The plan of this beautiful city is very simple, being a tolerably accurate square, surrounded by walls, of which the northern face skirts the sea, and the southern faces the head of the lovely valley in which the city stands,—­the Golden Shell.  Two perfectly straight streets, intersecting in a small, but highly ornamented piazza, traverse the city.  The Toledo, or Via Cassaro,—­for it bears both these designations,—­runs from the sea to the Monreale gate, close to which is the Royal Palace, and the Cathedral square opens from this street.  The Via Macqueda contains few buildings of interest except the University.  Between the wall and the sea runs the magnificent Marina, a more beautiful promenade than even the Villa Reale of Naples, having on the right the low but picturesque headland of Bagaria, while on the left rise the all but perpendicular rocks of Monte Pellegrino, once the impregnable mountain-throne of Hamilcar Barcas, and later the spot where in a rude cavern, now sheeted with marble and jasper, “from all the youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God.”  The handicraftsmen of Palermo still occupy almost exclusively the streets named after their trades,—­an indication of immobility rarely to be met with nowadays, though Rome displays it in a minor degree.

We first visited the University Museum.  Numerous pictures, far beyond the ordinary degree of badness, occupy the upper rooms, where the only object of interest is a very fine and well-preserved bronze of Hercules and the Pompeian Fawn, half life-size.  But far beyond all else in artistic importance are the metopes from Selinuntium, which, though much damaged, show marks of high excellence.  They are of clearly different dates, though all very archaic.  The oldest represent Perseus cutting off the Gorgon’s head, and Hercules killing two thieves.  Perseus has the calm, sleepy look of a Hindoo god,—­while Gorgon’s head, with goggle eyes and protruding tongue, resembles a Mexican idol.  Hercules and the thieves have more of an Egyptian character.  The material of these bas-reliefs is coarse limestone; and in the metopes on the opposite wall, which are clearly of later date, recourse has been had to a curious method of obtaining delicacy in the female forms:  the faces, hands, and feet, which alone are visible from among the drapery, are formed of fine marble.  An Actaeon torn by his dogs is much corroded by sea air, but displays great nobleness of attitude.  The vigor in the left arm, which has throttled one of the dogs, can hardly be surpassed.  A portion of the cella, of one of the temples has been removed hither, and its brilliant polychromy is sufficient to decide the argument as to the existence of the practice, if, indeed, that point be yet in doubt.  But it seems that the non-colorists have relinquished the parallel of architecture, which, be it observed, they formerly defended obstinately, and have now intrenched themselves in the citadel of sculpture, intending to hold it against all evidence.  The only other object of much interest was a Pompeian fresco, representing two actors, whose attitudes and masks are so strikingly adapted to express the first scene of the “Heautontimorumenos,” between Menalcas and Chremes, that it seems scarcely doubtful that this is actually the subject of the painting.