It was one very lovely evening in the early autumn that I first became acquainted with the little village of San Jacopo.

I was staying at Nice with my two daughters, the youngest of whom had been ordered abroad for her health; and occasionally, when wearied by the monotonous routine of our life, I used to amuse myself by making excursions of some days' length in the neighbourhood.

These journeys often brought me upon beautiful and secluded villages, unknown to the ordinary traveller, and passed by as merely far-off features of the surrounding landscape; but seldom have I beheld a more picturesque scene than that presented to me by my first sight of San Jacopo.

The village lies in a bay, huge rocks closing it in on every side except on the south, where the sea ripples to its feet, intensely, wondrously blue, as only the Mediterranean can be. The sole access to it is by steep paths, cut in zigzag lines down the cliffs, in some places

VOL. CXVII.-NO. DCCXI.

so steep that they become rugged steps, only to be trodden by man and the sure-footed mule. The main road of the Riviera runs some miles inland, and the fisher population live on from year to year undisturbed by visitors.

The sun had just gone down, and the after-glow of the warm south tinged every object with its golden light. The sea lay calm and still as a lake, scarcely ruffling itself into little glistening wreaths of foam, as it played with the base of the rocks. Myrtle and arbutus, and masses of emerald vegetation, grew down to the very water's edge.

It was growing late, but I could not resist the temptation of going down into the village; and I was well rewarded. Through quaint, narrow streets, overhung by the wide projecting roofs of the houses, I walked till a sudden turn brought me into the piazza of the village. It was large for so small a place. On one side the little church, with its tall slender belfry, and in the midst a large fountain-the clear

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water dripping over the side out of the broken lips of four quaint old lions.

Two or three steps led up to this fountain, and on and about these a group of peasants was assembled; some sat, some leant over the edge; all were talking and gesticulating, and a look of gaiety animated the whole scene. It was, I remembered, a festa.

In one corner of the piazza sat an old woman selling medallions, images, rosaries, &c.; and now and then her shrill voice echoed through the crowd, "Buy, buy, Signori; for the love of heaven !"

Suddenly a side-door of the church, probably that of the sacristy, opened, and a loud deep voice called out, "Olà, Carola, come here!" A tidy-looking woman left her doorway and hurried across to the church-she appeared to say something which I could not hear; then the former voice exclaimed, "Certainly, certainly." The door was thrown open, and the village priest came forth and advanced towards me.

The Curato of San Jacopo was a tall angular man, with a mild and kindly expression of face. In any other than an Italian the large limbs and gaunt frame would have been awkward; but there was a certain grace in his movements, and even in the way in which the scanty and rather rusty cassock hung closely around him. The courtesy with which he removed the three-cornered hat from his tonsured head, and bowed low, would have rivalled the courtly welcome of the highestborn gentleman.

"Welcome, welcome, Signore!" he said, extending a long sinewy hand, with supple fingers; "without doubt you have heard of our picture, and would like to see it? Alas! it is becoming dark, and the morning light is best. But what

matter? one cannot always choose !" and beckoning me to follow, he led the way towards the principal door of the church.

The peasants stood aside as we passed, looking after me with smiling, good-humoured faces. One among them especially attracted my attention--a tall youth, standing on the steps of the fountain, and leaning over the side. He was dressed in a fashion rather superior to that of his companions, and looked somewhat above them in intelligence, if not in rank. Though all those who stood round him were chattering and laughing gaily, he neither moved nor spoke, but stood motionless as a statue, with his eyes fixed on the water.

"Would you tell me, Signore," I asked, "is that tall young fellow one of the village fishermen, like the others?"

"Who? where? Ah! it is Nencini you speak of. Yes, he is a fisherman; poor lad, he is sadly afflicted-dumb from his birth! Yonder is his mother, Carola-excellent woman! she is my housekeeper, and I have been able to give him something of an education; but he is but he is a fisherman, without doubt. We are all fishermen here."

"Dumb from his birth "-poor fellow! I looked back at him as we entered the church, the priest courteously holding back the heavy leather curtain to let me pass. I was struck by the expression of the lad's face-it could not be called bad; but there was a dark look of bitterness on it which sadly marred its beauty. I need hardly say that I had never before heard of the picture I was supposed to have come to see; but I did not betray my ignorance, for it would have deeply mortified the excellent priest.

The church was very small, but elaborately decorated. The sidealtar of its patron saint, San Jacopo,

was, above all, honoured-the altar, apse, and wall being quite covered with votive offerings,-little pictures of wrecks and storms, of miraculous draughts of fish, of broken boats, &c., with silver hearts of every size and weight, and, in front, a whole row of lamps burning, each in its little red glass.

Over the altar hung the famous picture, covered by a faded green curtain. After lighting two of the tall candles before it, the good priest drew aside the curtain, and allowed me to behold the treasure of San Jacopo.

It was a curious, very old specimen of Byzantine art-the Madonna and Child, almost black with age, and made more so by the huge flat crowns of beaten silver on the brows of the sacred figures. Something there was about it dignified and grand, as there often is even in the inferior specimens of that school.

The Curato was just beginning his explanations when a sound from without arrested his attention; shouts of laughter, and a curious sort of noise like the inarticulate roar of some enraged animal-then a shrill woman's voice, talking loudly.

"Allow me, allow me, Signore! a little moment," he exclaimed, hurriedly quitting the church. Presently I heard his voice loudly remonstrating, and the sounds ceased. For some time he did not return, and I sat down on a bench in front of the sacred picture. After about ten minutes I got tired of waiting, and went to the door, intending to go out; when, rather to my consternation, I found that it was locked. I could not help smiling, for it was very evident that the priest was so afraid of my escaping without hearing his story, that he had locked me in. There was nothing for it but patience, and I philosophically resigned myself to my fate.

The after-glow faded away; the short southern twilight was over, and the little church grew darker and darker.

After an absence of about threequarters of an hour, the priest returned through the sacristy, followed by Gian-Battista Nencini, the dumb lad.

Gian-Battista-or Giannetto, as he was usually called-seated himself in a corner of the church, sullenly twisting his broad-brimmed hat between his knees; while, as if unconscious that a moment had elapsed since he left me, the good priest continued his discourse just where he had left off.

"Behold, Signore, what grace! what benevolence! how natural the attitude! The picture has not always been here. Heaven knows that San Jacopo might have been a great and flourishing town by this time had it always been with us. No, no! in the fourteenth century it was carried off by a certain Ceccolo degli Orsini, one of the Roman princes, they say, a great condottiere by sea and land. He carried it as a banner for years; but, by the intervention of the saints, it was preserved from spears and swords, and it won for him the battle of Turrita, in the Valdichiana, when he was in the service of the republic of Siena. Some eighty years ago it was sold in Rome (by whom, it is not known), but it was bought for a French convent, and sent off by sea from Cività Vecchia. By the miraculous ordinance of heaven the ship went down, and the picture was washed ashore. It was found on the beach by the fishermen,. and brought back once more into the church. Alas! some of the drapery was damaged, but it has been well restored by a young artist who passed through the town; and behold, the principal parts, the two faces, are intact. Since it has been

here, many are the good deeds it has done. Look at this picture"pointing to one of the votive offerings-"see the raging sea, the sinking boat, the man swimming for his life! That man was Pietro Nencini, father of Giannetto yonder. At the moment he was sinking he called on the Santa Madonna of San Jacopo, and just as he called, he felt dry land! He lived to die in his bed, and leave his widow to be my housekeeper! Ah, it was a wonderful preservation! Many a time has poor Carola entreated the intervention of Madonna and San Jacopo to restore speech to her son; but —what will you?-'tis the will of Heaven."

The priest paused to take breath, and I asked him what had been the cause of his leaving me so abruptly. He bent down, and spoke low, that Giannetto should not hear.

"It was those lads," he said. "In their idle hours they are always laughing and mocking Giannetto; and when I am not there, they drive him half mad. Heaven help me! at such times he is a wild beast, and even I can scarcely calm him. Cruel! cruel! Why cannot they leave the poor boy alone?"

The priest turned angrily round, looking at Giannetto. He continued, with a sigh, "Sometimes I have thought that some doctor might cure him. I have heard that such things are not impossible; but I have not the means of paying one, and his mother still less."

Poor Giannetto sat still in the dark corner of the church, leaning back against the wall. The sullenness had faded out of his face now, leaving on it a look of depression which went to my heart. I felt the most profound pity for one so young, writhing under so grievous a burden, evidently chafing and rebelling against it, unable to resign himself, and growing more and more

embittered by his isolation. But for that look of bitterness he would have been very handsome. Slightly made and tall, his figure was muscular and active; and I learnt afterwards that he was one of the most skilful and successful fishermen on the coast.

The priest remained silent for a moment or so, and then, with a short sigh, he turned away, and began replacing the curtain over the sacred picture, saying, as he did so, "Vossignoria should visit us on our great day, the feast of San Jacopo Ah! then he would see great things; for the pilgrims come from far and wide, and the flowers and garlands are many. Behold, that large silver heart was given by a lady from near Mentone-a great and rich lady. Her husband had been at sea, and she awaited his return; but for three weeks after his vessel was due at Marseilles it did not arrive, and Signora Francesca vowed a silver heart to every church. dedicated to San Jacopo (his patron saint) within fifty miles, if he should return safely. At the end of forty days the ship came in; but the husband had lost one leg, so she naturally reduced the number of miles to twenty, and our church was happily within the distance."

The priest would have run on for ever in this strain; but the gathering clouds warned me that I must not linger if I hoped to regain the little town where I had slept the previous night before total dark

have not any really in need at this moment. San Jacopo be praised! the fish came asking to be caught this year. So if you do not object, might I?"

I was about to give a ready assent, when a sudden idea struck me, and I said, " Why should not Giannetto return with me to Nice, see the doctor, and hear whether anything can be done for him?" The priest caught at the offer with great eagerness, and I could see how much his good heart was set on the poor lad's cure.

While I was speaking, I had forgotten that we had moved towards the door of the church, close to the corner in which Giannetto sat, when suddenly I felt my hands seized and kissed with all the fervour of Italian gratitude; and looking round, I saw a pair of large dark eyes fixed upon me, changed in expression, mute and imploring, shining with the light of a new

hope, so intense and eager that they haunted me long after. Alas! at that moment it flashed across me what a cruel disappointment I might be preparing for these poor, simple folk. Could dumbness such as this be cured? I felt a strong conviction that it could not; and I was almost angry with myself for having suggested the idea. "But remember," I said, "do not hope too much. The most learned and cleverest of doctors can do no good if it be not the will of God."

The priest answered me very gravely, "True, true, Signore. And if this fail, Giannetto will know that it is God's will, and we will pray for patience for him."

Before an hour was over, Giannetto had taken leave of his mother, we had mounted the hill, and were on our road towards Nice-a large lamp-like moon turning the gentle sea into a sheet of silver.

Nothing could be more attentive than Giannetto's manners to me during our three days' walk back to Nice. He seemed to think constantly of my comfort, sheltering me from the sun, insisting upon carrying my knapsack, and evidently most anxious to show that he was devoted to my service. We carried on a sort of conversation, he answering my questions either by signs or by writing on a slate; for, unlike most of his equals, he could both read and write well. I learnt in this way something of his former history.

Pietro, his father, died when he was a child but two years old, leaving him and his mother Carola dependent on the charity of the village. The good priest made her his housekeeper, paying her a very

moderate sum weekly for services which hitherto had been done for him voluntarily by the village women. Perhaps his little allowance of meat was curtailed in consequence, and it certainly was all that Carola could do to make the threadbare cassock hold out as long as possible while this weekly payment lasted; but, when Giannetto was still a very young boy, he began to earn something for himself; and at the age of sixteen he bought a share in a fishing-boat, and was able henceforth to support his mother by his own

exertions.

Giannetto's partner in the ownership of the boat was a certain Pietro Zei, a man about ten years older than himself, and of him he spoke (or, I should rather say, wrote) with a hatred that almost