carefully singled out, he takes the instrument
from his breast with a villanous wink, and
begins to play upon it. His advent is
followed by laughter and scuffling from within.
Presently a bouncing lass escapes, flustered
and blushing, from her tormentors, and
appears at the door; she orders the fiddler,
with an air of burlesque command, to desist.
This of course makes the dog play faster, and
at last he capers and sings till the poor girl
suffers a merry martyrdom, and throws him
quite a shower of coppers to go away.

The good-humour of everybody is delightful.
A young woman is dealing out spoonsful
of a dirty stew of fish and garlic. I stop,
and she beckons me near, holding the mess
up for inspection with a frank simplicity,
and enters at once into confidential discourse,
with a cheerful voice quite exhilarating. A
two-wheeled bullock-cart passes by us; in
it are a sad lean man, and a fat good liver.
They look like tragedy and comedy. They
are seated on the edge of a bulky cask of the
rough wine of Milazzo, which the Sicilians
love. A group of roystering urchins hang
swinging on behind, and near them walks
a woman with a saddle on her head.

Let us saunter on, past yonder little shops,
which seem built for a population of dwarfs.
They are filled with water-coloured daubings
of saints and virgins, framed and glazed, to be
sold to the peasantry on market-days. Let us
peep into the tall private houses, with their
massive stone walls, which keep out the fierce
heats of summer; their dark passages leading
nowhere, and iron railings on the landings of
their solid staircases. Then let us make our
bow to the beauty of the Café Nuovo, the
toast of Messina, and go our ways. We
shall soon find a crazy old boat to take us
back to the Thabor. That boat is manned
by two of the handsomest and laziest sailors
I have ever seen; one spreads his
handkerchief on the decayed and broken seat, and
sitting down quietly, watches his companion,
who, by a series of short slow back-strokes,
ladles rather than rows us along. The sea is
like a mirror, though we are in January.
Waifs and strays of golden orange-peel bob
and float upon it. We can see the corpulent
little fish make their toilettes, and whisk
about wooing or foraging in its limpid depths.
A white round fort, with sky-blue guards
and a red sentry-box peeping over the top-
most tower, stands at a little distance. We
hear some French officers laughing at it as
we glide imperceptibly to the steamer's
side. There the easy-going boatmen wish us
a good voyage for three francs, and spoon
themselves leisurely back to shore again, a
love-song springing naturally to their lips.

I could not help thinking, as I stepped on
board, and my mind reverted to the subject,
what a precious and bountiful gift is the
habit of observation. Who, that have cared
to cultivate it, cannot remember with overflowing
gratitude the days of unavailing sorrow
it has spared them, the painful memories
it has banished, the grief it has restrained?
How it has brightened away the gloom of
solitude, filling it with fairy visions! How
independent it has made them of narrow
fortunes, petty injustice, ungenerous persecution,
hope deferred, the desertion of friends,
and the sneer of fools! How soothingly it
has whispered to them the noble lesson of
endurance; hushed unworthy murmurs, by
instilling compassion for the ills of others;
and taught them at length to smile upon
sorrow, sent only to break the chain that
keeps us from Heaven! How it has chastened
desire, and inspired content with little, by
showing that they who have much are not
therefore happier, but have ever some spectre
at their feast; and that to raise our condition
is only to change, not to diminish, our common
burthen! How it teaches self-reliance
to expect no help from others, and yet begets
charity for errors and imperfections, which
are perceived, in time, to be inseparable from
humanity!

Then the world is so various and so
beautiful in its shifting hues. Life has for an
observer such a quick succession of interest
and amusing adventure, that it is almost
inconceivable he should ever feel dull or
weary of it. No one day resembles another.
Every hour, every minute, opens new stores
to our experience and new excitements to
our curiosity. We are always on the eve
and on the morrow of some novel and
surprising event. Like the moth, we are for
ever flying towards a star—but with this
difference, that we attain it: and if
sometimes we find that the halo we fancied a
glory is but some deceiving mist, at least we
have learned a lesson. If we look upon life
merely as humble students, we shall not feel
any great bitterness at such disappointments.
It is only when we hug our ignorance to our
hearts that we are, and deserve to be,
miserable—when we embrace the cloud, that we
lose the goddess. But if we open the eyes of
the mind, and determine to be neither
wantonly stupid nor inattentive, an enchanted
world begins to rise from chaos. The aspect
even of the room in which we sit grows
lively with a thousand unsuspected curiosities.
We discern that the most ordinary person is
invested with some noticeable characteristic.
If we deign to look but for five pleasant
minutes at any commonplace thing, we
become aware of its peculiar beauty: and there
is not a bird that wings through the air, nor
a flower that blossoms in the garden; not an
insect that crawls in the depths of the earth;
nor a fish that swims the water, but has its
own singular and delightful story.