ITALIAN VIGNETTES.

r. people of our village are mostly cantadini working in the vineyards ; very poor, yet seemingly happy, cheerful and contented, although their principal meal consists often of only a hunch of bread with a dab of "ricotto"—a cheese made from goat's milk—or of tomato pulp. Everything is either seasoned or eaten with tomato and garlic. A small girl the other day, buying two soldi-worth of dry and leathery haddock at the village shop, complained that the fish had too many bones, and the padrone, something of a wag in his way, gravely recommended her to eat the bones with tomato! The peasants seldom buy more than two or three soldi-worth of any- thing (a soldo is about the value of our halfpenny), and they look on with eyes wide open and gasps of astonishment when the English " signori" spend several lire all at once. " Truly, the pockets of these English are bulging with gold," murmurs one to another. When turkeys were in season the very well- to-do bought three or four pennyworth of turkey at a time— the birds hung in the butcher's shop, and he carved them piecemeal, till nothing was left but the head and the tail- feathers. Even these last are not wasted, for they are made into the fans to fan the charcoal in the stove.

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If one were to judge by the quantity of washing always banging about in the streets and on the houses one would think (very incorrectly) that the Italian race was the cleanest on earth. Living in flats and having no little back gardens or yards, such as most cottages have in England, the people are forced to make use of every available railing, or post, or balcony to dry their clothes upon. Even the great princely palazzo is not exempt; it forms one side of the piazza and faces the sun, so that the village considers its iron bars and lower windows extremely suitable spots to dry the washing, or the figs and walnuts ! Would the Duke of Devonshire, for instance, allow his park railings to be draped with the village wash P I wonder. Yet the Principe must be aware of what happens, for I saw him drive under the great archway in his motor, blandly ignoring the festoons of garments around, and I felt an intense admiration for his kindness of heart, remem- bering how, at home, it had been a dire offence for a maid to hang even a duster on a gooseberry bush.

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Opposite the palazzo, in the middle of the piazza, are two charming fountains, and beyond them is the post-office, a spot which is the cause of much annoyance and vexation of spirit to the English signore, who fumes when he goes to post an important parcel and encounters a written notice to the effect that every one has gone to take a siesta, and he must come

again at two! Or he wants to send a money order, and after about twenty minutes' fruitless searching and rummaging the officials discover there are no forms—perhaps some might arrive to-morrow or next day. " Or perhaps next week," says the signore. But the sarcasm is thrown away upon the clerk, who agrees most pleasantly that they might come by next week. The latter transacts all business with a cigarette in his mouth, and is an amiable but profoundly ignorant person. I asked on what day the mail left for California, and he told me, with an air of surprise, that it left every day, and it was quite a shock to him when he realized that mail steamers only sail on certain days. When the postman feels disinclined for walking he does not bring our letters, but quietly takes them back to the office, or carries them about in. his pocket on the chance of meeting some member of the family during the day. This imparts a feeling of uneasiness with regard to one's corre- spondence.

• • • • • Italians have a great respect for the method and the prac- tical orderly qualities of the English. They are so little law- abiding themselves, yet they seem able to admire discipline in others. It would be useless to make laws in Italy; they would be broken at once. You have but to see a notice anywhere, "E vietato" (it is forbidden) to do so and so, to be quite sure that everybody does that particular thing. In the trains are notices that the public is forbidden to smoke or spit, both of which amusements it pursues most vigorously ; a path is " severely prohibited" from use, and you find a per- petual stream of people using it as a short cut. In fact, you can do as you like and go where you like—yon may take excursions into your neighbour's garden, smell his flowers, and even pick them, without any one apparently minding. On first coming to Italy I found it difficult to grasp this ; my insular mind was shocked at finding my neighbour's maid- servant strolling round my garden, and when I asked, some- what severely, if she wanted anything, she only smiled cheerfully and said, "No." She had "just come to look round."

• • • • • • Charming land, sans One, where you may stroll upon the high road in your dressing-gown without exciting remark, or take a nap on the grassy footpath at the roadside when the noonday sun grows hot ; the mules and donkeys, who also take the footpath, contrive very neatly to step over any object that may lie in their way ! Poor mules ! How they are thumped and banged! Poor, patient bundles of bones ! Every one is fat here except the animals. The village is overrun by starving dogs picking up a scanty living out of the heaps of refuse in the streets, lean pigs, and leaner cats and fowls. The fowls are everywhere. They live in the houses : I saw some looking down in a most forlorn way from a top window, and in a neighbouring villa they live on the staircase ; we can see them hopping about when a certain window happens to be open.

The English love of animals seems generally known, for a. man insisted on our buying two sacks of charcoal for the sake of his mule, as he put it. We did not want charcoal, and the signore firmly refused it; after much argument the man clinched matters by saying that the mule had a pain in its stomach, and the signora, whose heart was palpitating with humanity, would never permit the poor beast to carry those two sacks any further! And without more ado he brought them in and deposited them in the kitchen.

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In our tramps over the hills and through the chestnut woods we sometimes come upon a clearing where the char- coal-burners are at work. It makes a pretty picture: the smouldering heaps of wood giving out a filmy blue smoke, pungent and pleasant, the men chopping and barking the felled trees that are carried away as fast as they are finished in a primitive arrangement on two wheels drawn by big white oxen, women and children gathering the brushwood into neat bundles and packing it on donkeys' backs, a crimson handker- chief and a blue petticoat making choice splashes of colour, over all the bright spring sunshine, underfoot a carpet of spring flowers. Not even the sweet Devonshire lanes, when the primroses and bluebells are out, can equal the wild flowers of Italy in springtime! The very thought of a primrose brings a lump into our throats and an ache into our hearts, but the flowers of the Ca.mpagna are a wonder in their variety and

abundance. By the end of February every place is literally covered with mauve and purple crocus, violets, hyacinths of an intense blue, jonquils, narcissus, daffodils, anemones (pink, white, mauve, and blue), and myriads of other flowers whose names are unknown to me.

All the summer the birds are strangely silent; perhaps they are mostly migratory sorts and return in the autumn, for in November the Campagna is the scene of a cruel " sport." A decoy bird is tied to a high pole by a string from its leg ; it flutters wildly, of course, and its frantic efforts to get away attract the attention of certain migratory birds that fly over the Campagna in great flights. Curiosity brings them round the captive bird, and they are then slaughtered by the cacciatore, who has been sitting under a neighbouring Ledge, probably with a huge umbrella to keep the sun off. This is considered an excellent divertimento. The term cacciatore, or hunter, is applied to any one who shoots whether it be wild boar or sparrow. He frequently goes forth to shoot with his gun in one hand and a large umbrella in the other. You see him furtively stalking his game, mostly small birds ; and when the bird is comfortably sitting on a twig he fires, with an explosion like a cannon. The bird generally flies away.

In the park behind the garden we often find dead birds that have been wounded and crept in there to die, greatly to the Bairn's distress. He found a blackbird's body one day, and he said later, " That blackbird wasn't wasted, Mummie. Enrico had it for his tea! " Enrico is a gardener, and his employer has lapses of memory and forgets to pay Enrico's wages for several months at a time, so that the poor man has beeu on the verge of starvation more than once. He takes it very calmly and shrugs his shoulders. " We can do on a bit of bread, Signore."

• The 'Blue Grotto,' our principal osteria, is a general meet- ing-place for the discussion of the topics of the day. On summer evenings the men stand round the fountains to talk, but in the winter the Grotto Azurro,' though not a very cheerful spot, at least affords protection from the cold wind. It is badly lighted and comfortless; the tables are boards on trestles, and great wine barrels lurk in dim corners ; a door- way leads straight into the kitchen, where the one-eyed chef may be seen manipulating his pots and pans at the stove. A seat as near the kitchen door as possible is con- sidered most desirable, because then you can watch the cook and see if he should play any unsavoury tricks with your meal! In fact, so many people invaded the kitchen to inspect the progress of their suppers that the padrone was obliged to put up a notice over the door that " ingress° " was "proibito." Like other prohibitions it remains a dead letter.

There is no drunkenness in our village : the men will sit half the evening talking over a glass of wine, and probably add water to it. In that respect, and also in respect of morals, the Italian villages I know compare very favourably with the English. Divorce is unknown at present in Italy, but there is a party in the country which would like to bring in divorce laws. The question was under discussion one night at the

Blue Grotto ' ; some of the younger spirits were in favour of the new movement, when from his corner spoke an elderly contadino. "I am an old man," he said. "I have had fifteen children. The wife and I have quarrelled, a vero; but after a kiss it was all over. If the woman does wrong kill her! But divorce? No." A drastic method, but no doubt an excel- lent deterrent.

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Italians believe in large families. A lady of our acquaint- ance has had twenty children; most people have eight or nine. Our host of the Blue Grotto' has nine, and very admirably brought up. I saw the whole family taking their supper in the general room of the osteria. The eldest little girl was at the head of the table, helping the others out of an immense bowl of macaroni ; even the baby of two con- trived to eat macaroni with a fork in a fairly expert manner. When they had finished they all stood up in a row, and one after another they gravely kissed their mother's hand and departed to bed. The manners and customs of the "grown- ups " are equally medieval, but not always so pretty. Their supper came next, and consisted of a dish of fish caught in the lake. It was set in the middle of the table, and the company helped themselves with their fingers, bit off the fishes' heads and tails, and threw them on the floor! Also, the Italian peasant before he drinks will very often pour a little wine into his glass, rinse round, and throw it on the floor, saying, " A Bacco!" It really is the old libation to Bacchus.

The Capuchin monk, too, who comes to us every week begging for alms might have stepped out of the Middle Ages, with his coarse brown habit, bare feet and sandals, and knotted rope round his waist. Sometimes he is mounted on a mule, with a little sack of something, it might be money, tied on to his saddle in front. He carries with him a bag of brown velvety stuff he calls " devil's skin" that holds a vast variety of things : he will dive into its capacious depths and bring out a little present for us of verdura—a cabbage, or a lettuce, or vegetable of some sort.