The humour of Italy

by Unknown

THE MEDIÆVAL UNDERGRADUATE.

There was once at Padua a Sicilian scholar called Pontius, who seeing one day a countryman with a pair of fat fowls, pretending that he wanted to buy them, made a bargain with him and said, “Come home with me, and over and above the price I will give thee some breakfast.” So he led him to a place where there was a bell-tower, which is separate from the church, so that one can go all round it; and opposite one of the four faces of the Campanile was the end of a little street. Here Pontius, having first thought of what he wished to do, said to the countryman: “I have wagered these fowls with one of my comrades, who says that this tower is certainly forty feet in circumference; and I say no. So just at that moment when I met you I had been buying this string to measure it with; and before we go home, I want to ascertain which of us has won.” Thus saying, he took the string out of his sleeve, and gave one end of it to the countryman to hold, and saying, “Give here!” he took the fowls from him, and holding the other end of the string, began to go round the tower, as if to measure it, making the countryman stop on that side of the tower which was opposite the end of the little street. When he had reached this side he drove a nail into the wall and tied the string to it, and thus leaving it, went off quietly down the street with the fowls. The countryman remained for a great space of time, waiting till he should have finished measuring; but at last, when he had several times said, “What are you doing so long?” he went to see, and found that the one who held the string was not Pontius, but a nail driven into the wall, which was all that remained to him as payment for the fowls.

Baldassarre Castiglione (1478–1529).

The Bishop of Corvia, in order to find out the intentions of the Pope, one day said to him: “Holy father, it is commonly reported in all Rome, and even in the palace, that your holiness is about to make me governor.” Then the Pope replied, “Never mind what they say; they are nothing but low-tongued rascals.”

Baldassarre Castiglione.

A certain pleader, to whom his adversary said, in presence of the judge: “What art thou barking for?” replied, “Because I see a thief.”

Baldassarre Castiglione.

The Archbishop of Florence once said to Cardinal Alessandrino that a man has nothing but his goods, his body, and his soul; and that the first is ruined for him by the lawyers, the second by the doctors, and the third by the theologians. Then Giuliano the Magnificent quoted the remarks by Nicoletto—viz., that it was rare to find a lawyer who would go to law, a doctor who would take physic, or a theologian who was a good Christian.

Baldassarre Castiglione.

A miser, who had refused to sell his corn while it was dear, seeing that the price had gone down, hanged himself in despair to one of the beams in his chamber. One of his servants, having heard the noise, ran in, and finding his master hanging from the ceiling, forthwith cut the rope and so saved his life. When the miser had come to himself, he insisted that the servant should pay for the rope which he had cut.

Baldassarre Castiglione.

As Duke Frederic of Urbino was one day talking of what was to be done with a large quantity of earth, which had been dug up in order to lay the foundation of his palace, an abbot who was present said: “My lord, I have been thinking where it should be put, and I have a good idea: order a great ditch to be dug, and you may then dispose of the earth without further hindrance.” The duke replied, not without a smile: “What are we to do with the earth which will be dug from this new ditch?” The abbot answered: “Let it be made big enough to hold both.” And thus, although the duke tried to show him that the larger the ditch the more earth would be dug out of it, he could not understand that it could not be made large enough to contain both heaps, but only replied, “Make it so much the larger.”

Baldassarre Castiglione.

A ROMAN PRELATE OF 1519.

... His hungry congregation waits in vain,

Wishing he’d come the Gospel to explain,

Begin, or rather end, his dull tho’ noisy strain.

At last he comes, deep-crimson’d o’er his face,

A certain token of unlettered grace;

He mounts, the pulpit crackles with his weight,

His awful eyebrows the most distant threat;

Against his brethren he exclaims aloud

That they are too luxurious in their food,

In taverns more than churches take delight,

Feast on fat capons; quaff the livelong night;

While, could you rummage his own private cell,

No noble’s larder e’er was stuffed so well.

Let me have books those moments to beguile,

When the rich prelate, in his haughty style,

Roars to his porter, “Here, let who will come,

Be sure you tell them I am not at home.”

So monks, carousing at their favourite meals,

Silence the interrupting sound of bells.

“Sir,” should I say (for Sir’s the proper word

Even at a cobbler’s stall, or tailor’s board),

“Good sir,” though to a tattered Swiss, “I pray,

May I not see His Eminence to-day?”

“No sproka to my Maister bater goud,

You go your lodgèe, come as when you coud.”[^[4]]

“Sir, be so kind at least to let him know

That Lewis Ariosto is below.”

He answers that his Rev’rence would not see

St Paul himself, though on an embassy....

Lodovico Ariosto (1474–1533).

THE VALLEY OF LOST LUMBER.

[Astolfo journeys to the Moon, on the winged steed Hippogrif, to recover the wits which Orlando has lost for love of the Princess Angelica.]

... Now Astolfo was conducted by his guide into a narrow valley between two steep mountains. And in this place there was miraculously collected together everything which gets lost on earth, either through some failing of our own, or by the fault of time or fortune. I mean not only riches and power, but also those things which fortune alone can neither give nor take away. Many a reputation lies up there, which time, like a moth, has long been gnawing at here below, and also numberless vows and good resolutions made by sinners. There we should find the tears and sighs of lovers, the time lost in gaming, all the wasted leisure of ignorant men, and all vain intentions which have never been put into action. Of fruitless desires there are so many that they lumber up the greater part of that place. In short, whatever you have lost here below you will find again if you ascend thither.

Our Paladin, as he passed along, now and again asking questions of his guide, saw a mountain of blown bladders, which seemed to be full of noise inside. And he knew that these were the ancient crowns of the Assyrians, and of Lydia, and of the Persians and Greeks, which once were famous, while now their very names are almost forgotten. Close by he saw great masses of gold and silver piled up in heaps, which were those gifts that people made, in hopes of getting a reward, to kings and princes. He saw wreaths of flowers with traps hidden among them, and heard, in asking, that they were flatteries. Verses that men made in praise of their patrons are seen there, under the form of grasshoppers, who have hurt themselves with chirping.... He saw many broken bottles of different kinds, and found that they stand for the service men pay to courts, and the thanks they get for it. Then he came to a great pool of spilt broth, and asking what it was, his guide told him that it represented the alms people direct to be given after their deaths. Then he passed by a great heap of various flowers, which once were sweet-scented, but now have a foul odour; this was the gift (if we may be permitted to say so) that Constantine bestowed on the good Pope Sylvester.

He saw a great quantity of twigs covered with bird-lime, there, O fair ladies, are your beauty! He saw ... but it would be an endless task to count up the things which were shown him there. The only thing he did not find was folly: that remains here on earth, for no one ever parts with it.

At last he came to that which we are all so firmly persuaded we possess, that no one ever prayed to have it given him—I mean common sense. There was a huge heap of it, as big as all the other things put together. It was like a clear, soft liquid, which easily evaporates if it is not kept tightly corked, and was contained in bottles of various shapes and sizes, each one being labelled with the name of its owner. Astolfo noticed one which was much larger than the rest, and read on the label, “Orlando’s Wits.” He saw also a great part of his own; but what made him marvel more than anything was the fact that many people whom he had believed to have plenty of sense were now shown to have little or none, the bottles marked with their names being nearly full. Some lose it through love, others in striving after honours; yet others, in seeking for riches by land and sea, or by putting their trust in great lords and princes, or in pursuing after follies of magic and sorcery, or gems or pictures, or anything else which a man values above others. There was a great quantity of the wits of philosophers and astrologers stored there, and also of those of poets. Astolfo took up his own, having received permission to do so, and put the flask to his nose; and it appears that his wits returned to their place right enough, for Turpin confesses that from thenceforth Astolfo lived very wisely indeed for a long time. But afterwards, it is true, he made one mistake which once more deprived him of his brains. Then he took up the large flask which contained Orlando’s, and which was no light weight, and turned to depart....

Lodovico Ariosto.

THE POET TO HIS PATRON.

O, Master Anthony, I am in love

With that fine doublet you’ve not given me!

I love, and wish it well as heartily

As ’twere the lady I call “Flower” and “Dove.”

I look on’t front and back—a perfect fit!

The more I look, the more I long for it.

It pleases me, inside and out,

And up and down. Oh! heaven,

That you have only lent me it, not given!

Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

When in the morn I see it on my back,

I always think that it must be my own;

That cunning stitchery of herring-bone,

How great a marvel! I am on the rack!

I shall do something desperate,—good lack!

And will not—cannot understand

I must restore it to your hand—

Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

Oh! Master Anthony, if you knew how

To set about it, you a faction-chief

Might be. Look at me in this doublet now,—

Am I not gallant?—half a Mars, in brief?

Make up your mind you want it not again,

And I will be your brave,

Your foot-page and your slave,

And walk, with sword on thigh, among your train!

O canzonet!

If thou dost fail this doublet for to get,

Thou well may’st say, I have

Been such a fool, I should be called a knave!

Francesco Berni (1490?–1536).

BENVENUTO CELLINI OFFENDS THE POPE.

When I made this speech, there was present that gentleman of Cardinal Santa Fiore’s with whom I had had words, and confirmed to the Pope all that had been told him! The Pope remained swelling with rage, and said nothing. Now I do not wish to fail in stating my reasons in a just and righteous manner. That gentleman of Santa Fiore’s came to me one day, and brought me a little ring all tarnished with quicksilver, saying, “Burnish this ring for me, and make haste about it.” I had a great many pieces of goldsmith’s work in hand, with most valuable jewels waiting to be set, and hearing myself, moreover, ordered about with so much assurance by a man whom I had never seen or spoken to before, answered that I had not a burnisher by me just then, and that he had better go to another. He, without any reason in the world, told me that I was an ass. To these words of his I replied that he did not speak the truth, and that I was a man, on every account worth more than he; but that, if he bothered me, I would certainly kick harder than any ass. He went straight to the cardinal, and made out that I had all but murdered him. Two days after this I was shooting behind the palace at a wild pigeon, which had its nest in a hole, very high up; and that same pigeon I had seen shot at by a goldsmith named Giovan Francesco della Tacca, a Milanese, who had never hit it. On the day when I was shooting, it had become shy, and scarcely showed its head; and because this Giovan Francesco and I were rival marksmen, certain gentlemen and friends of mine who were in my workshop pointed it out to me, and said, “That is Tacca’s pigeon which he has so often shot at. See, the poor bird has grown suspicious, and scarcely shows its head.” I looked up, and said, “It shows quite enough for me to hit it, if I only had time to take aim first.” Those gentlemen said that the man himself who invented the firelock could never hit it. I replied I was willing to wager a pitcher of the best Greek wine that I would do so; and, taking aim, and shooting from the arm, without any support for my piece, I did what I had promised, without thinking of the cardinal or anybody else; nay, I had the less reason to do so, as I believed the cardinal to be very much my patron. Thus may the world see what divers ways Fortune takes, when she wishes to be the ruin of a man. To return to the Pope: he remained, all swollen and sulky, brooding over what he had heard....

Benvenuto Cellini (1500–1570).

HE RESCUES A FOOL FROM DROWNING.

When we had passed the Mount Simplon aforesaid, we found a river near a place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and rather deep, and crossed by a little narrow bridge without a parapet. There was a hard frost that morning, and when I reached the bridge—for I was in front of the rest, and saw that it was very dangerous—I ordered my young men and the servants to dismount, and lead their horses by the bridle. Thus I passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking with one of those two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman. The other was a notary, who had remained somewhat behind, and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying that for fear of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going on foot; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the bridge, prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dangerous place. This man, who could not help showing his French nature, said to me in French that I was a man of little courage, and that there was no danger at all. While he was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur, through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the bridge, and fell close beside a large stone, turning over with its legs in the air; and as God very often shows compassion to fools, this beast, along with the other beast, his horse, fell into a great and deep hole, wherein both he and his horse went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to run, and with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and, holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the edge of a gown which that man was wearing, and by that gown I pulled him up, while he was still under water; and because he had drunk a great quantity of water, and within a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of danger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat he answered me that I had done nothing—that the most important thing were his parchments, which were worth much money. It seemed that he spoke thus in anger, all soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly. At this I turned to the guides we had with us, and promised to pay them if they would help this beast. One of the guides valorously, and with great difficulty, set himself to do what he could, and fished up all the parchments, so that he lost nothing; the other would not put himself to any trouble to help him....

Benvenuto Cellini.

OPENING STANZAS OF “THE RAPE OF THE BUCKET.”

Fain would I sing that direful wrath which swayed

Men’s bosoms for a Bucket, spoil renowned!

Stolen from Bologna, and in pomp displayed,

By hostile Modenese with conquest crowned.

Phœbus! the conflicts and adventures dread

Of horrid war assist me to resound.

Inspiring God! till I am grown acuter,

Lend me thy helping hand, and be my tutor.

And thou, the nephew of the Pope of Rome!

And of the generous Carlo, son the second;

Thou who hast wisdom in thy youthful bloom,

In tender years of high endowments reckoned;

From studies deep, in which thou’rt quite at home,

If thou canst turn, by recreation beckoned,

List to my song; see here the Grecian Helen

Transformed into a Bucket, war compelling!

Alessandro Tassoni (1565–1635).

THE CALL TO ARMS.

Then like the Spartans lived the Modenese

Unfortified, without a parapet;

So shallow were the fosses that with ease

Men might run in and out early or late;

The Great Bell’s toll now echoed on the breeze,

And up from bed jumped all the people straight;

Summoned to arm, some bolted quick downstairs,

Some to the windows rushed—and some to prayers.

Some snatched a shoe and slipper, some in haste

Had only one leg stockinged, others again

In petticoats turned inside out were dressed,

Lovers exchanged their shirts; some with disdain

Took frying-pans for shields, and forward pressed

With buckets on for helms, others were fain

To brandish hedge-bills, and in breast-plates bright

Ran swaggering to the Square, prepared for fight.

There had the Potta, ready at his post,

The City Standard valorously spread;

Himself on horseback armed, and he could boast

Bright scarlet breeches, shoes too, lively red:

The Modenese, abridging, to their cost,

Potestà, wrote but Potta in its stead;

And hence the Bolognese in joke had got a

Cognomen, and they called his Mayorship Potta!

Messer Lorenzo Scotti, sage and strong,

Was Potta then, and suits at law decided;

Now foot and horsemen, a promiscuous throng,

All hurry to the Square, and these divided

Are posted at the gateways; from among

The rest a chosen squadron is confided

To Rangon’s son Gherardo,—to his hand

The Standard too is given and chief command.

Alessandro Tassoni.

THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS.

O’er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,

The coaches soon were seen, and a long train

Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,

Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;

And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,

More than a hundred servants, rather vain

Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,

Followed their masters to the Council Hall.

First came the Prince of Delos, Phœbus hight,

In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn

By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,

Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;

Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light

Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;

And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,

Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.

Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,

Came on a nag of Basignanian race;

Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen

Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o’er her face

Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen,

Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;

A bunch of feathers on her head she wore,

And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.

The Paphian Queen for her accommodation

Had two stage-coaches; richly decorated

Was that wherein she sat in conversation

With Cupid and the Graces; on them waited

Pages in habits suited to their station;

The other coach with courtiers gay was freighted,

The chamberlain and tutor debonnair,

And the chief cook, Dan Bacon, too was there.

But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared

At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean

Upon a dolphin’s back his form upreared,

Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;

Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared;

For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,

Reproaching his proud brother,[^[5]] when she meets him,

Because so like a fisherman he treats him.

Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there;

She had risen early, and o’er woodland green

Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair

Upon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene.

And not returning till the northern star

Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,

Her mother made excuses, quite provoking,

Knitting, at the same time, a worsted stocking.

Juno-Lucina did not go—and why?

She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.

Menippus, Jove’s chief taster, standing by,

For the disastrous Fates excuses made.

They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry,

And they were also busy baking bread.

The cellarman, Silenus, kept away,

To water the domestics’ wine that day.

· · · · ·

On starry benches sit the famous warriors

Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring;

Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers,

Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;

A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers

Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring.

And after them, armed with his club so hard,

Alcides, captain of the city guard.

And as the madness which his brain affected

Was not quite cured, officiously he strode,

And swung aloft his club, and blows directed

Along the crowd to clear the royal road.

Like drunken Swiss he looked, and seemed connected

With ruffians low who hire themselves abroad

On festal days, before the Pope to bluster,

Breaking of arms and skull-caps in a fluster.

With Jove’s broad hat and spectacles arrived

The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore

A sack, in which, of other means deprived,

He damned poor mortals’ prayers, some million score;

Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived,

Which graced his father’s cabinet of yore;

And, wont attention to all claims to pay,

He regularly signed them twice a day.

Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed,

With starry diadem upon his head,

And o’er his shoulders an imperial vest,

Worn upon holidays.—The king displayed

A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest;

In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,

Given by the inhabitants of Sericane,

And Ganymede held up his splendid train.

Alessandro Tassoni.

PRAISES OF THE WINE OF MONTEPULCIANO.

Oh! how widely wandereth he

Who, in the search of verity,

Keeps aloof from glorious wine!

Lo! the knowledge it bringeth to me.

For Barbarossa, this wine so bright,

With its rich red look and its strawberry light,

So invites me

And so delights me,

I should infallibly quench my inside with it,

Had not Hippocrates

And old Andromachus

Strictly forbidden it

And loudly chidden it,

So many stomachs have sickened and died with it.

Yet discordant as it is,

Two good biggins will not come amiss;

Because I know, while I’m drinking them down,

What is the finish and what is the crown.

A cup of good Corsican

Does it at once;

Or a cup of old Spanish

Is next for the nonce:

Quackish resources are things for a dunce.

Cups of chocolate,

Ay, or tea,

Are not medicines

Made for me.

I would sooner take to poison,

Than a single cup set eyes on

Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye

Talk of by the name of coffee.

Let the Arabs and the Turks

Count it ’mongst their cruel works:

Foe of mankind black and turbid,

Let the throats of slaves absorb it.

Down in Tartarus,

Down in Erebus,

’Twas the detestable Fifty invented it;

The Furies then took it,

To grind and to cook it,

And to Proserpine all these presented it.

If the Mussulman in Asia

Doats on a beverage so unseemly,

I differ with the man extremely.

· · · · ·

There’s a squalid thing called beer:—

The man whose lips that thing comes near

Swiftly dies, or falling foolish,

Grows, at forty, old and owlish.

She that in the ground would hide her,

Let her take to English cider:

He who’d have his death come quicker,

Any other Northern liquor.

Those Norwegians and those Laps

Have extraordinary taps:

Those Laps especially have strange fancies:

To see them drink,

I verily think

Would make me lose my senses.

But a truce to such vile subjects

With their impious, shocking objects,

Let me purify my mouth

In an holy cup o’ the south:

In a golden pitcher let me

Head and ears for comfort get me,

And drink of the vine of the wine benign

That sparkles warm in Sansovine;

Or of that vermillion charmer

And heart-warmer,

Which brought up in Tregonzano

And on stony Giggiano,[^[6]]

Blooms so bright and lifts the head so

Of the toasters of Arezzo.

Francesco Redi (1626–1696).

FROM A LETTER TO PIER MARIA BALDI.

Buffalmacco was a famous painter in his day; and in my judgment—and I am not altogether a fool in these matters—he still deserves to be preferred to Titian and the divine Michael Angelo—and one can go no further than that. If you wish, Signor Baldi, to know the reasons and motives of this judgment of mine, do not expect me to say that Buffalmacco was so skilled and perfect a master as to be able to teach the art of painting in its greatest refinements to an ape which the Bishop of Arezzo kept for his pastime; but I shall certainly tell you that Buffalmacco was he who discovered that noble and ever-to-be-remembered and ever-to-be-praised invention of tempering colours, not with water from the well, but with the most brilliant white wine that could ever be produced by the best shoots of the most renowned vines on the Florentine hills. Before Buffalmacco had made this discovery, he used to execute paintings which—you may rely upon it—were exactly like your own face; that is to say, pale, washed-out, and mouldy-looking; and in many of them I fancy I recognise my own portrait, with a face like a mummy, thin, dry, hollow-cheeked, worn to a shadow, and coloured with a certain hue like that of bread-crust or a quince baked in the oven, and so melancholy as to make people weep who were quite ready to laugh. But when this great master of all masters began to use wine with his colours—

“PULCINELLA.”

“His painted saints on the wall he discloses

With fresh, blooming faces, all milk and roses!”

and they were all the right sort of folk—jovial, cheerful, wholesome, and good-tempered, so that people talked about them even as far as the gates of Paris, and the ladies of Faenza—certain knowing nuns, whose convent stood where the lower fort is now—had more faith in Buffalmacco than in all the Apelleses and Protogeneses who were in credit with the ancient Greeks. Now, what do I mean by all this screed of nonsense? I mean to draw the conclusion, that since you are so kind as to draw the illustrations to that book of mine, you will most assuredly come to grief unless you mix your colours with Vernaccia or some other good wine, and you will do no work that is worth looking at. And since it is not right that you should be at any expense in consequence of this work of mine, I send you a sample of white wine of Syracuse, with other samples of wine given me by his Serene Highness the Grand Duke; with which, if you mix your colours, you will not only give a good appearance to your pictures, but also get back your former healthy looks, in spite of those disgusting messes which you are made to swallow, every morning, by those two physicians, your friends. Try this new prescription, and you will soon be well.

Francesco Redi.

PULCINELLA’S DUEL.
COLBRAND AND PULCINELLA (both armed).

Col. I am beside myself with joy; the master evidently thinks something of me; he has given me a nag! Now we shall see whether or no it is possible for an idiot of a rustic to take Nanon from me. I’ll ornament his face for him! If he is a man of his word, and keeps his appointment, woe to him!

Pul. Perdition! Who is here?

Col. If he comes——! (Threatens him.)

Pul. After all, I am a man—I remember the saying; for necessity teaches one many things.

Col. Oh! bravo! You have kept your word, and come in time.

Pul. Listen, Colbrand. If you want to fight, I am quite ready; but you must tell me, first, how long you have learnt fencing.

Col. What does that matter?

Pul. It matters to me.

Col. Five years.

Pul. I have been learning for ten. I don’t want to take a mean advantage of you; go and take lessons five years more, and then come, and I’ll give you satisfaction.

Col. Ah! you coward!

Pul. Ah! get out of the way!

Col. You shall not go away—you are caught—one of us has to remain here.

Pul. Very well, you remain, and I will go away.

Col. You pretend not to understand me. I mean that one of us has to remain here dead.

Pul. Oh! dead?

Col. Certainly.

Pul. Well, do you remain dead, and then we shall be all right.

Col. Who is to kill me?

Pul. I, if you wish.

Col. No, I do not wish. I shall defend myself to the utmost.

Pul. Come, let’s say no more about it. Is it worth while to kill a man for the sake of a woman?

Col. These excuses will not serve you—draw your sword, or I will strike.

Pul. (aside). Oh! the devil! I’m dead. (Aloud.) Listen to me. The first time I girt on my sword I made a vow that it should never be stained with blood.

Col. You ass in clothes! You shall either give up Nanon to me, or I will rid the world of you.

Pul. Listen to me. You have a quarrel with me out of jealousy, because I have taken your sweetheart from you; but I have none with you—on the contrary, I am sorry for you; it would be too bad to kill you, after having made a fool of you.

Col. I am not listening to you. Come, this blade shall be your answer.

Pul. I have no quarrel with you.

Col. What am I to do, then?

Pul. Call me some vile names, then I shall get angry, and come to blows with you.

Col. Very well. You are a scoundrel, a ruffian, a cowardly knave.

Pul. Supposing that what you say is the truth, what reason have I to be angry?

Col. You are a dissolute wretch, the son of vile parents.

Pul. I think you must be a gipsy to know this. You are telling me nothing but the truth.

Col. In this way we shall do nothing.

Pul. But if what you say is true?

Col. (aside). Oh! the base wretch! Come on, will you?

Pul. Softly, softly. (Aside.) I see no one coming. Tell me things that are not true, and then I shall fire up like any Englishman. I know what my nature is.

Col. Very well, you are a gentleman.

Pul. A gentleman! I! and when was I ever that?

Col. Yes, a gentleman—a valiant and honourable gentleman.

Pul. And I am to fight with a pig—a dirty blackguard like you?

Col. This to me! Power of the world! draw your sword this moment, or I’ll strike.

Pul. Steady, steady. Wait a bit—don’t you see I have to get it drawn.

Col. Well, if you do not draw it, I won’t strike. I am waiting for you.

Pul. If I do not draw, you will not strike?

Col. No.

Pul. I am not going to draw for ten years to come at the very least.... Very well, come on. (Draws his sword.) Here I am, quite ready. How do you wish to have it?

Col. At the first blood.

Pul. Very well. Ah! ah! eh! (He strikes at Colbrand, standing as far from him as he can, and crying out loudly.)

Col. Do be quiet. Some one will come, and we shall be disturbed.

[Pulcinella makes more noise than ever, when Logman arrives on the scene, and demands an explanation of the quarrel. The presence of a third person revives Pulcinella’s courage, and he loudly declares his intention of running Colbrand through and through till his person is like a sieve. He then falls to chaffing the pompous steward, who loses his temper, and finally dismisses him. Pulcinella, leaving the stage, asks, “Do you know why I am going?” and candidly adds, “because I am afraid.” While Colbrand, seeing that he is well out of the way, remarks to Logman, “For your sake I will remain quiet—but, another time ...” leaving the terrible threat incomplete.]

Francesco Cerlone (c. 1750–1800).

A BERGAMASC PETER PEEBLES.

A certain Bergamasc, an honest fellow, and ignorant as a log, came up here some years ago, with five or six thousand scudi in cash. He at once encountered certain astute rustics, who, making him believe that black was white, and dazzling him with the most extraordinary promises, soon succeeded in borrowing the greater part of his money. Now, alleging as excuses, sometimes storms, sometimes drought, and then again thunder and lightning, they have managed so to spin out matters that the poor man cannot get back a farthing of his money to this day. Do not imagine, however, that this difficulty causes him any sorrow; on the contrary, it gives him the greatest delight in the world, for it has opened up to him the possibility of unlimited law-suits—a prospect as dear to his heart as sugar to flies. And, not content with civil suits, he worried so long at his debtors that, at last, one of them—better at paying up than the rest—attempted to pay his whole debt at a blow, which he did with a scythe, on the top of the creditor’s head. It was well for him that the blow did not reach the neck, at which it was aimed, and which it would have cut through like a stalk of clover; but glanced off on the forehead, only wounding the skin. You never saw greater joy than he experienced when he felt the blood running down his face, and made sure of it by putting up his hand. I think he would have died of sheer satisfaction, had his delight not been tempered by the disappointed reflection that, after all, he had not had his skull broken. He went off at once to find me,—and, nearly frightening me out of my wits with his ensanguined countenance, shouted, “I am going. I am off to Venice this minute! Give me an introduction to an honest solicitor!” I, seeing the state he was in, thought he was wandering in his mind, and that, instead of a solicitor, he meant to ask for a surgeon. But when I had heard what had happened, and understood what his intention was, I promised to do what he asked, and so far pacified him that he allowed the steward’s wife to dress his head with a little white-of-egg and tow, and bandage it with a piece of rag. Then he insisted on telling me his story all over again, and how fortunate he was in having another plea to enter;—he would not, he said, part with his broken head for several ducats—in fact, he was quite ready to pay his debtor a dozen ducats or so for the favour done him. Now, having got together all his documents, and, further, written out on a sheet of paper, in the Bergamasc dialect, the whole history of the quarrel—a curious and valuable manuscript—he is coming to Venice, to get legal advice about it, and be directed how to get back his own, by means of his broken head. Here he is, then, with his spurs on, like a fighting-cock, and I have charged him with this present letter to you; so please to send him to some man with a conscience, who may try and help him get back his money, and also persuade him that he will do well to leave this part of the country—for it is ill jesting with our farmers, and if he tries it, he will soon find himself skinned. I recommend him to you most earnestly, because he is in the right,—because he is a good fellow by nature,—and because of his shocking ignorance. Before sending him to the solicitor, get him to tell you a little about his litigations. I promise you that you will hear words which all the commentators on the Pandects would never have discovered. Besides this, he begins to speak in a big bass voice which gradually rises and ends in a falsetto, so that his conversation is a species of music. His eloquence and arrangement of facts are something marvellous; he will begin by telling you of his broken head, and his disputes with the farmers; he will then go on to say that he has lent them money, and end up by telling you that he was from Bergamo. In short, he begins with the death, and goes backwards till he gets to the christening. When you find him a lawyer, be sure, in the first place, to choose one who understands stories told upside down. Help him all you can, and let me know what you think of him when you see him. Good-bye.

Gasparo Gozzi (1713–1786).

HOW TO SUCCEED IN LITERATURE.

In those old-fashioned times, when people lived, so to speak, at haphazard, and when, if a man wished to gain a reputation for learning, he forgot himself and all he had and stuck to his books day and night—the ways of acquiring for one’s self an honoured and illustrious name were very different from what they are now. But in those days the business was a long one, and the path to be trodden was steep and rugged; and few were those who reached the top of the mountain, where Learning sheds abroad her gifts and graces. In our own day, however, we have shortened the journey, and opened a level and easy road, wherein you may walk, as it were, on cotton, with no other trouble than that of elbowing back those rival competitors who are pressing forward too boldly, or firing a snap-shot at those who are spreading their wings too rapidly. If any young man wishes to get on quickly, and to be greatly honoured, let him lay up a good store of mots and jests against his rivals, and have his head so full of them that they may fall from his tongue in showers like hailstones; and let him utter them on every possible occasion, whether in or out of season does not matter. Let him remember, moreover, that it is not enough to speak ill of others, but that he must also speak well of himself, and remember that Horace and Ovid, both of them, said that neither time, nor fire, nor any other calamity could destroy their works out of the world. If he cannot imitate those two writers in any other respect, let him do it in this. He should not spend much time and labour in composition, but dash off everything in hot haste; for the file and the foot-rule will spoil all the fire of his writing. Once upon a time the great art was to use art and yet conceal it; nowadays, in order to make no mistake in the using of it, it is considered the safest thing to have none at all. Those who are considered good authors he should leave alone, otherwise he may be accused of plagiarism; let him make capital of himself and his own brain, and fly wherever the latter is disposed to carry him. These are the general principles through following which I promise eternal fame to the young man in question. It is true that in this way a man does not leave a great literary reputation behind him after his death;—but what matters this last vanity, or the glory of an epitaph either?

Gasparo Gozzi.

A FABLE.

Jove, having one day drank more nectar than usual, and being in a pleasant humour, the fancy took him to make some present to mankind. And having called Momus, he gave him what he had decided upon, packed in a portmanteau, and sent him down to the earth. “Oh!” cried Momus (when he arrived in a chariot) to the human race, “Oh! truly blessed generation. Behold how Jove, liberal of his benefits towards you, opens his generous hand! Come, hasten, receive! Never complain again that he has made you short-sighted. His gift quite compensates you for this defect.” So saying, he unfastened the portmanteau, and emptied out of it an enormous heap of spectacles. Behold, then, the whole of mankind busy picking them up; every man has his pair—all are content, and thank Jove for having acquired so excellent an aid to their eyesight. But the spectacles caused them to see things under a deceitful appearance. To one man a thing seems blue, while another sees it yellow; one thinks it is white, and another black, so that to every one it appears different. But what of that? Every individual was delighted with his pair, and quite taken up with it, and insisted on its being the best. My dear friends, we are the heirs of these people, and the spectacles have fallen to our lot. Some see things one way, and some another, and every one thinks he is right.

Gasparo Gozzi.

KING TEODORO AND HIS CREDITORS.
FROM THE COMIC OPERA, “IL RE TEODORO.”

[About 1730, the Corsicans rose in rebellion against the Genoese, who had long been masters of the island; and a German baron of the name of Theodor von Neuhoff, who landed with supplies for the insurgents, received the title of king. Being obliged to leave in order to raise additional forces, he was arrested for debt. Casti’s opera is founded on this circumstance, and represents him as coming to Venice, under a feigned name, with his companion Gafforio, in desperate straits for money.]

Gafforio. Cast away grief, my king!—this sorrow, Surely, is most unworthy thee! Teodoro. I’ve neither kingdom nor coin,—and borrow I cannot—a monarch who would be? Gaff. Ah! remember the great Darius, Marius, and Themistocles— And many a worthy man and pious,— Surely the fate of such as these, Heroes of every age and nation, Ought to be a consolation.

[Achmet, Sultan of Turkey, dethroned and banished, but plentifully supplied with funds, takes up his quarters at the same hotel as Theodore. The latter’s creditors, hearing he is at Venice, demand his arrest, and he is imprisoned.]

Teod. Then this catacomb Is the tomb Of all my vast design? Is this the kingdom, this the throne, Are these the glorious realms unknown, I thought should yet be mine? Belisa (his sister). With your passion for reigning, I’ve told you, my brother, One day or another To gaol you would go! Gaff. Keep courage, O Leader, For Regulus olden And Bajazet, Soldan, Had worse fates, you know! Teod. Have done, once for all, With your musty old stories, Your heroes and glories,— Don’t bother me so!

[All Theodore’s friends come to take leave of him, and he adjures them:]

Oh! go, and do not grieve me! For pity’s sake be still. All. That which attracts the human heart, How vain and frail it seems to be!

THE POET PROMISES TO PAY HIS CREDITOR—WHEN HE HAS MONEY.

Thou askest me for money (while I’ve none),

And losest time in vain which thou might’st save:

If thou an “I promise to pay” dost crave,

I’ll make no bones at all to give thee one:

I neither grant thee nor refuse the boon;

Since what one never had one never gave;

I promise that I’ll pay thee when I have;

And thou’rt content with my goodwill thereon.

Then let’s have peace, nor let me thus be bored

For those three groats a hundred times a day:

When got, I’ll give them of my own accord.

Why wilt thou thus torment and wear me out?

Why worry a poor devil in this way?

Canst thou not say, “Where nothing is—there’s nought.”

The Poet laments the good old times previous to the existence of Duns, Bailiffs, Writs, and I.O.U.’s.

Oh! blissful days, what time Queen Bertha spun![^[7]]

Most fortunate and highly favoured season!

That age hight anciently the golden one,

No doubt because so happy was the reason:

No I.O.U.’s were then, nor writs, to dun,

Nor frequent law-suits, such as now, with fees on;

Nor people then were summoned, should they run

In debt, nor lost their liberty in prison.

But times are changed—not now what once they were;

And woe to that poor devil who gets in debt!

For he must go to gaol and perish there!

And should his dun not be so hard on, yet

He plagues him night and day, wherever met,

As thou dost me—pursuing me everywhere!

He complains that his Creditor uses him worse than would a Pirate.

Algiers and Tunis, Tripoli, Salé,

Places that lie where are the days most hot,

So brute a race of men perhaps have not,

As brutal as my creditor with me:

This man not born like other men could be:

But in ill-will and rancorousness begot,

By one that ne’er sucked mercy’s milk, I wot,

And daily made him bad examples see.

The Barbary Pirate, when he makes a slave,

Robs him of cash that he may find on one,

But does not want his money when he has none:

But, using me more cruelly than a pirate,

My dun don’t care whether or not I have;

When I’ve no money, still he doth require it.

He declares his Dun to be ubiquitous in pursuit of him.

Philosophers hold that if in one place

One body is, another is elsewhere;

Two bodies being quite separate, in no case

A single one can be both here and there.

Moreo’er of that should any person care

To know the physical reason, ’tis to trace....

But, not to wait the causes to deduce,

Suffice we know the fact, as on its face.

Yet if the thing were otherwise than so—

(To cite a case in point) I should pronounce

One body may be here and there at once;

For, by the body o’ me! now there as well,

And now I find thee here, where’er I go:

But how the devil thou dost, I cannot tell.

Gio. Battista Casti.

DIDYMUS, THE CLERIC,[^[8]] ON THE ITALIAN UNIVERSITIES.

He thought that all the schools of Italy were full, either of mathematicians, who could understand one another without speaking; or of grammarians, who shouted themselves hoarse lecturing on the art of eloquence, yet could not make any living soul understand what they said; or of poets, who did their best to deafen those who did not listen to them, and were loud in welcoming every new tyrant who gained power over their nation. This is the reason why, as troublesome fools, they were exiled—with more justice than any other class—by Socrates, who, according to our author, was endowed with the spirit of prophecy—especially as regards the things which are taking place in our own day.

Ugo Foscolo (1778–1827).

THE FIRST HOUR AND THE SUN.

First Hour. Good morning, your Excellency.

Sun. Yes, or rather good-night.

First Hour. The horses are ready.

Sun. Very good.

First Hour. The morning star has been out some time.

Sun. Very good—let her come or go as it suits her.

First Hour. What does your Excellency mean?

Sun. I mean that I want you to leave me alone.

First Hour. But, your Excellency, the night has already lasted so long that it cannot last any longer,—and if we were to wait, you see, your Excellency, it might give rise to some disorder.

Sun. Let come of it what will—I shall not move.

First Hour. Oh! your Excellency, what is this? don’t you feel well?

Sun. No, no—I don’t feel anything, except that I don’t want to move, so you may go about your business.

First Hour. How can I go, if you do not come?—for I am the first hour of the day. And how can there be any day at all if your Excellency does not deign to come out as usual?

Sun. If you are not the first hour of the day, you can be the first hour of the night; or else the night hours can go on double duty, and you and your companions may take it easy. Because—I tell you what it is: I am tired of this continual going round and round in order to give light to a few wretched little animals living on a handful of mud, so small that I, though I have pretty good sight, cannot manage to see it. So this night I have made up my mind that I can’t be bothered any more; and if men want light, let them keep their fires burning, or provide it in some other way.

First Hour. But how does your Excellency expect the poor wretches to manage it? And then it will be an enormous expense for them to keep up their lamps and provide candles enough to burn all day long. If they had already discovered that kind of air which will burn, and could use it to light up their streets, and rooms, and shops, and cellars, and everything else—and all at a small expense—why, then I should say that the thing was not so bad. But the fact is, that it will be three hundred years, more or less, till men find out that expedient; and in the meantime they will get to the end of all the oil, and wax, and pitch, and tallow, and have nothing more to burn.

Sun. Let them go and catch fireflies, or those little worms which shine in the dark.

First Hour. And how will they provide against the cold?—for without the help they have had from you the wood of all the forests will never be enough to warm them. Besides which they will also die of hunger; for the earth will no longer yield its fruits. And so, at the end of a few years, the race of those poor animals will be entirely lost. They will crawl about for a time, groping in the dark after something to eat and warm themselves at; and, in the end, when the last spark of fire has died out, and they have eaten everything that a human being could possibly swallow, they will all die in the dark, frozen hard like bits of rock crystal.

Sun. And if they do, what business is that of mine? Am I the nurse of the human race?—or perhaps their cook, who has to provide and prepare their food for them? What is it to me that a certain small quantity of invisible animalcules, thousands of miles distant from me, cannot see, or bear the cold, without my light? Besides, even though it were my duty to serve as stove or hearth, so to speak, to this human family, it is surely reasonable that, if the family want to warm themselves, they should come and stand round the stove—not that the stove should walk round the house. And so, if the earth has need of my presence, let her bestir herself, and see that she gets it; for, as far as I am concerned, I want nothing of her, and there is no reason why I should go after her.

First Hour. Your Excellency means, if I understand aright, that what you did formerly is now to be done by the Earth.

Sun. Yes, now—and henceforward for ever.

Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837).

Note.—This dialogue is supposed to take place at the date of Galileo’s discovery of the real relations of the Solar System.

FASHION AND DEATH.

Fashion. Madam Death! Madam Death!

Death. Wait till my time comes, and I’ll come without your calling.

F. Madam Death!

D. Go!—and the Devil go with you! I shall come fast enough when you don’t want me.

F. As if I were not immortal!

D. Immortal? Past is already the thousandth year since the days of the immortals were ended.

F. Why, madam, you are talking in the manner of Petrarch, as though you were a lyric poet of the sixteenth—or the nineteenth century.

D. I am very fond of Petrarch’s rhymes, because there is my Triumph among them, and the rest of them are nearly all about me too. But, anyway, get out of my sight at once.

F. Come—for the love you bear to the seven deadly sins, stop a little, and look at me.

D. I am looking at you.

F. Don’t you know me?

D. You ought to know that my sight is not good, and that I cannot use spectacles, because the English do not make any that would serve me—and even though they made them, I have no nose to put them on.

F. I am Fashion, your sister.

D. My sister?

F. Yes—don’t you remember that we are both daughters of Decadence?

D. What should I remember, whose business it is to destroy all memory?

F. But I do, and I know that we are both equally busy, continually undoing and changing the things of this world, although you set about this task in one way, and I in another.

D. If you are not talking to your own thoughts, or to some person whom you have inside your throat, do raise your voice a little, and pronounce your words more clearly; for if you go on mumbling between your teeth with that thin cobweb of a voice of yours, I shall take till to-morrow to hear you. My hearing, as you know, is no better than my sight.

F. Although it is not exactly usual,—and in France people do not speak in order to be heard,—yet, as we are sisters, and can drop ceremony between ourselves, I will speak as you wish. I say that the nature and custom of both of us is continually to ruin the world; but you, from the beginning, have thrown yourself on the person and the blood, whereas I mostly content myself with beards, hair, clothes, furniture, palaces, and such-like. It is true that I have not failed to carry on certain games which may well be compared to yours—as, for instance, piercing holes in ears, lips, or noses,—burning the flesh of men with red-hot irons, with which I make them mark themselves for the sake of beauty,—forming the heads of babies by means of bandages and other contrivances, so that all the people in a country may have heads of the same shape, as I have done in Africa and in America,—laming people with narrow shoes,—choking the breath out of them, and making their eyes start out of their heads with the tightness of their stays,—and a hundred other things of the same kind. Not only so, but, generally speaking, I persuade and force all people of any position to bear unending fatigue and discomfort, every day of their lives—oftentimes pain and torture; and some of them will even die gloriously for the love they bear to me. I say nothing of the headaches, chills, colds of every kind,—daily, tertian, and quartan fevers, which men get through obeying me,—submitting to shiver with cold and be suffocated with heat, as I please,—to cover their bodies with woollen stuff, and their chests with linen, and do everything in the way I tell them, even though it be to their own hurt.

D. Well,—I am quite willing to believe that you are my sister, and, if you wish to have it so, I will consider it more certain than death—and you need not prove it out of the parish register. But if I stand still in this way, I turn faint; yet, if you have courage to run alongside of me, take care not to kill yourself, as I go at a great pace. If you can run you can tell me all you have to say as we go along; if not, I must leave you with a salutation, and promise you, in consideration of our relationship, to leave you all my property when I die.

F. If we had to run a race together, I don’t know which of us would win; for if you run, I do more than gallop. And as for standing still in one place,—if in turns you faint, it kills me. So then, let us run together, and, as you say, speak of our affairs as we go.

D. Let it be so. Since, then, you are my sister, it would be the right thing if you could help me somehow or other in my business.

F. I have already done so, more than you think. In the first place, though I am continually destroying or changing all other customs, I have never in any place induced people to leave off dying; and for this reason, you see, the practice has universally remained in force from the beginning of the world up to the present day.

D. It is a mighty miracle that you should not have done what you cannot do.

F. What I cannot do? You do not seem to know the power of fashion.

D. Well, well—it will be time to talk about this when the fashion of not dying has come in. But meanwhile, I should like you, as a good sister, to help me to obtain the contrary result more easily and quickly than I have hitherto done.

F. I have already told you of some of my work which is very profitable to you. But that is a trifle in comparison with what I am going to tell you. For your sake I have gradually—especially in the later times—caused people to disuse and forget the exercises which are beneficial to health, and brought in other customs which weaken the body and shorten life. Besides which, I have introduced into the world such rules and customs, that life itself, as well for the body as the soul, is rather dead than alive, so that this century may truly be called the Age of Death.... Besides, whereas formerly you used to be hated and abused, nowadays, thanks to me, things have reached such a pass, that whoever has any intellect at all values and praises you, preferring you above life, and turns his eyes to you as to his greatest hope. Finally, seeing that many had made their boast of living after death in the memories of their fellow-men, ... I have abolished this habit of seeking after immortality, and of conferring it in case there should be any who deserved it.... These things, which are neither few nor small, I have, up to now, accomplished for the love of you, wishing to increase your state and power on earth, as has, in fact, been the case. I am disposed to do as much as this, and more, every day, and it was with this intention I set out to seek you; and I think it would be well that, for the future, we should remain together. Thus we could lay our plans better than formerly, and also carry them out more effectually.

D. You speak truly; and I am quite willing we should do so.

Giacomo Leopardi.

THE POET ON TRAMP.

Poets have ever been a roving crew,

And honoured in their travels east and west.

Old Homer with his alms-dish wandered through

Ionia—Tasso ranged like one possessed;

And Ovid was escorted ’gainst his will

To a place whose like ’s seen in Volterra still.

I travel too, and not so meanly either,

In a way which is most natural and meet,—

I do not take account of wind or weather,

But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,

Step after step, in douce and measured wise

Taking, for pastime and for exercise.

I am not taken for a vagabond,

Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;

I pass for one who roves the world around,

And goes afoot the better for to see.

As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,

But as a gentleman am recognised.

For my part, I do everything I may

To merit this respect, with all my might—

With step most leisurely I take my way.

To show I’m walking for my own delight,

And as a proof that I have coin to spend,

I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”

Sometimes most like a botanist I go,

Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—

Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,

And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.

Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand still

And gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.

When nearing some small village I retire

Into a ditch, or else behind a mound,

To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,

Awhile—and dust my hat, and look around

For a fresh spring in some convenient place,

To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.

· · · · ·

As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,

“A gentleman from town,” the people say,

“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,

And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”

Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,

And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.

Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,

I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and then

To find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;

“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,

“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,

In such fine weather as we have to-day.”

And that they may not think that I am tired,

I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.

“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—

“A little exercise such difference makes!”

They ask me where I stay—’tis not amiss

If I reply, “Within a walk of this!”

And, after all, Dame Nature legs has given

For to support the person, more or less,

And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—

Not to be dangled in mere idleness;

So any gentleman may use this limb,

Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.

[But a walking-tour is not without its inconveniences. The poet dwells on the discomforts of heat, cold weather, and muddy roads.]

Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,

Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,

And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,

To steal a ride, am getting up behind.

I look not like a knave, yet constantly

The travellers on their luggage keep an eye.

I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;

From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,

Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,

And deigns no answer. I seem to be once more

In London, where the man in livery

Asks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.

[Respectable inns always have some excuse for refusing to entertain the wayfarer. Some one at last takes pity on him and points out a low pot-house, with a green branch for a sign, where every one is welcome. Here too, however, he is contemptuously received. The landlord looks at the dust on his boots, and hesitates about admitting him; the chambermaids address him, not as “Sir,” but as “You, there!” and when dinner is served he is not asked to sit down to table.]

And when I ask to go to bed, appears

The stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,

And takes me up some seven flights of stairs

To a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;

He sets the candle down upon the floor,

And, after going out, he locks the door.

[Yet these inconveniences are not the invariable rule; and, after all, they are outweighed by the advantages of travelling on foot. One is perfectly independent, and can do as one likes, which is not always the case with wealthy people.]

And thus on foot I take my cheerful way,—

Moreover, with economy ’tis fraught;

My shoes are paid for—I take leave to say,

I doubt my lord’s fine equipage is not.

Since then I pay my way respectably—

Henceforth, none but St. Francis’ nag[^[9]] for me!

Filippo Pananti (1776–1837).

LOVE AND A QUIET LIFE.
FROM “L’AMOR PACIFICO.”

O blessed peace! O close and sacred tie!

Long life to Veneranda and her dove!

But I must needs inform you how and why

This faithful pair first told their tender love.

At a friend’s house they’d dined, and when upstairs

Found themselves side by side in two arm-chairs.

When half-an-hour had mutely passed away,

Taddeo plucked up heart and broke the ice.

“Pray, madam, ... did you like the cream to-day?”

“Delicious!” “I’m so glad you thought it nice.

The ham too?” “Exquisite!” “And then the birds?”

“Perfection!” “And the fish?” “Beyond all words!”

“’Tis true that we had hardly room to sit.”

“Nay, ’twas a pleasure, when one sat by you;

But if, dear ma’am, I jogged your arm a bit,

Trust me, ’twas what I could not choose but do.”

“Don’t mention it. You suffered, I suspect?

I’m stout, you see!” “An excellent defect!”

“Indeed?” “Indeed! That face now, in my eyes,

Blooms like May day. Long may it last in blow!”

“I’m healthy!” “Healthy! Fresh as Paradise!”

“Come, come! I’m somewhat stout!” “And better so!

For my part, if I might, I’d very fain

Have leave to call upon you now and then.”

“Oh! you’d be bored!” “I bored! What words are these?

’Twould rather be my best and primest pleasure.”

“Fie! Now you’re flattering! Well! Come when you please!”

“I think, dear madam, in no common measure,

Our characters are fitted to unite,

What do you say?”

“La!—Well—perhaps they might!”

Giuseppe Giusti (1809–1850).

INSTRUCTIONS TO A YOUNG ASPIRANT FOR OFFICE.

That you must cut all liberals whatever,

All men of genius, all the “dangerous” crew,

Not prate of books or papers, but endeavour

To prove that they are all High Dutch to you;

That you must bolt your heart, and hold your tongue,

You’ve known, yourself, I’m well aware, for long....

... Now, first and foremost, learn to bend your back!—

Be Veneration’s self personified.

Dress ill; your clothes should fit you like a sack,

And always take some big-wig for your guide.

The cowl does make the monk in such a case,

And the wall’s valued by its plaster face....

Get introduced, and every blessed night

Visit some lout they’ve made a minister.

There choose your time, and change your stops aright,

According as his tastes or whims prefer.

And if tomfoolery’s the thing for winning,

Play the tomfool, and set the folks a-grinning.

Keep him supplied with news, and ferret out

Fresh scandal, gossip, all that folks will tell you;

And, so to speak, what the whole town’s about,

Down from His Highness even to Stenterello....[^[10]]

· · · · ·

Say there arise a scandal, a dispute,

A hurly-burly in your patron’s house,—

“Know-nought knew much, who knew when to be mute,”

Says the old saw. Be mute, then, as a mouse!

Great men will sometimes act like fools, ’tis certain,

In their own homes. Be ours to—drop the curtain!

Jump at all hints. Keep begging every way.

Take all they give you, so they let you serve;

But—beg! “The toad refused to beg,” they say,

“And therefore got no tail.” Besides, observe

That, if not propped and fostered by our need,

Great men’s authority’s a dream indeed.

Remember to ignore and overpass

Each rude rebuff, each peevish look and tone,

And, like Pope Sixtus, write yourself an ass

If you’re resolved to reach your papal throne.

After the bitters, sweets will come at length,

And sturdy begging beat close-fisted strength.

With profit Gingillino did attend

To the sage preaching of his vulpine friend.

He went; he knuckled down; he bared his crown;

He crept, crawled, coaxed, and cringed to sword and gown;

And when they’d dried him, tried him, sifted him, drifted him,

From Dan to Beersheba, at last they lifted him—

When the whole process they’d gone through and through,

With rites baptismal and with chrismal too—

Their heaven of three-piled roguedom to ascend,

Took him within the fold—and that’s his end!

Giuseppe Giusti.

LETTER TO TOMMASO GROSSI.

Pisa, Nov. 15, 1845.

Well done! Signor Grossi! Well done, indeed! Your lordship is over there enjoying yourself; and nobody even dreams of talking about a poor wretch like me, who is neither here nor there. But don’t you feel a singing in your ears from morning to night? You, I mean, you lazy, luxurious, thankless, forgetful wretch! Is it so much trouble to write on a piece of paper, “I am well—the family ditto, and we all remember you”? Is this what comes of your having a good time—eh? Now my gentleman is at Bellano, in his own house, away from everything that can possibly worry him, surrounded with every earthly blessing, and thinks he has the Pope in his pocket.... As for his friends, they are “out of sight, out of mind,” with him. Only let me come to Milan again, and you shall see. If ever you dare to try your old tricks again in my presence, I shall say to you, with a face a yard long—

Let Signor Grossi hook!

On him I will not look (facit indignatio versum).

But, joking apart, what infernal airs are these you are giving yourself in not answering? Are all the pens used in your house made of lead? I, who am one of the laziest men living under the vault of heaven, have written you people letters upon letters, and you are no more to be moved than so many blocks. Only M. has had pity on me; but he is so upset on account of a certain promise of ——’s, that, out of a page and a half of letter, there were only about three lines for me. But even this is something, and something is better than nothing. But against you I have a grudge—one big enough to make me do something outrageous....

I ought not to say so—because not one of the whole lot of you deserves it—but the parting from you threw me into a deep melancholy, which still continues. My liver, or some other fiend who has his dwelling under the ribs, has again got out of order,—and no one knows how much trouble it will give me before getting right again. If I had to endure another winter like the last, Job might be said to have lived and died in the greatest comfort in comparison with me. I do not wish to have anything more to do with doctors—I have always found them just like the fog, which leaves the weather as it finds it. I trust in the climate of Pisa, and if there is anything that I wish for, it is a little bottle of “Never-mind-it,” which is a medicine good for many diseases. Though, I think, when one has it, one must prepare it for himself, and measure out his own doses; and I have never been a skilled apothecary as regards this particular drug. On the contrary, it has always been a failing of mine to thrust my head too deeply into the affairs of this ridiculous world,—and my own, which are the most ridiculous of all,—and once in, it is no easy matter to get it out again. How many times I have made up my mind to think only of myself, and let things go as they like! and every time I do so, this idiotic heart, which, through no fault of my own, I have to drag about with me, has made me look like a fool of the first magnitude. Certainly it is quite evident that I was intended by nature for burlesque; since every time I have taken a thing seriously, I have been sure, sooner or later, to act the harlequin before my own eyes. So that now, whenever I have to do with worthy people who are firm and solid, and (so to speak) all in one piece, I am always secretly in dread lest one day or other they should belie their natures and turn out the veriest quicksilver. Do you know that in the end it really cannot be such a very great misfortune to leave this puppetshow that they call life? Surely it cannot be that we shall have people playing Punch and Judy tricks in the other world! Either we shall all have become wise, or at least, if we are destined to carry with us a grain or so of folly and ridiculousness, I do believe that we shall be permitted to divide into sets according to our own particular fancy. And, look you, if, when I have arrived up there, I happen to see two or three men that I know of, I shall join that clique at once, and stay there per omnia sæcula sæculorum. With these certain ones I should hope that (the weakness of our mortal nature being once left behind) a thing once said would be looked upon as settled, and that we should have an end of—

“Yes, I answered you last night—

No, this morning, sir, I say!”

But I hope you understand that I want neither you nor Sandrino Manzoni near me, either in this world or the next; for I shall never forget the way you have treated me, letting me go without so much as a “Good-bye”—not even a “Go and be hanged to you.” I have made a note of it, and shall remember it against you till Doomsday.

Why is it that rascals like you can always put honest men in the wrong? In the very act of closing this letter I receive yours of the 2nd! Well, well, that is not so bad, but I have yet to see Manzoni’s; and you, by promising it, have done me more harm than good.

“STENTERELLO.”

Let us hope that our dear Alessandro Manzoni (who, by-the-bye, is a——; never mind, I won’t write it!) will be able to come to Pisa with Donna Teresa and Vittorina. Apropos of Vittorina, is it true that she has not been well of late? Arconati told me she had a cold when she left: I should be very sorry to think she was suffering from anything worse. Remember me to every one, not forgetting our friends Torti and Rossari; I have been going to write to them over and over again. I am glad to hear you are all well at home; were it not that I am still angry with you for that silence of a month and more, I should be inclined to tell you that you deserve this and every other good fortune. Well, good-bye, you rascal, and since there are some wrongs for which it is useless to claim compensation, I may as well send you my love.

P.S.—As for work, I have a great number of irons in the fire, but I am terribly afraid my stock of wood will not last long enough to heat them. When a perfect anarchy of plans and projects comes to life in my brain, this is a sign that it is not a time for finishing anything at all at all. Meanwhile, I shall dawdle along, reading this and that, as it happens,—and when the hour for production strikes, I shall produce.

Giuseppe Giusti.

DON ABBONDIO AND THE BRAVOES.
FROM “I PROMESSI SPOSI.”

[Don Abbondio, a village priest, walking by himself in a lonely place, sees two bravoes waiting for him in a narrow lane.]

... He quickened his pace, recited a verse in a louder tone, composed his countenance to all the calm and cheerfulness he could summon up for the moment, made every effort to prepare a smile, and when he found himself right in front of the two swashbucklers, he ejaculated, mentally, “Now we’re in for it!” and stopped short.

“Your Reverence!” said one of the two, looking him full in the face.

“Who wants me?” replied Don Abbondio, raising his eyes from his book, and holding it open in both hands.

“You intend,” pursued the other, with the threatening and angry look of a man who has caught his inferior in the commission of a crime—“you intend to perform the ceremony of marriage, to-morrow, between Renzo Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella.”

“That is ...” answered Don Abbondio, in a quavering voice—“that is ... gentlemen, you are men of the world, and you know how these matters take place. The poor priest has nothing whatever to say in the business; they arrange everything between themselves, and then ... then they come to us, as you would come to a bank to draw out your money, and we—well, we are the servants of the congregation.”

“Well, then,” said the bravo, in an undertone, but with an impressive air of command, “this marriage is not to take place, either to-morrow, or at any other time.”

“But, gentlemen,” expostulated Don Abbondio, in the meek and gentle voice of a man trying to persuade an impatient listener—“but, gentlemen, do be good enough to put yourselves in my place. If the thing depended on me, now ... you see perfectly well that it matters nothing to me, one way or the other.”

“Come!” interrupted the bravo; “if the business had to be settled by talk, you would have us all, in a moment. We know nothing more about it, and do not want to. A man warned ... you understand?”

“But, gentlemen, you are too just, too reasonable——”

“But,” interrupted the second bravo, who now spoke for the first time—“but either the marriage will not take place, or—or the man who performs it will not repent of doing so, because he will not have time, and——” he finished off his sentence with a good round oath.

“Hush!” returned the first speaker; “his Reverence knows the ways of the world; and we are gentlemen, and do not want to do him any harm, if he will only have a little common sense. Your Reverence, the most illustrious Signor Don Rodrigo, our master, sends you his most respectful salutations.”

This name was like a flash of light in the darkness and confusion of Don Abbondio’s mind, but only served to increase his terror. He instinctively made a low bow, and said, “If you could suggest to me....”

“Oh! Suggest to you who know Latin!” interrupted the bravo, with a laugh which was half ferocious and half foolish. “That is your business. And, above all, never let a word escape you about this hint which we have given you for your good; otherwise ... ahem!... it would be the same thing as if you were to perform that marriage. Come! What message do you wish us to give to the illustrious Don Rodrigo?”

“My respects.”

“Explain yourself, your Reverence!”

“... Disposed ... always disposed to obedience....” In uttering these words he did not quite know, himself, whether he was giving a promise, or merely bestowing a commonplace compliment. The bravoes took it—or appeared to do so—in the more serious sense.

“Very good. Good-night, your Reverence,” said one of them, and turned, with his comrade, to depart. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes before would have given one of the eyes out of his head to get rid of them, now would have liked to prolong the conversation. “Gentlemen,” he began, shutting his book with both hands; but, without listening to him, they took the road by which he had come, singing the while a ditty better not transcribed, and were soon out of sight. Poor Don Abbondio remained for a moment with his mouth wide open, as if spell-bound; then he turned up the lane leading to his house, walking slowly, and seeming scarcely able to drag one leg after the other....

Alessandro Manzoni (1784–1873).

THE INTERRUPTED WEDDING.

[Don Abbondio, by finding one excuse after another for deferring the marriage, has driven Renzo nearly to despair. At last, having discovered the reason for the priest’s hesitation, in Don Rodrigo’s hostility, he eagerly adopts a suggestion of Lucia’s mother, Agnese, to the effect that a perfectly legal, though irregular, marriage may be performed by the parties severally pronouncing, before a priest, and in the presence of witnesses, the words, “This is my wife,” and “This is my husband.” Renzo easily secures two witnesses, in the persons of his friend Tonio and the latter’s half-witted brother. Tonio owes Don Abbondio twenty-five lire, for which the priest holds his wife’s necklace in pledge, and Renzo secures his co-operation by giving him the amount of the debt. The five start at dusk for Don Abbondio’s house. Agnese engages the priest’s housekeeper in conversation outside the front door, and the others slip upstairs unnoticed—the bride and bridegroom waiting on the landing, while Tonio knocks at the door of Don Abbondio’s sitting-room.]

“Deo gratias!” said Tonio, in a loud voice.

“Tonio, eh? Come in,” replied a voice from within.

Tonio opened the door just wide enough to admit himself and his brother, one at a time, and then closed it after him, while Renzo and Lucia remained silent and motionless in the dark.

Don Abbondio was sitting in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a dilapidated dressing-gown, with an ancient cap on his head, which made a frame all round his face. By the faint light of a small lamp the two thick white tufts of hair which projected from under the cap, his bushy white eyebrows, moustache, and pointed beard all seemed, on his brown and wrinkled face, like bushes covered with snow on a rocky hillside seen by moonlight.

“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and put them into the book he was reading.

“Your Reverence will say we are late in coming,” said Tonio, bowing, as did Gervaso, but more awkwardly.

“Certainly it is late—late in every way. Do you know that I am ill?”

“Oh! I am very sorry, sir!”

“You surely must have heard that I am ill, and don’t know when I can see any one.... But why have you brought that—that fellow with you?”

“Oh! just for company, like, sir!”

“Very good—now let us see.”

“There are twenty-five new berlinghe, sir—those with Saint Ambrose on horseback on them,” said Tonio, drawing a folded paper from his pocket.

“Let us see,” returned Abbondio, and taking the paper, he put on his spectacles, unfolded it, took out the silver pieces, turned them over and over, counted them, and found them correct.

“Now, your Reverence, will you kindly give me my Tecla’s necklace?”

“Quite right,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to a cupboard, he unlocked it, and having first looked round, as if to keep away any spectators, opened one side, stood in front of the open door, so that no one could see in, put in his head to look for the pledge, and his arm to take it out, and, having extracted it, locked the cupboard, unwrapped the paper, said interrogatively, “All right?” wrapped it up again, and handed it over to Tonio.

“Now,” said the latter, “would you please let me have a little black and white, sir?”

“This, too!” exclaimed Don Abbondio; “they are up to every trick! Eh! how suspicious the world has grown! Can’t you trust me?”

“How, your Reverence, not trust you? You do me wrong! But as my name is down on your book, on the debtor side, ... and you have already had the trouble of writing it once, so ... in case anything were to happen, you know...”

“All right, all right,” interrupted Don Abbondio, and, grumbling to himself, he opened the table drawer, took out pen, paper, and inkstand, and began to write, repeating the words out loud as he set them down. Meanwhile, Tonio, and, at a sign from him, Gervaso, placed themselves in front of the table, so as to prevent the writer from seeing the door, and, as if in mere idleness, began to move their feet about noisily on the floor, in order to serve as a signal to those outside, and, at the same time, to deaden the sound of their footsteps. Don Abbondio, intent on his work, noticed nothing. Renzo and Lucia hearing the signal, entered on tiptoe, holding their breath, and stood close behind the two brothers. Meanwhile, Don Abbondio, who had finished writing, read over the document attentively, without raising his eyes from the paper, folded it, and saying, “Will you be satisfied now?” took off his spectacles with one hand, and held out the sheet to Tonio with the other. Tonio, while stretching out his hand to take it, stepped back on one side, and Gervaso, at a sign from him, on the other, and between the two appeared Renzo and Lucia. Don Abbondio saw them, started, was dumfoundered, became furious, thought it over, and came to a resolution, all in the time that Renzo took in uttering these words: “Your Reverence, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife!” His lips had not yet ceased moving when Don Abbondio let fall the receipt, which he was holding in his left hand, raised the lamp, and seizing the table-cloth with his right hand, dragged it violently towards him, throwing book, papers, and inkstand to the ground, and, springing between the chair and table, approached Lucia. The poor girl, with her sweet voice all trembling, had only just been able to say “This is ...” when Don Abbondio rudely flung the table-cloth over her head, and immediately dropping the lamp which he held in his other hand, used the latter to wrap it tightly round her face, nearly suffocating her, while he roared at the top of his voice, like a wounded bull, “Perpetua! Perpetua! treason! help!” When the light was out the priest let go his hold of the girl, went groping about for the door leading into an inner room, and, having found it, entered and locked himself in, still shouting, “Perpetua! treason! help! get out of this house! get out of this house!” In the other room all was confusion; Renzo, trying to catch the priest, and waving his hands about as though he had been playing at blindman’s buff, had reached the door, and kept knocking, crying out, “Open! open! don’t make a noise!” Lucia called Renzo in a feeble voice, and said supplicatingly, “Let us go! do let us go!” Tonio was down on his hands and knees, feeling about the floor to find his receipt, while Gervaso jumped about and yelled like one possessed, trying to get out by the door leading to the stairs.

In the midst of this confusion we cannot refrain from a momentary reflection. Renzo, raising a noise by night in another man’s house, which he had surreptitiously entered, and keeping its owner besieged in an inner room, has every appearance of being an oppressor,—yet, after all, when you come to look at it, he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, surprised, put to flight, frightened out of his wits while quietly attending to his own business, would seem to be the victim; and yet in reality, it was he who did the wrong. So goes the world, as it often happens; at least, so it used to go in the seventeenth century.

A. Manzoni.

OUR CHILDREN.

Nowadays, things are not what they were.

There are no children,—no boys; instead, we have a swarm of little politicians as yet unchristened—a crowd of Machiavellis seen through the wrong end of an opera-glass, who, if they do go to school every day, only do so for the sake of teaching their masters something—the latter being sorely in need of instruction.

What is it that has exterminated our boys from off the face of the earth?

The reading of political papers!

This is a warning to fathers and mothers.

Fathers of families, of course, are perfectly at liberty to buy a daily paper—or two, or five, or ten. For newspapers, even if taken to excess, are like tamarind jelly—if they do no good, they cannot do much harm. They are quite safe, if you know how to read them—the right way of the stuff, like English broadcloth.

But the mischief is this: fathers of families, when they have glanced over the paper, usually leave it on the table, or the sofa, or the mantelpiece—in short, in one of many places that are within sight and reach of small boys. This is great imprudence; because we must remember that our boys are victims to a gluttonous, eager, devouring passion for the reading of political papers. Perhaps this is an outcome of that inborn instinct which shows itself at a very early age in the love for fables and fairy tales.

Then begin the troubles in the family.

A small boy comes with the newspaper in his hand and asks, his mother—

“Do tell me, mamma, what is the difference between ‘Authentic News’ and ‘Various News’?”

“‘Authentic,’” replies the mother at random, “is what really happens, and ‘Various’ is what the journalists invent to fill up the paper.”

“Oh! what story-tellers!”

“Well, then, you should be very careful always to tell the truth; if you don’t, you will go to Purgatory for seventy years, and in this world every one will take you for a journalist!”

Amid the infinitely varied ranks of youth there are many who, through innate depravity, and a fatally precocious hankering after political life, carry their reckless temerity so far as to read all the Parliamentary reports, from the first line to the last!

Let us say it once for all. When a boy gives himself up without restraint, and without shame, to the reading of the Parliamentary debates, it is all up with him! Good-bye to candour; good-bye to innocence, and the simple language of the age of infancy.

One day Cecco receives a maternal reprimand, because, with his customary negligence, he has omitted to wash his hands.

“I repudiate the malignant insinuation,” replies the culprit, immediately hiding the two inconvenient “documents” in the pockets of his knickerbockers.

Another day Gigino refuses to go to school unless his mother will give him the money to buy a cardboard Punch.

“Yes, dear,” says his mother; “go away to school, and I will buy you the Punch when you come home.”

“No, no, no; I want it now! And if I don’t get it, I will make it a Cabinet question!”

The poor mother, at this speech, finds her understanding failing her, and remains open-mouthed. Then enters Raffaello, the elder brother, who says to the younger—

“Instead of thinking about Punches, you would do better to study your grammar. Remember how yesterday the master, after having three times called you a donkey, ‘passed on to the order of the day, pure and simple.’”

Gigino was about to reply with an impertinence, but, unwilling to fail in respect towards his elder brother, he contented himself with making faces at him.

Mamma (who has meanwhile recovered): “Is that the way you treat your brother? He is older than you, and you ought to respect him.”

Gigino (raising his voice): “I have all possible esteem and respect for the honourable member who has just preceded me”—(the Debates again!); “but, on the other hand, as far as I am concerned, he will always be a liar and a spy....”

Beppino is made of quicksilver. While carrying out one trick he is already thinking of a new one, so that neither in school nor at home is there any peace to be had for him.

At last his father, unable to stand it any longer, called him into the study for a parental lecture.

During the first division of the lecture Beppino was surreptitiously gnawing a dried plum. At the opening of the second division he removed the stone, and shot it at the nose of a plaster Dante on the writing-desk. At the third head Beppino lost all patience, and began to yell—

“Enough! enough! The closure!”

“Closure or no closure!” cried his infuriated parent; “if you interrupt me again with your impudence—rascal, street-boy, chatterbox——”

“Order! order!” cried Beppino, pulling at the bell-rope.

“I’ll order you——”

But, just as his father was about to rise, Beppino snatched the smoking-cap from his head, and, putting it on himself, remarked, in a nasal voice—

“Gentlemen, the President has put on his hat, and the discussion is adjourned.”

The violent ringing of the bell summons the mother, two aunts, the housemaid, and the lady’s little dog. These having heard the narrative of Beppino’s unparalleled insolence, are seized with such indignation that they begin to laugh like mad.

The little dog, being unable to laugh like the rest, barks, and evidences his share in the family joys and sorrows by beginning to gnaw his dear master’s embroidered slippers.

Collodi.

STRAY THOUGHTS OF AN IDLER.

“He who sleeps catches no fish,”—but he who keeps awake catches crabs every moment of his life.

All professions can yield a man enough to live on,—except professions of faith.

When attending the performance of some modern operas, it has struck me that the conductor was only beating time because he could not beat the composer.

If in the sight of the law all men are equal, Heaven save us from getting into its sight.

When you want to get rid of a dog, you take off his collar;—when the king wants to get rid of a minister, he gives him the collar—of the Order of the Annunziata.

The place where they ruin people’s voices, and throw aside all the canons of art, is called the Conservatoire; and a hospital full of sick people is called a “house of health” (Casa di Salute).

Among the many motives which induce me to stay away from the theatre is the utter absence of all motive in modern operas.

How many old phrases are required to make a new electoral programme!

All musical notes may express cheerful ideas; it is only the notes of creditors which arouse none but melancholy reflections.

I entered the shop of a pork-butcher at the moment when his son, aged eight, was returning from school. The poor boy was weeping bitterly.

“The old story!” exclaimed his parent; “I suppose you did not learn your lessons, and the master called you an ass, as you deserved!”

“Yes!” replied the child, sobbing, “he did call me an ass,—and then——”

“Well,—and then—what else?”

“He said, ‘Well, after all, it is no wonder—like father, like son!’”

“Did he, indeed? the animal!” exclaimed the pork-butcher. “And to think that perhaps he has not yet eaten the whole of those two sausages I sent him at Christmas!”

Antonio Ghislanzoni.

MEN AND INSTRUMENTS.

We have been told over and over again that “the style is the man.”

I would substitute for this “The instrument is the man.”

And whereas the proverb runs, “Tell me who your friends are, and I will tell you who you are,” I would amend it thus, “Tell me what you blow into or scrape upon, and I will tell your fortune.”

After this, I must request professional gentlemen, employed in orchestras and otherwise, not to suspect any malicious intent in my remarks, which are principally aimed at amateurs—those who murder some instrument or other out of pure conviction,—all who began to twang the guitar when they were studying medicine, or to practise on the cornet after a year’s experience of matrimony.