple bouquet of yarn upon the saddle, and plenty of shrill little bells at jingly intervals all over. These gorgeous outfits are used for ordinary delivery work, and after working hours the family put chairs in and go for a ride in state. The bit is as queer as the harness: it isn’t a bit at all, but a plate of spring-steel strapped loosely over the horse’s nose, an horizontal prong projecting on either side. Attached to the prongs, the reins give the driver complete control over his animal, since by pulling them he gently but effectively cuts off the beast’s breath. This makes runaways impossible, and besides, is much more humane than a bit of the usual sort.

The city’s street cleaning department is not such a joke as it appears. Looks are not its strong point—keeping the town immaculate is. The carts are simply scaly old specimens of these brilliant equipages; and the animals are tiny Sardinian donkeys, as pretty and gentle as any pet lamb, and scarcely bigger. One velvety little gray beauty we saw on the Via Maqueda was undoubtedly heartbroken at having such disagreeable work to do. We talked to him and petted him, but to all our caresses he made not the slightest response, merely hanging his head and suffering his fate silently, like the brave little beast that he was.

“The city’s street-cleaning department is not such a joke as it appears.”
“The city’s street-cleaning department is not such a joke as it appears.”

Perhaps it is the cleanliness of these streets that makes the people use them as drying-rooms. In Naples they wash in the streets, and hang the clothes from window to window in narrow alleys. But in Palermo the people go much farther—they cover the faÇades of their very finest houses with linen which flaps in plain sight even during the fashionable corso on the broad avenue.

On this same Via Maqueda are the two large theaters. The MÁssimo, or Largest Theater, is a splendid structure, well named, for it is the largest theater not only in Italy but in all Europe, a dignified adaptation of ancient Greek ideals to present day needs. A block farther on is the Politeama Garibaldi, with a Roman triumphal arch entrance, and a two-storied Greek colonnade encircling frescoed walls whose polychromatic decorations are so exceedingly Pompeiian they suggest that Palermo may be the birthplace of a new renaissance in Italian art.

The Sicilian of any class is always picturesque, always individual. He could scarcely be anything else if he tried, and the life of the masses in the city is like a show at the theater—a show, at that, in which even the supernumeraries are ever imbued with due regard for the proper setting and action of the piece. There is no more typical specimen of this condensed picturesqueness than the water-seller, whose bellow has musical quality and charm, as you discover after your first shock. He calls up Egypt and the streets of Cairo. Really, he is the survival of an ancient Arab custom. You find him everywhere, especially among the lanes of the Fiera di Pascua, the Easter Fair, a piece bitten right out of the heart of Coney Island. The Easter season, by the way, is an exceedingly fortunate time to spend in Sicily, because of the multitudinous festivities going on.

For the Fair, great bare sheds spring up overnight in the square beside the MÁssimo, mushroom-like—a sunstruck Babel of crazily built and decorated shops and stalls and booths where everything imaginable is to be bought, from tinware and toys to rosaries and vegetables. About the booths eddies a jovial mob, pushing, chattering, playing practical jokes on one another, eating candy and the dubious Sicilian equivalents for frankfurters and kraut. Bands blare out fitful, horrible music from the roofs or windows of small sheds curiously mounted with painted legends or astonishing pictures in which the lack of perspective is the most prominent feature, unless it is the artist’s entire disregard for the principles of anatomy. “Barkers” in plate armor manufactured out of ancient kerosene tins from which the odor has by no means departed, vie with ridiculous clowns and short skirted dancers in proclaiming the attractions of their rival marionette and “minstrel” shows. And everybody wants to pose. Indeed, the Sicilians have a good humored mania for getting in the way of the camera, even when they know they are not wanted there and will never see a single copy of the picture.

“‘Barkers’ in plate-armor ... in the Easter Fair, a piece bitten right out of Coney Island.”
“‘Barkers’ in plate-armor ... in the Easter Fair, a piece bitten right out of Coney Island.”

I leveled my camera at one queer stall, and instantly the people sprang together solidly, completely obscuring the booth, each man crying to his neighbor: “Aspett’! Aspett’! Il fotografo!” In vain I pleaded. In vain Gualterio shouted and threatened and argued. The merrymakers laughed, and nodded, and stood like statues. In the confusion an important policeman stepped up, saluted respectfully, and said: “Excellency will be kind enough to move out into the street again. He is attracting citizens, and blocking the entire square.”

Then he began unhurriedly turning over the human kaleidoscope.