of heroism, sacrifice, and learning, but their deeds and virtues may sleep unwaked by me.  The kings and queens who took refuge here, and fled again, Messenian foray and Chiaramontane faction, shall go unrecorded.  I must not, however, in the long roll of the famous figures of our beach forget that our English Richard the Lion-hearted was entertained here by Tancred in crusading days; and of notable sieges let me name at least that which the city suffered for its loyalty to the brave and generous Manfred when the Messenians surprised and wasted it, and that which with less destruction the enemies of the second Frederick inflicted on it, and that of the French under Charles II, who, contrary to his word, gave up the surrendered city to the soldiery for eight whole days—­a terrible sack, of which Monsignore has heard old men tell.  What part the citizens took in the Sicilian Vespers, and how the Parliament that vainly sought a king for all Sicily was held here, and in later times the marches of the Germans, Spaniards, and English—­these were too long a tale.  With one more signal memory I close this world-history, as it began, with a noble name.  It was from our beach yonder that Garibaldi set out for Italy in the campaign of Aspromonte; hither he was brought back, wounded, to the friendly people, still faithful to that love of liberty which flowed in the old Taorminian blood.

I shut my books; but to my eyes the rock is scriptured now.  What a leaf it is from the world-history of man upon the planet!  Every race has splashed it with blood; every faith has cried from it to heaven.  It is only a hill-station in the realm of empire; but in the records of such a city, lying somewhat aside and out of common vision, the course of human fate may be more simply impressive than in the story of world-cities.  Athens, Rome, Constantinople, London, Paris, are great centres of history; but in them the mind is confused by the multiplicity and awed by the majesty of events.  Here on this bare rock there is no thronging of illustrious names, and little of that glory that conceals imperial crime, the massacre of armies, and the people’s woe.  Again I use the figure:  it is like a rock of the sea, set here in the midst of the Mediterranean world, washed by all the tides of history, beat on by every pitiless storm of the passion of man for blood.  The torch of Greece, the light of the Cross, the streaming portent of the Crescent, have shone from it, each in its time; all governments, from Greek democracy to Bourbon tyranny, have ruled it in turn; Roman law and feudal custom had it in charge, each a long age:  yet civilization in all its historic forms has never here done more, seemingly, than alleviate at moments the hard human lot.  And what has been the end?  Go down into the streets; go out into the villages; go into the country-side.  The men will hardly look up from their burdens, the women will seldom stop to ask alms, but you will see a degradation of the