the Senora Fulvia's. She is the sister of the
great Signor Corroni, a widow, and called, by
what right no one knows, La Barronessa. She
was for some years of her life a resident of
Parma or Modena, her husband being the
impressario of a theatre, and she entertains for our
village, in consequence, a supreme contempt—
sentiments which, I am bound to say, redound
immensely to the consequence she assumes amongst
us. A more dreary piece of worn-out finery
cannot be imagined. She is a poor withered
skinny creature, painted and lacquered, looking
for all the world in her tinsel ghastliness like one
of the glass-coffined saints one sees in certain
churches; but she treats us with contumely,
and we revere her. We accept the honour of
being admitted to her dreary room and her fireless
hearth as a proud distinction; and we utter
the magic word Barronessa as a balm to our
own hearts as frequently as possible.

The chief ornament of these receptions was—
I cannot say is, for he has left us—a certain
Signor Pipo Strani, who was the funny man of
our village. He had been originally a drawing-
master; but, in the course of his travels, had
turned his hand to various pursuits. He had been
railway clerk, language teacher, image-man, mesmeric
lecturer, organ-grinder, and ended by
being chief of the ballet at some small theatre,
where he married a figurante, but soon deserted
her, and came back to the isolation of our
village till the scandal had evaporated, and he
might return once more to that larger world
that he loved.

We Porto Strettists knew nothing of this
misadventure at the time. We regarded his visit
as a sort of homage to his native town, as
though saying, "See me here with all the
suffrages of a great popularity, and mark how
glad I am to revisit you." This was the sixth
time of his coming back to Porto Stretto,
and it was remarked that he had less of the
tumultuous gaiety, the overflowing spirits, than
before. He did all the little tricks at cards
that used to delight us so much. We saw the
knave of spades stuck up on the ceiling, and
found the ace of diamonds in the most inscrut-
able of our pockets. He performed a whole
opera: prima donna, tenor, barytone, basso, and
chorus, with a storm scene and a grand
discharge of fireworks at the finale. He conducted
us through an imaginary zoological garden, and
danced as a bear, skipped as a monkey, and
howled as a tiger to perfection. Finally, he
drew a chalk line on the floor, and performed
on the tight rope with such inimitable mimicry,
that we could not believe he was not dancing
fathoms high in the air; and, when he asked for
a walking-stick to balance himself, we actually
did not at once know how we were to make it
reach him. When arrived at the limit of the
cord he sprang round, and made his feet hit the
line exactly in the centre. I absolutely thought
"the house would come down" with applause.
This last display was an entirely new attraction.
Poor fellow! it was a costly addition to his
répertoire, for, as we afterwards learned, it was
Madame Strani herself that he was caricaturing.

He gave imitations of popular preachers
and orators. I suppose they were good, but
none of us had seen or heard Cavour, or
Ricasoli, or Pantaleo, or Gavazzi; but we all
relished a description of the Duke of Modena
running away, and packing up his portmanteau
before he left the kingdom. This was the last
thing he gave us, and I remember we walked
home together when it was over.

"Do you mean to stay a good while with us,
Pipo?" asked I, as we smoked our cigars in the
calm night air.

"Here? at Porto Stretto? Dio mi guarda!
Heaven forbid!" said he. "What could I do
here? Why, you are all poorer, more
barbarous, more backward than ever. I left you
years ago listening to that old donkey Corroni."

"The consul at Termakopolis!"

"The same," he resumed. "The stalest
humbug that ever imposed upon a stupid
community; and I find you at the same point still.
Why isn't he burned in effigy? Why ain't you
lighted with gas? Why haven't you a mole,
and a harbour, an Academy of Fine Arts, and a
statue of me in the Piazza? I am the only
Porto Strettist that the world has ever heard of."

"That is true," said I; "but we are poor—
very poor."

"And you'll always be poor," said he,
"because you are a low grovelling miserable set,
imagining yourselves prosperous when you can
cheat in the price of a melon, and pass off a
basket of indifferent figs as good ones. Wait,
however. You'll see a change one of these days.
I'm going up to Turin now to see Fabri, the
minister, about my new telegraph apparatus.
I'll see what can be done for you. You must
have a railroad."

"But where to?"

"That does not matter—to Naples, to
Moscow, anywhere. And you must have a
lighthouse."

"But nobody wants a lighthouse."

"How could they, if they never saw one.
Which of you wants caviare, or photography,
or the Turkish bath? But you would all want
them, and strive for them, and strain for them,
if you only knew their worth. Gerolamo,"
said he, solemnly, "I thought better of you;
but I was wrong; you are only fit for Porto
Stretto." These were the last words I ever
heard him speak.

I was sorry for his departure. The buoyant
geniality of a sanguine hopeful temperament
is a marvellous benefit to any dull community
with few interests to move, few objects to
excite them. Besides, Pipo served as a link
between us and that outer world of which,
Chinese-like, we entertained an uncommonly
low opinion, and for whose habits, but for
Pipo, we had thought even more hardly.

About six months after he left us an event
occurred with which, rightfully or wrongfully,
we concurred in connecting him. Just as the
day was breaking, on a bright October morning