Nelson Column) to see the Lord Mayor’s Show, and considered it far finer than any Sicilian procession—more poetical in conception, he said, and carried out with greater magnificence.  He had been to Brighton from Saturday to Monday and burst into tears when he saw the sea again. 

It is difficult to travel on the Underground Railway without losing oneself, but Peppino can do it.  He got lost once, but that was in some street near Covent Garden, soon after his arrival, and before he had ventured alone in the Underground; he asked his way of a policeman who spoke Italian and told him the way: he believes that all London policemen speak Italian, but he himself prefers English if he can get a chance to speak it.

Sicilians always want to speak English, especially those of the lower orders who invariably consider it as a master-key that will open every door leading to wealth.  Sometimes what they say is, of course, nothing more than otiose compliment; sometimes they are merely introducing the subject of their want of money in an artistic manner in the hope of anything from a soldo to a promise to take them into service as valet, courier, coachman, or whatever it may be—a sort of shaking of Fortune’s bag to see what will come out.  Sometimes they really do want to learn English and some of them even make attempts to pick up a few words and actually retain them.

I went once from Siracusa to Malta at the end of December; it was abominably rough,

and my luggage was thrown about in the cabin with such violence that some of the things slipped out of my bag.  I was too sea-sick to be sure I had picked them all up, but afterwards discovered that the only thing left behind was my new diary for the next year.  On returning from Valletta to Siracusa about a fortnight later, I asked the steward if he had found my diary and it was produced by the cabin-boy who must have been a youth of considerable energy and enterprise.  He had apparently learnt by ear several English words and, finding a book full of blank paper, had written them down, spelling them the best way he could, that is phonetically, according to Italian pronunciation, and writing the Italian equivalents, spelt in his own way, in a parallel column.  His writing is so distinct that I am certain I have got every letter right, but I do not recognize his second English word for latrina, it is probably some corrupt form of lavatory.  The vocabulary, though restricted, seems a fairly useful one for a cabin-boy to begin with:

Peppino is not exactly of this class, his parents were able to give him a good education, he took his degree at the University of Palermo and, though he does not practise his profession, is a qualified engineer.  When he returned from London his English was probably better than the cabin-boy’s will ever be, but he is a little out of practice.

I had observed a couple of picturesque ruffians hovering about in the gloom of the garden; towards the end of dinner they wandered into the circle of the electric light and resolved themselves into Carmelo and Rosario.  We invited them to sit down, gave them wine and cigarettes and talked over the changes that had taken place in the town since I had last been there.

When they had gone, I asked Peppino about Rosario’s misfortune and learnt that he had been put into prison for stabbing his father.  He had only wounded him, and Peppino thought the father had probably been in the wrong, for he has a bad history in the books of the police, but Rosario had not done himself any good over it, because, of course, the crime and its consequences have now gone down into his own history.

An Englishman may be a mass of prejudices, but I confess I did not like the idea of hob-nobbing with a would-be parricide and determined that Rosario should not drive me any more; if I wanted a carriage, Carmelo should get leave of his padrone and take me.

Next morning, while I was having my coffee, there was a sound of passing music; I recognized it as belonging to a funeral, and asked Peppino if he knew who was dead.  Several people were dead and he did not know which this was, unless it was old Baldassare; it must be either a married woman or a grown-up man.  I asked how he knew that.  He replied that when apprenticed to his father, who had been sagrestano before

taking the hotel, he had learnt all about the ceremonies of the Church.

“They do this,” he said, “when it is a married lady dead or a grown man.  If it shall be the woman dead unmarried or a boy dead, then shall it be a different song, a different ring of bell and the dead shall go very directly in the paradiso; it is like the—please, what is fuochi artificiali?  Excuse me, it is the rocket; prestissimo and St. Peter he don’t be asking no question.  Did you understand?”

He then diverged to ceremonies connected with last illnesses—

“When the doctor is coming it is telling always that you would be good of the malady, but when the priest is coming it is telling that you are finished.  This is not a good thing.  It is difficult to hope when the doctor is shaking the head and is telling ‘Please, you; go, catch the priest quickly, quickly.’  And sometimes the notary, the man of law, if the malade is having money; if no money, it is the notary not at all.  When the doctor is coming out, the priest is coming in, and generally after would be the death.  But you must pay.  If to pay less would come only one priest and not well

dressed, if to pay more, very well dressed and too many priests.  If to pay plenty, plenty, then to ring all the bells and enter by the great door; but if to pay few, then not many bells and to enter by the second door.  Did you understand?

“When they die the parents always, and also the man that is to die, they fear the—please, what is not the paradiso?  Excuse me, it is the inferno: and they tell to the priest ‘Please come.’  Then they pay him to tell all that is good, and sometimes the priest arrive that you will be dead.  If you shall suicide, very likely you are dead before.  Then shall the parents pay him to tell that the man to die has taken all the functions of religion and the holy oil to put in the foot to prevent him the death.  But it is prevent not at all.

“Did you know what is sacramento?  All right, I shall tell you.  The priest is going with the sacramento on the hand and the umbrella on the head and you must