"Aha, you pity him! but why? According to your rule, Mr. Caxton, he is not so much to be pitied; the dropsical jeweller would give him as much 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. CHAPTER VI. The Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter into conversation with him. That was not easy. However, I began. Pisistratus.--"You must be often hungry enough, my poor boy. Do the mice feed you?" Savoyard puts his head on one side, shakes it, and strokes his mice. Pisistratus.-"You are very fond of the mice; they are your only friends, I fear." Savoyard evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs his face gently against the mice, then puts them softly down on a grave, and gives a turn to the hurdy-gurdy. The mice play unconcernedly over the grave. Pisistratus, pointing first to the beasts, then to the instrument.-- "Which do you like best, the mice or the hurdygurdy?" Savoyard shows his teeth--considers--stretches himself on the grass- plays with the mice--and answers volubly. Pisistratus, by the help of Latin comprehending that the Savoyard says that the mice are alive, and the hurdy-gurdy is not.--"Yes, a live friend is better than a dead one. Mortua est hurdy-gurda!" Savoyard shakes his head vehemently.--"No--no, Eccellenza, non e morta!" and strikes up a lively air on the slandered instrument. The Savoyard's face brightens-he looks happy; the mice run from the grave into his bosom. Pisistratus, affected, and putting the question in Latin.--"Have you a father?"