The Hermit and the Thieves.
... Once, she said, there was a hermit, a poor sort of priest, who lived all alone, and had no society but his pig, with whom he used to eat at the same table as a sort of penance for his sins. Besides the pig he had a box of money, which he had collected in little sums given in charity till it amounted to a good large sum, and this he kept hidden away under his bed. Now it happened that there were two bad men, two robbers, who heard of this box, and desired very much to get possession of it. So they put their heads together to construct a plan to deceive the poor old hermit. At last they hit upon one, and it was this: Having first got a good strong rope and a large basket, they went one night to his house, and climbed upon the roof without his knowledge, and let down the basket until it hung before the sill of his window. Both of them then began to sing—
“Arise, arise, O hermit,
And come up in the basket, O;
The saints in glory ask it, O,
Waiting in Paradise!”
The poor hermit, hearing these words, thought that the angels had come from heaven to bring him his reward. So up he jumped and opened the window, and when he saw the basket his joy was very great at the expectation of going in it up to Paradise. So after crossing himself devoutly, in he jumped, murmuring—
“Lord, Lord! I am not so good
That I should get into a basket of wood.”[[35]]
Up the robbers then pulled him, until he was half-way to the roof, and then, fastening the rope round the chimney, down they ran, got into his room, plundered him of his money-box, and made off with themselves.
Meantime for a long space the hermit hung there, waiting and wondering why he had stopped, and praying with shut eyes; but at last he grew impatient, for he did not go up, and the voices had ceased, and he wriggled about so much that the rope broke, and down he came to the ground, not without some severe bruises. But what was his indignation upon dragging himself up to his room to find his money-box gone, and only the pig remaining! However, he put the best face on it, said “Pazienza!” and prayed still more earnestly. Now the same two robbers, after having got possession of the box, began to think that they had been very great fools not to have taken the pig too, which they could sell at a good price at the fair. So they determined to try the same trick again in order to get the pig. Up they got therefore on the roof, and let down the basket as before, singing the same song, “Arise, O hermit,” etc. But this time the hermit was not to be taken in; and he answered to the robbers, whom he still thought to be angels, in verse which may thus be Englished—
“Go back, you blessed Angels,
And let the good saints know
That once they’ve come it over me,
But a second time’s no go!”
THE OLD LADY AND THE DEVIL.
“The most perverse creature in the world is an obstinate old woman.”
A certain aged lady was desirous of eating figs, and went out into her garden, intending to knock down a few with a long pole; but finding herself unable to do this, in spite of her infirmities she began climbing the tree to pick them, and did not even take off her slippers. At this juncture the Devil, in human shape, happened to pass by, and thinking that the old lady was about to fall, said to her, “My good woman, if you wish to climb a tree to gather figs, you should at least remove your slippers, otherwise you will most assuredly fall and break your bones.” To this the old lady replied angrily, “My good sir, it does not matter to you whether I climb the tree with slippers or without them; pray go about your business, that I may not say, to perdition!” So she went on climbing; but just as she was about to seize the branch on which the figs were, one of her slippers came off, and she fell to the ground. Lying on the ground, she began to scream; and when her family came to see what was the matter she would say nothing but “The Devil blinded me!—the Devil blinded me!” The Devil, who was not far off, went up to her, and hearing what she said, found it more than he could stand, and really blinded both her eyes, saying, “I warned you, and asked you not to climb the tree in slippers, telling you that you would fall, and in return for that you gave me a very rude answer. And now, instead of saying, ‘If I had listened to that wayfarer I should not have fallen,’ you say ‘The Devil blinded me;’ and I, who am really the Devil, have blinded you in very truth. What’s the good of blaming the cat when the mistress is mad?” So saying, the Devil vanished away, and the obstinate old woman was left without her eyesight.
THE SUITOR AND THE PICTURE.
A certain man of Celento having come to Naples to attend to a law-suit, was forced to take a house; and in order to be near the Vicaria,[[36]] he took one close to the Convent of San Giovanni a Carbonara. In this house he found an old picture hanging on the wall, all black and grimed with smoke, to which, thinking it to represent some saint, he recommended himself most fervently every time he left the house, praying that he might be preserved from every misfortune, find a good lawyer, and gain his case. The first time he said his prayers before this picture, on returning home at night, he was attacked and beaten by thieves. On the next day he fell down the stairs and bruised himself all over; and on the third he was arrested and imprisoned for a theft which had been committed near his lodging. On coming out of prison he once more addressed his prayers to the unknown image for a good lawyer; but this petition, too, was granted the wrong way, for he fell into the hands of one who was the greatest scoundrel and blunderer that could be imagined. The poor Celentano, quite broken down by his troubles, redoubled his prayers to the smoky picture in hopes of at least gaining his law-suit; but after this last attempt, seeing that things were going from bad to worse, he came home, no longer able to contain himself. “Now,” he said, “I want to see what the picture is which has gained me so many benefits from Heaven, and worked so many miracles in my favour.” He therefore took it down from the wall, and, after having carefully cleaned it, perceived that it represented a lawyer in his robes. Whereat he cried, “Ah! thou accursed race! none other could have worked such miracles! A fine saint I had chosen as my protector!” And therewith he cut the picture in pieces and threw it into the fire.
A peasant of Chiaramonte,[[37]] returning home by moonlight, on his ass, with two panniers of fresh-plucked grapes, passed by a cypress-tree, on which an owl was sitting. The owl began to hoot and moan in so piteous a manner that it seemed as though he would moan out his very heart. Poor Vito (every Chiaramonte man is called Vito) was a fool, but he had a kind heart, and he was saddened by the moaning of the owl, thinking that perhaps he was hungry. So, overcome by compassion, he called out, “Owl of mine, dost thou want a bunch of grapes?” The owl went on hooting “Cciù.”[[38]] “How? Is one bunch not enough?—dost thou want two?” “Cciù.” “Oh! how hungry thou must be!—dost want a basketful?” “Cciù.” “But—holy Death! thou art insatiable!—perhaps thou wouldst like the whole pannier?” “Cciù!” “Go to the devil! I have a wife and children, and I cannot give thee everything!”
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR.
During the recent elections there was a large popular demonstration at Bergamo, where the police mustered in great force to prevent a disturbance. A fiery-spirited youth, seeing a gentleman escorted by two policemen, made a sudden rush to deliver him from his captors. In vain the supposed victim protested that his generous interposition was quite uncalled for.
“Ah! Signore, I could not for a moment think of leaving you in the hands of these minions of injustice.”
“Pray, sir, moderate yourself.”
“Moderate myself? We are not Moderates; we are Progressists, we are!”
“I daresay, but I’ll thank you all the same to let me alone.”
“Not a bit of it; come on.”
And the young fellow dragged the gentleman along in spite of his protests. At last, in order to escape from his inexorable liberator, he was compelled to inform him that he was Rizzi, the superintendent of police himself. Our young hero was let off with a gentle admonition.—Fanfulla.
A gentleman and his valet had been out to a party, where both of them indulged a little too freely. On returning home the valet got into his master’s bed, mistaking it for his own, and the master, not knowing what he did, lay down with his feet on the pillow and his head to the foot of the bed (in the same bed). In the middle of the night one of them began to kick and awoke the other.
“Signor Padrone!” exclaimed the valet, “there’s a scamp of a robber hiding in my bed!”
“You don’t say so!” replied his master; “in that case there must be a pair of them, for I have got one here in my bed. You try and get rid of yours; I’ll make short work with mine.”
And seizing each other by the feet they rolled out of bed and alighted on the floor, where they fell asleep again, and did not discover the true state of affairs till they awoke the next morning.—Gazzetta di Malta.
An old beggar, sitting near a church door, had a board suspended from his neck, inscribed: “Blind from my birth.”
Another beggar, reading the inscription as he passed, was heard to remark—
“Ebbene! There’s a chap who started young in business!”—Il Mondo Umoristico.
At a Socialist meeting a young orator inveighed furiously against the spread of education, saying that it would be far better for society if fewer people knew how to read and write.
“Why, you are an obscurantist!” exclaimed a progressist member of the audience.
“Oh, no; I am merely a post-office clerk.”—Il Cittadino.
Alberto Gelsomini has joined an amateur dramatic society. On the night of his first appearance in public he had only a small part assigned to him. All he had to say was—
“Signore, a gentleman of about fifty years has been some time in the anteroom; shall I show him in?”
Instead of which Gelsomini blurted out, excitedly—
“Signore, a gentleman has been waiting fifty years in the anteroom; shall I show him in?”—Don Chisciotte.
Customer. “Do you happen to have any pianoforte pieces?”
New Apprentice. “No, signore; we only sell whole pianos.”—Il Cittadino.
A poor man in rags asked alms in a public thoroughfare. A gentleman gave him two soldi, and said—
“You might at least take off your hat when you beg.”
“Quite true; but then the policeman yonder might run me in for breaking the law; whereas, seeing us converse together, he will take us for a couple of friends.”—Fanfulla.
A young dramatic author took a play to the manager of a popular theatre. Months passed and no reply. Overcoming his natural shyness, he at length called for his manuscript. The impresario looked, but could not find it.
“Tell you what, my dear fellow, your paper is lost; now don’t get vexed, but” (pointing to a pile of documents on the table) “pick one out of that lot; they are every bit as good as your own.”—Il Mondo Umoristico.
A physician, already advanced in years, was asked what was the difference between a young doctor and an old one. He replied, “This is the only one of any importance: the young one turns red when he is offered his fee—the old one when the patient forgets to give it him.”
Naldino was begging his father to get him a tin trumpet.
“No, I won’t,” said his father; “I don’t want to have my head split with your noise!”
“Oh no, papa!—I should only blow it when you were asleep.”
Spippoletti has been threatened with a duel.
He told us the story himself.
“I was trying to persuade him, when he threw one of his gloves at me, saying that he was going to wash it in my blood?”
“Good heavens!—and you?”
“Well ... I told him the best way to clean kid gloves was with benzine!”
Fasolacci is an elegant youth.
He had been spending right and left, so that he found himself unable to pay the bill at the hotel where he was lodging.
Taking his courage in both hands, and laying it before him on his writing-table, he determined to apply to his uncle—the well-known avarice of his father precluding, all hope of assistance from him.
This was his letter:—
“Dear Uncle,—If you could see how I blush, with shame while I am writing, you would pity me. Do you know why?... Because I have to ask you for a hundred francs, and do not know how to express my humble request.... No! it is impossible for me to tell you; I prefer to die!
“I send you this by a messenger, who will await your answer.
“Believe me, my dearest uncle, your most obedient and affectionate nephew,
“Fasolacci.”
“P.S.—Overcome with shame for what I have written, I have been running after the messenger, in order to take the letter from him, but I could not catch him up. Heaven grant that something may happen to stop him, or this letter may get lost!”
The uncle was naturally touched; he considered the matter fully, and then replied as follows:—
“My Beloved Nephew,—Console yourself, and blush no longer. Providence has heard your prayers.
“The messenger lost your letter.
“Good-bye.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“Aristippo.”
A book-collector has just purchased, at an exorbitant price, a volume which, except its rarity, has no value whatever.
“It is very dear,” said a friend to him.
“Yes; but it is the only copy in existence.”
“But if it should be reprinted?”
“Are you mad? Who’d be fool enough to buy it?”
At a Restaurant.—Customer (ostentatiously sniffing at his plate): “I say, waiter, this fish isn’t fresh!”
“Oh yes, it is, sir!”
“What?—I assure you it smells.”
Waiter (mysteriously): “No, sir, you’re mistaken; it’s that other gentleman’s cutlet!”
A worthless poet showed Parini two sonnets he had written on the occasion of a wedding, asking him to read them both, and suggest which he should print. Parini read one, and restored it to the author, saying, “Print the other!” The poet tried to insist on his reading the second, but Parini would say nothing but “Print the other!”
Spippoletti’s son having reached an age when the heart is susceptible, fell in love with a pretty little milliner, and wrote to her declaring his eternal devotion. After filling four pages with passionate adjurations and orthographical mistakes, he concluded thus—
“I hope that my offers will be acceptable to you, and expect from you shortly an affirmative reply, in which you will say either yes or no.”
The mother of a seminary student sent her son a new black soutane, with a letter in the pocket, which began thus—
“Dear Gigetto, look in the pocket of the soutane and you will find this letter....”
At a café some one asked, “Excuse me, sir; does the Daily appear every day?”
The grave man thus interrogated replied, in a solemn and professional manner, not without a sting of bitter irony: “Of course, sir. You might have seen that by the very title of the paper.”
“Then, sir, on your principle the Century should only appear once every hundred years.”
Collapse of the grave man.
The other day Spippoletti received an anonymous post-card which informed him that he was an old imbecile. Thinking that he recognised the writing of a facetious friend, he hastened at once to the latter and asked him—
“Was it you that sent me this infamous libel?”
“No,” replied the other very calmly.
“Who could it be, then?” demanded Spippoletti.
“Why, my dear fellow, I am not the only man who knows you!”
Spippoletti’s wife, not having much confidence in the abilities of her servant, has been going to market herself. One day, approaching the fishwife’s stall; she asked the price of a large carp.
“Six francs.”
The lady examined the fish, and exclaimed—
“It’s not fresh!”
“I tell you it is!”
“But it’s quite flabby.”
“Oh! go on insulting it!” replied the fishwife bitterly. “It can’t answer you!”
And with that kindness of heart which is natural to her, Signora Spippoletti bought the fish to make up for the injury to its feelings.
A. to B. The intelligence of animals is something extraordinary. For example, my dog Fido is a wonderfully clever fellow. When I am staying in the country I send him to the nearest village, and he executes all the commissions I give him better than any servant.
B. Well, I have seen stranger things than that in India. I knew an old elephant to whom they used to give orders for the next day’s purchases every evening; and as his memory was not quite to be trusted, the intelligent animal always tied a knot in his trunk, so that he might be sure not to forget.
The celebrated mathematician Plana, in examining students viva voce, was very fond of asking trivial and ridiculous questions, in order to test their nerve and readiness.
On one occasion he asked a young man, “What is the half of eight?”
The youth at first looked inclined to be offended, but speedily recovered his composure, and replied coolly, “Five!”
Baron Plana, cooler still, said, “Prove it!”
“Easily, sir,” replied the student. “If you take one lemonade it costs eight sous; if you take half a one, you have to pay five.”
As it could not be denied that such was then the price of lemonade at Turin, the candidate was passed.
—Il Pappagallo.
Signor Merbi, the mayor of a small village, died while on a visit to the capital. His neighbours erected to his memory a stone with the following inscription:—
Here lies
Marco Benedetto Giulio Merbi,
Who died at Naples, and was buried there.
There are some people with a mania for suicide, and others with one for saving life. Within the last few days a mason at Rovigo threw himself under the wheels of a carriage. Death was imminent, when Ranchetti—this is the name of our rescuer—sprang in front of the horses, and saved the unfortunate workman at the risk of his own life.
The mason hastened home, shut the door of his house, and quietly hanged himself. But he had reckoned without his unknown rescuer. Ranchetti, foreseeing some fatal design, followed him, got into the room by breaking a window, cut the rope, called for help, and saved the would-be suicide a second time.
If this sort of thing goes on Ranchetti will have plenty to do.
A certain lawyer, in consequence of various political changes and his own merits, obtained the title of Count, and took office under Government.
“Why,” said an acquaintance one day, “do you not have your coat-of-arms painted on your carriage?”
“Because my carriage is older than my title,” he replied.
A soldier in the Naples militia asked his captain for permission to go out for half-an-hour, which was refused. Somewhat later he renewed his request with the same result; and, after waiting some time, made a third application—still to no purpose. At last, at the fourth time of asking, permission was granted; the soldier went away, and was seen no more for two hours.
“How is this?” said the captain on his return. “You asked leave for half-an-hour.”
“That is true, sir—but I asked four times; and four half-hours make two hours, I think.”
As a diligence was passing along a part of the road reputed dangerous, some of the passengers expressed their fear of being attacked by robbers. “Do not be afraid,” said an Englishman, who was one of them; “I have foreseen everything—I have two loaded pistols at the bottom of my portmanteau.”
A Neapolitan, paying a visit to Milan, said to a countryman of his who had settled there, “Before leaving this place, I should like to have my portrait done in oil.” “Impossible, my dear fellow!” said his friend; “here they do everything in butter.”
So-and-so, who is in mourning for his mother, was one day riding out on a mare with a crimson saddle. A wag, meeting him, said, “That saddle does not look much like mourning.” “Excuse me,” replied our friend; “my mare’s mother is not dead—why should she go into black?”
A young man of these days, whose reputation is none of the best, was boasting in company of his skill as a physiognomist. “I have a thorough knowledge of rascals,” he said. “I can not only recognise them, but also thoroughly understand them, at first sight.” Hearing this, a respectable man, who was acquainted with him, said, “Did you ever look in the glass?”
A Knight Commander of Malta, who was exceedingly avaricious, had two pages, who one day complained to him that they had no shirts to wear. The miser called his major-domo, and said: “You will write to the steward of my estates in Sicily, and tell him to have some hemp sown at once. When the hemp is gathered, he is to have it spun, and then woven into cloth, to make shirts for these young men.” At this the pages laughed. “Ah! the rogues!” said the knight; “see how delighted they are, now that they have their shirts.”
A gentleman of Naples fought fourteen duels in order to maintain that Dante was a greater poet than Ariosto. The last of these encounters was fatal to the enthusiast, who exclaimed on his death-bed: “And yet I have never read either of them!”
An actor, asking the manager for his arrears of payment, told him that he was in danger of dying of starvation. The manager, looking at his plump and ruddy countenance, told him that his face did not bear out the assertion. “Don’t let yourself be misled by that,” said the actor; “this face is not mine; it belongs to my landlady, who has been letting me live on credit for the last six months!”
Gennaro, of Naples, said one day to a friend, “I receive an immense number of anonymous letters, which are quite insulting; but I despise them too much to let it vex me. When I lower myself so far as to write anonymous letters, I always sign them.”
Francesco Gallina, the lawyer, was disputing a point with his colleague, Giacomo Sanciotti. Being unable to support his reasoning, he improvised a law which justified the position he took. Sanciotti, perceiving this stratagem, immediately invented another which put Gallina in the wrong. The latter, never having heard of such a law, said, “Can you give me the reference?” “You will find it,” replied Sanciotti, without hesitating, “on the same page as the Act you have just quoted.”
A countryman attending church at a distance from his own village, was observed to sit unmoved through a sermon which affected the whole congregation to tears. The priest, thinking him a hardened sinner, singled him out for a personal address.
“Are you the only one to remain unshaken? Do you alone hear nothing?”
“Sir,” replied the peasant, “I don’t belong to this parish!”
A literary man recently applied to a journalistic friend, asking him to get him work and make him known to the public. “My dear fellow,” replied the friend, “in order to get work and become known you must publish.”
The author hastened with a volume of MS. to a publisher, and asked him to print it.
“My dear sir, if you want to publish, you ought to become known first.”
Now what is he to do?
Our Paris correspondent, reporting a Socialist meeting, says, “The orator made use of a set of commonplace catchwords and high-sounding phrases, calculated to make a profound impression on the fools who attend similar gatherings. I was present....”
A candid confession!
Recruit (to Corporal). If I told you you were an ass, what would you do, sir?
Corporal. I should put you under arrest.
Rec. And if I only thought it?
Corp. Then I could do nothing, for thoughts are not seen, and cannot be brought up in evidence.
Rec. Then I do think so.
At the Club.—A. Have you seen our friend Bortoletti lately?
B. Yes.
A. Then you must have noticed that he dyes his hair in front, and has forgotten to do so at the back.
B. Well—that only proves that if he deceives himself he has no wish to deceive others.
Mistress. Rosa, did you count the silver last night?
Rosa. Yes’m—there’s a fork and spoon wanting.
Mis. Do you know where they are?
Rosa. Yes’m.
Mis. Well—where are they?
Rosa. Under the kitchen table. You can find them there when they are wanted.
A bereaved widower had ordered a bust of his late wife, and called on the sculptor to inspect the work. “If you want any alterations,” said the artist, “it is only in the clay, you see, and can easily be retouched.
The widower gazed at it sadly.
“It is just like her ... the nose rather large ... a sure indication of kindliness and benevolence....”
Then bursting into tears—
“She was so good!... Can’t you make her nose a great deal longer?”
A few days ago there appeared on the last page of a newspaper the following advertisement:—
“Red Noses.—Instant cure. Apply, enclosing P.O. for two francs, to Signor Dulcamara.”
A worthy citizen, whose nose was “ruddier than the cherry,” hoping to get rid of his affliction, immediately sent in his address and the two francs.
Two days later he received a post-card—
“Go on drinking till your nose turns blue!”
“John, take this cup away; the beef-tea is cold!”
“Cold? sir; oh, no! that’s just a fancy of yours, sir; it’s quite hot still, for I tried it, sir?”
“What! You dared to taste——”
“Oh no, sir; I only dipped my finger into it!”
At the Police Court.—President: “What! you here again? You are perfectly incorrigible. You see, now, what bad company leads to.”
Prisoner: “Oh! sir, how can you say that? Why, I never see any one but policemen and magistrates.”
A parvenu, in giving an invitation to dinner to a celebrated violinist who had just given a concert at the house of a banker, said to him, with pretended carelessness—
“Oh! by-the-bye—you will bring your violin, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” replied the artist, “but my violin never dines out.”
An old and knowing lawyer in the provinces, while waiting for the court to open, fell into conversation with another lawyer, equally old and knowing, who said to him—
“Who can that Fra Diavolo[[39]] be whose name occurs so often under the heading, ‘The Milan theatres’?”
“Oh!” replied the first, with perfect seriousness, “he was a Terracina lawyer.”
A provincial householder returned from a shooting expedition in the marshes, wet to the skin. Entering the house, he called out, with chattering teeth, to his wife, “Get the fire lit at once!” The latter, after going to the window and looking at the neighbours’ chimneys, replied—“No, indeed!—No one else has a fire lit, and I do not wish to make myself the subject of remark!”
During dinner, at the Castle, the tutor was being questioned about the progress made by the heir-presumptive to the coronet.
“Just now we are working at natural science. Our noble pupil is making rapid progress in chemistry.”
“Is he learning about dynamite?” asked the Marchioness quickly.
“Not yet, madam;—dynamite comes under the head of political economy.”
At a Charity Concert.—(The pianist is playing horribly out of tune.)—“What is that brute doing? I understand that it is a charity concert, but—all the same—”
“Why, that is just the reason he does not let his left hand know what his right is doing!”
At the Manœuvres.—Captain: I want all the corporals, without exception, to give the word of command together, and distinctly.
A moment after there is a general and vigorous shout of “Shoulder arms!”
Captain (furiously). I hear several corporals saying nothing at all!
This must be the same officer who said, the other day—“In Company B, I see a man who is not there!”
“Look here,” said the tenor, “I have sung in all the operas, and have always taken the principal parts—in Robert le Diable I was Robert; in Hernani, Hernani——”
“And in the Siege of Corinth?”
“Why, Corinth, of course!”
What is a Secret Society?
A Secret Society is a greater or less number of individuals who meet from time to time in the most secret way possible, in order to shout their secrets in each other’s ears at the top of their voices.
Force of Habit.—A well-known artist suffers horribly from corns on his feet. His toes, moreover, are deplorably sensitive, so that he calls out if they are scarcely touched.
It has gone so far that, when he steps on his own boots, which he has put out to be cleaned, he imagines that his feet are inside, and yells like one possessed.
“Ah-h-h!—body of a rhinoceros!!—look out! Where are you going?”
A pretended pilgrim, tramping about the country, sells little pieces of stuff, which, according to him, once formed part of the cloak of St. Martin.
“What are they good for?” asked a rustic, one day.
“They will keep out the cold,” replied the pilgrim, and salved his conscience by adding, aside—
“Taken in large quantities.”
At a country inn an English traveller ordered hare for dinner.
“Give him some hare,” said the landlady to her husband, without hesitation.
“You know we have none,” replied he, in an undertone.
The wife answered, quite undisturbed—
“Give him some rabbit then. He’s an Englishman—he’ll never know the difference.”
A clever man, who suffers from absence of mind, said to a friend—
“Oh!—So-and-so?—He died in September, and I have not seen him since!”
It is said that a rich Frenchman who was insane came to Milan, and after two days recovered his reason.
Some people may think this surprising. We do not.
It is quite natural that, in a city where so many lose their wits, one man should find some.
A telegram received from Lisbon informs us that “a terrible cyclone has completely destroyed Manilla.”
A few hours later another despatch arrived—“The cholera has entirely ceased in Manilla.”
We have no hesitation in believing it. Surely, if Manilla no longer exists, everything, the cholera included, must have ceased there.
Filippo made a valuable confession the other day. Talking of marionettes, he said, “I must acknowledge I have a great liking for this kind of spectacle.”
Bravo, Filippo! Family affection is a sacred thing!
Some time ago the Government came to the decision of having the Official Gazette printed by convicts, in order, it is said, not to introduce an alien element.
Now that the secret has transpired, the resolution has been rescinded, and the convicts will no longer do the printing.
This second resolution has been explained by saying that the Government wishes to give no cause for accusations of family favouritism. We are quite willing to accept both excuses.
In the Naples police court a witness was once asked where he lived.
“With Gennaro.”
“And where does Gennaro live?”
“With me.”
“But where do you and Gennaro live?”
“Together.”