“Si, signore! but how came you to think that I was from the Lake of Como?” “Because,” said I, “when I was a ragazzo I knew many from the Lake of Como, who dressed much like yourself. They wandered about the country with boxes on their backs and weather-glasses in their hands, but had their head-quarters at N. where I lived.” “Do you remember any of their names?” said the Italian. “Giovanni Gestra and Luigi Pozzi,” I replied. “I have seen Giovanni Gestra myself,” said the Italian, “and I have heard of Luigi Pozzi. Giovanni Gestra returned to the Lago—but no one knows what is become of Luigi Pozzi.” “The last time I saw him,” said I, “was about eighteen years ago at Coruña, in Spain; he was then in a sad drooping condition, and said he bitterly repented ever quitting N.” “E con ragione,” said the Italian, “for there is no place like N. for doing business in the whole world. I myself have sold seventy pounds’ worth of weather-glasses at N. in one day. One of our people is living there now, who has done bene, molto bene.” “That’s Rossi,” said I, “how is it that I did not mention him first? He is my excellent friend, and a finer cleverer fellow never lived, nor a more honourable man. You may well say he has done well, for he is now the first jeweller in the place. The last time I was there I bought a diamond of him for my daughter Henrietta. Let us drink his health!” “Willingly!” said the Italian. “He is the prince of the Milanese of England—the most successful of all, but I acknowledge the most deserving. Che viva.” “I wish he would write his life,” said I; “a singular life it would be—he has been something besides a travelling merchant, and a jeweller. He was one of Buonaparte’s soldiers and served in Spain, under Soult, along with John Gestra. He once told me that Soult was an old rascal, and stole all the fine pictures from the convents, at Salamanca. I believe he spoke with some degree of envy, for he is himself fond of pictures, and has dealt in them, and made hundreds by them. I question whether if in Soult’s place he would not have done the same. Well, however that may be, che viva.” Here the landlady interposed, observing that she wished we would now speak English, for that she had quite enough of Italian, which she did not find near so pretty a language as she had expected. “You must not judge of the sound of Italian from what proceeds from my mouth,” said I. “It is not my native language. I have had little practice in it, and only speak it very imperfectly.” “Nor must you judge of Italian from what you have heard me speak,” said the man of Como; “I am not good at Italian, for the Milanese speak amongst themselves a kind of jargon composed of many languages, and can only express themselves with difficulty in Italian. I have been doing my best to speak Italian but should be glad now to speak English, which comes to me much more glibly.”