his business. He had taken little notice of Signor Roselli; but Signor Roselli was certainly not displeased, if my observation served me, at the Frenchman's departure. The room, however, was too much occupied by a number of demonstrative foreigners to allow of much private conversation at first. The Italian drank freely-rattled on with myself and others, evidently desirous to keep me in good humour, and, in strange contradiction to his character, and doubtless in order to impress me with the innocence and beautiful simplicity of his whole nature, improvised the following almost pastoral story, which I listened to carefully, for fear of missing any revelation which the narrator might drop at an unguarded moment. With what success my attention to the tale was rewarded, the reader must judge after perusal. I have thought well to divest it of its plentiful garnishing of broken English and expressive expletives. CHAPTER VIII. THE FETE AT MAGGIORE. 'Something, light as air—a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken— MOORE. As for Luigi Mazza, he cared little about it, spoke not at all of the Santissima Nicola, and very little even on the subject of the fête. In proportion to the number of heads turned by this celebrated addition to the calendar, grew the carelessness and reserve of the heretical Luigi. I am obliged to confess that such unbecoming conduct much annoyed his handsome wife Teresa, who was undoubtedly une bonne catholique, and observed saints' days with an extremely praiseworthy zeal, especially so long as she had an elegant dress and a few pretty ribbons remaining. But on this occasion her daintiest costume was in fact, a little passé, even amongst the simple and mirth-loving peasantry of the lake, and no amount of management could render her ribbons presentable -the damage which had occurred to them at a rainy fête to some unpropitious worthy, being irremediable. Then Luigi, instead of coming forward like a gracious Italian husband ought to have done, complained of the state of the country, political uncertainties, stagnation of his trade, and with these and other unmeaning phrases audaciously tried to persuade the poor Teresa that this was hardly the time for the purchase of expensive adornments. Just as if the beautiful little Italienne had no common sense too! The time! why if one did not do honour to a new saint in the calendar, what was to become of our religious principles? The good Padres inculcate obedience, and self-sacrifice; but then, husbands are so selfish, and so inconceivably disobedient; and to be sure there would be no other fête again for an incalulable time-not for weeks. It is also on record that the disappointed Teresa marmared something about Giulietta Orsini. Luigi did not murmur; but he muttered, which I take to be the masculine equivalent, and devoted to the maremma the person of one Ludovico Rezzio. However, the travelling merchant, who had brought a tempting stock of mantillas, scarfs, handkerchiefs, ribbons, gloves and dresses, from Milan, left the little village of Baveno before our good friends had been able to come to an understanding. "Ludovico Reggio," said Teresa, "reminds me of the painting which hangs in the Chapel of St. John. A commanding figure, full of strength and youth, with a strongly marked countenance, softened partly by the splendid beard and moustache; but more by the gentle loving look which rests in the eyes." "Giulietta Orsini," followed Luigi, "is better than handsome, for she is pretty-amongst us it is only here and there that true beauty is to be found, prettiness is exceedingly rare-women either are ordinary or handsome, the former being the rule; but Giulietta preserves a medium, and therefore is always agreeable." It is permitted to me to warn the company assembled that Teresa acknowledged to herself that a man, whose only beauty consists in round staring eyes, must of necessity be almost unbearable; while Luigi sneered in his heart at the vain little coquette of the neighbouring village. Alas, this was one of the least of the disagreements which had occurred between my friends of Bavéno. After an elaborate calculation, which I shall take very good care not to trouble you with, I am inclined to believe that they were about equally guilty of little inattentions and thoughtlessnesses, jealousies, and recriminations. During a series of years these had produced most unfortunate results-not that any serious charges could be brought on either side; but the constant succession of droppings from the fountain of discord had ossified in some degree, or, to speak more correctly, had formed around these two hearts a casing like that of stone. They had become independent of each other, so far as feeling went, and their sensation was narrowed to the knowledge of individual wants and sentiments. The Italian, in his business, had sometimes to correspond with customers in France, and to that end it was necessary that he should perfect his slender knowledge of the language; no teacher offering he was thrown upon his resources, and deserved some praise for the attention he bestowed upon the dry grammars and dictionaries which had to be consulted. While deep in these studies, the clear voice of Teresa would be heard carolling some favourite air. It was impossible for Luigi to avoid following her intonations, and he would have somewhat ungraciously, after a time, to beg for quiet. His wife would sulk for a little while, then arrange her hair, scatter about some flowers, and quite appeased, commence a disserta |