nged to one of the most ancient
Eastern orders of the Masonic craft--a gratifying proof to me of the
wonderful ramifications of this powerful charitable fraternity. The
Church of Martorana is in a semi-Gothic and Saracenic style of
architecture, and was built by one of King Roger's admirals in
1113-1139; it has some very beautiful mosaics. Some of the palaces of
the nobility are open to visitors, and contain much of an interesting
description.

Within an easy walk, towards the Monreale road, are the catacombs of the
Capuchin monastery, which is situated a little off from the high-road,
and looks an unpretentious kind of building. A monk guided me through
the clean, well-lighted subterranean passages, and it was not without
some feeling of dread that I saw on each side of me tiers of the
decaying skeletons of monks, suspended against the walls, and looking
down upon me with their poor hideous mouldering visages. I almost feared
the ropes round these skeleton bodies would give way, and that the bones
would come tumbling down upon me. The Capuchin, with a somewhat humorous
smile on his worn, kindly face, reassured me, and said that when at last
they fell to pieces, the remains were carefully collected and
religiously locked away within an iron door in one of the walls. There
were several lively cats jumping about from coffin to coffin, and these
were looked upon with a most compassionate and friendly air by my good
monk, as assisting him to preserve the bones of his comrades from moth
and mouse--whether the old Sicilian superstition with regard to the
sacredness of the feline species had also anything to do with it, I
cannot say. There is a saddening sort of feeling in entering these homes
of the dead--

"To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral state;
Pitying each form that hungry Death had marr'd,
And filling it once more with human soul."

After going through some hundred yards of this vast tomb, I felt glad to
return to the sunlight and pure air of the living world.

On the road to Monreale there is an interesting botanical garden, where
I saw some very fine specimens of plants entirely new to me--camphor,
coffee, castor oil, and others. There are many beautiful gardens in
Palermo, besides the delightful public one known as the "Flora," which
afforded such a charming and refreshing outlook from the Hotel de
France, where I was staying.

The great cross-roads afford one of the principal drives of th