for his limbs and health as for ours! How is it--answer me, son of so
wise a father--that no one pities the dropsical jeweller, and all pity
the healthy Savoyard? It is, sir, because there is a stern truth which
is stronger than all Spartan lessons,--Poverty is the master-ill of the
world. Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the graves? Look
at that large tomb fenced round; read that long inscription: 'Virtue'--
'best of husbands'--'affectionate father'--'inconsolable grief'-'sleeps
in the joyful hope,' etc. Do you suppose these stoneless mounds hide no
dust of what were men just as good? But no epitaph tells their virtues,
bespeaks their wifes' grief, or promises joyful hope to them!"

"Does it matter? Does God care for the epitaph and tombstone?"

"Datemi qualche cosa!" said the Savoyard, in his touching patois, still
smiling, and holding out his little hand; therein I dropped a small
coin. The boy evinced his gratitude by a new turn of the hurdy-gurdy.

"That is not labor," said my companion; "and had you found him at work,
you had given him nothing. I, too, have my instrument to play upon, and
my mice to see after. Adieu!"

He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the graves back in the
direction we had come.

I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph: the Savoyard looked
at me wistfully.