We both stopped. The Savoyard, seeing us, put his arch head on one side, showed all his white teeth in that happy smile so peculiar to his race, and in which poverty seems to beg so blithely, and gave the handle of his instrument a turn.
"Poor child!" said I.
"Aha, you pity him! but why? According to your rule, Mr Caxton, he is not so much to be pitied; the dropsical jeweller would give him as much for his limbs and health as for ours! How is it—answer me, son of so wise a father—that no one pities the dropsical jeweller, and all pity the healthy Savoyard? It is, sir, because there is a stern truth which is stronger than all Spartan lessons—Poverty is the master-ill of the world. Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the graves? Look at that large tomb fenced round; read that long inscription:—'virtues'—'best of husbands'—'affectionate father'—'inconsolable grief'—'sleeps in the joyful hope,' &c., &c. Do you suppose these stoneless mounds hide no dust of what were men just as good? But no epitaph tells their virtues; bespeaks their wives' grief; or promises joyful hope to them!"
"Does it matter? Does God care for the epitaph and tombstone?"
"Date qualche cosa!" said the Savoyard, in his touching patois, still smiling, and holding out his little hand.
Therein I dropped a small coin. The boy evinced his gratitude by a new turn of the hurdy-gurdy.
"That is not labour," said my companion; "and had you found him at work, you had given him nothing. I too have my instrument to play upon and my mice to see after. Adieu!"
He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the graves back in the direction we had come.
I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph; the Savoyard looked at me wistfully.