The marionettes are an absorbing interest for the people of Sicily. There is something appealing about the audiences of the usual modest theatrino. It is composed entirely of men and boys; many of them may have eaten dry bread without cheese or onions to save the small sum required for admission. The people of the country are very poor, but this is their favorite diversion. So they sit crowded into a dark little hall, spellbound for hours, transported into a world of romance which their spirits crave. It may be filled with crude, primitive puppets, but it is glorified by the vivid intensity of their imaginations. The Sicilian shows are not very unlike the Italian. One finds farces with local maschere, grotesque comedy, passion-plays, tragedies and occasional ballets. But of all plays those forever and most intensely adored are the ones founded upon the episodes of Ariosto’s _Orlando Furioso_. Night after night the successions of thrilling adventures proceed. Year after year the same dramas are presented, regardless of historic veracity or of the artistic unities; their spell remains the same. Time cannot wither nor custom stale their infinite invariability. The spectators recognize (nay, they anticipate) each puppet hero or villain as he enters. They know every detail of every character’s costume. They have the order of events by heart. Mr. Henry Festing Jones, wandering delightfully in Sicily, visited a show in Trapani where the burattini were presenting some version of the Paladins of France. Before entering, his guide, Pasquale, informed him: “She will die to-night.” He referred to Bradamante. Mr. Jones expressed regret and asked for particulars, whereupon Pasquale elucidated: “She will die of grief at the loss of her husband.” And so, indeed, she did. It proved an affecting scene and was read with deep pathos. The Empress Marfisa, searching for Bradamante in the woods, finds her prostrate in a grotto. “Farewell, sister, I am dying.” Then she dies. An angel flutters down and receives her soul from her lips. More thrilling, of course, was the fighting of the red-eyed Ferrain, performed the same night (red-eyed, incidentally, “because he was always in a rage”). The first episode presented Ferrain and Angelica whose husband he killed. “He cut off Duca d’Anela’s head, which rolled about on the stage. Immediately there came three Turks. Ferrain stabbed each as he entered, one, two, three, and their bodies encumbered the ground as the curtain fell. “It rose as soon as the bodies had been removed, Ferrain stamping about alone. There came three more Turks. He stabbed them as they came, one, two, three, and their bodies encumbered the ground. To them there came three knights in armour; Ferrain fought them all three together for a very considerable time and it was deafening. He killed them all. Their bodies, etc., together with those of the three Turks. A bloody sight.”