with water. "And I am sure, signor, it would
make you better, if you would but drink
some." I complied with her request by
swallowing with a good grace the dose she
offered, and her heart thereupon was opened.
"Sure, your excellency, 'tis a blessed medicine.
Padre Antonio has just come back
from Jerusalem, as you may see." Here she
unrolled, in proof of the fact, a sheet of paper
covered with bad pictures of the Temple,
Bethlehem, the Madonna and Child, the
Stable, and so forth, which were the border
to a set of doggerel verses. "And the padre
himself in his travels came to the great mountain
of milk, which was made, he says, when
the Madonna fled with her bambino into Egypt.
Some drops of her milk fell on the ground,
and immediately they grew up into this
mountain. It was a prodigious miracle,
signor." "Prodigious!" I agreed. "And,"
said the old charm-dealer, "that is not all the
wonder of it; for, although pious monks carry
away every year a great part of the mountain,
yet it has never lost in size, by so much
as the bigness of an olive, since it was first
made." My own faith being weak, I was not
benefited by this medicine.

Supernatural help failing, I had only the
natural to look to. Offers of aid were
tendered to me by a very eminent neighbour,
who, because he does not find that the practice
of medicine will keep his hands—or his mouth
—full, combines with it the occupation of
day-labourer. In his capacity of labourer,
this person is called Bugiardello, or the little
liar, in contradistinction to his father, who is
Bugiardo, the big liar. But Bugiardello when
engaged upon a patient is respectfully styled
Don Francisco; and there are times when
he is absolutely regarded with veneration.
The fame of Don Francisco extends even
to Naples, and to spots forty or fifty miles
distant from his native place; and when he
sets out on a distant expedition, he arrays
himself in a state dress—an entire suit of
black cloth and a real Parisian hat—which is
reserved for such occasions. All heads bow
before him when he goes abroad in this attire,
and tongues are quiet that have wagged often
enough against the work-a-day Bugiardello in
his red Phrygian cap and jacket. Don
Francisco was originally famous for his vermifuges,
which were doggerel verses spoken by him
while he pressed with his forefinger and
thumb against the stomach of his patient.
The vicar of our parish, however, claimed a
monopoly of this branch of the healing art,
and forbade its exercise by Don Francisco,
who accordingly lost income until he made his
great discovery that all diseases begin in the
milt or spleen. There are few sound stomachs
among us, and, as every stomach ache or twinge
of indigestion is declared to be a symptom of
disease in the spleen; Bugiardello has a crowd
of patients round his door at sunrise every
morning. Each patient brings with him a
fresh egg or two, and the doctor beats up egg
and herbs to make a healing application to
the part affected. Sometimes, he applies only
the inside of a cactus leaf to the patient, and
eats the egg himself.

The regular doctor looks with a true affection
of the spleen at Bugiardello's practice,
and often threatens to inform against him as
a cheat. He never, however, gives himself
that trouble. In close alliance with the legally
recognised practitioner is a gentleman who
puts over his door the picture of a person whose
blood spouts from every vein, and who is
evidently soothing himself by the trickling of
so many fountains. I call this ally of the
practitioner, a gentleman, but he is properly
a fop, and commonly appears with a full-
blown rose in his buttonhole, daintily walking
on his toes. He is the village barber, who is
also, in our case, a municipal officer, acting
as turnkey to the village gaol. He has taken
out his degree as bleeder, and is constantly
at the heels of the doctor himself, whom
etiquette forbids to use the lancets. It is
Barber Andrea's belief that loss of blood
is the chief gain that can accrue to man.
This opinion being to some extent
prevalent, every person in the village, sick or
sound, is bled periodically, and many take
bleeding and hair-cutting together, as a
matter of course, once a month. Barber
Andrea's marks are thus set upon every
hand in the form of a number of small white
scars, and if you meet the blood-letter
himself abroad, he is commonly to be seen with
his cuffs turned up, as if he had but that
instant stabbed a vein. At the same time, he
will own to you, that as he is a shapely man,
he cannot help displaying some pride in his
wrists.

For the charge taken by him of the poor—
who constitute almost our whole population—
the legal doctor of the commune receives pay
from government. The manner in which he is
subsidised, differs but little from the customs
observed in Italy three centuries ago. Each
commune has a limited power of choice.
When a vacancy occurs, the syndic reports to
the sub-intendent, who reports to the
intendent, who reports to the superintendent
minister of the interior. In the case of the
islands under Neapolitan rule, a competition
is invited, and the candidate who passes as
the best man gets the office. It is worth a
trifle under forty pounds a-year. On the
mainland, the minister selects one of three
doctors, named to him by the municipality;
and the pay is, in a commune of the first class,
about twenty guineas a-year to a physician,
and thirteen to a surgeon; in a commune of the
second class, the respective salaries are twelve
and ten guineas; and in a commune of the
third class, eight guineas and four pounds.
The payments on the mainland are less than
those in the islands, because in the former case
there is also some field for private practice. If
the district served be of more than a given
area, the salary is larger by a third. A physician