whole, and prefer Cecco, since he transforms an ordinary meal into
a beguiling comedy.

"What does it matter, after all?" asks Salemina. "It is not life
we are living, for the moment, but an act of light opera, with the
scenes all beautifully painted, the music charming and melodious,
the costumes gay and picturesque. We are occupying exceptionally
good seats, and we have no responsibility whatever: we left it in
Boston, where it is probably rolling itself larger and larger, like
a snowball; but who cares?"

"Who cares, indeed?" I echo. We are here not to form our
characters or to improve our minds, but to let them relax; and when
we see anything which opposses the Byronic ideal of Venice (the use
of the concertina as the national instrument having this tendency),
we deliberately close our eyes to it. I have a proper regard for
truth in matters of fact like statistics. I want to know the exact
population of a town, the precise total of children of school age,
the number of acres in the Yellowstone Park, and the amount of
wheat exported in 1862; but when it comes to things touching my
imagination I resent the intrusion of some laboriously excavated
truth, after my point of view is all nicely settled, and my saints,
heroes, and martyrs are all comfortably and picturesquely arranged
in their respective niches or on their proper pedestals.

When the Man of Fact demolishes some pretty fallacy like William
Tell and the apple, he should be required to substitute something
equally delightful and more authentic. But he never does. He is a
useful but uninteresting creature, the Man of Fact, and for a
travelling companion or a neighbour at dinner give me the Man of