Marshall County Republican. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1856-1878, 1878-01-31
/" "PETRO.v
BY S. p. R.

Will uS IL idiSc pilOtOSldpilOl VI tlc SdeH-
edral at Milan, to which we had taken
fancy in our morning ramble, when
our attention was attracted to an old
Italian harp-player who was amusing a
small group of children a little beyond
as. AS he ceased playing and received
the two or three pennies he had worked
so hard to gain, shouldered his harp and
was trudging wearily past, we called
him to us, snd uncovering the photo
graph asked him if he had ever seen
that in his own country. Never shall l
forget the look that came into his wan,
thin face as he bent quickly forward
and, crossing himself, exclaimed, al
Bello Duomo! Ii Bello Duomo! Si,
senior, 81, senor. II Bel.o Doumol"
His eyes fairly glistened and his lips
twitched nervously as he gazed upon it
with fascination, such as long-lost
tleasure might exert over its owner,
while he softly repeated to himself, I'll
Bello Duomo." A few words then suf-
feed to draw from him his story.
Born in Rome, he had gone with his
parents in early boyhood to Milan, and
until his thirtieth year had dwelt under
the shadow of that grand triumph of
architecture. lie had played in front
of its massive portals and summed him
self on its marble steps; he had begged
pennies from the passing tourists and
blessings from the long-robed friars;
he had coined strange fancies and
thoughts from the sculptured stones
and woven for himself many a legend
of their origin; on Sunday he had stood
within its walls with hushed breath and
awed soul as the Are Maria rose on the
air heavy with incense. or the good
priest held the sacrament on high for
alteration. He had witnessed many a
bride in her spotless white, take upon
her the solemn VOWS of wife, and he
had seen many black robed procession
file through the opened doors. He had
seen sovereign and beggar kneel before
the holy affairs, the wretched outcast
and the sweet-faced nun, the swarthy
bandit and the humble bare-footed
monk, and he had himself brought his
childish offerings and laid them on the
shrine, and kissed with reverent lips
the sacred images.
Then, as years grew on, he sold in
front of its doors the carved beads
which his father made and the good
priests blessed, and in time he succeed
ed to his fathers trade, and at last be-
came guide to the old Cathedral itself.
There he conducted party after party
through the stately pile, pointed out
the grandeur of its portals and columns
and the beauties of its affairs, led them
out upon the roof and explained the
statues and the curiously carved cap
pings where every known leaf and
flower is chiseled in the white stone;
had shown them the distant peaks of
Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa and the
'ong range of Alps to the far north; had
led the eye over smiling landscapes of
fruitful valley and green hillside, dotted
here and there with hamlet and village.
and then to the vast city spread out like
a map beneath them. Here was the
Amphitheatre and there the Simplon-
arch, and over there the old refectory
where is still preserved Da Vinci's in
comparable fresco. AhI those were
glorious days in Bell Milano. And
then when he went home and showed
the rich harvest he had cleaned from
foreign hands, how the light came into
the eyes OF the fair young wife chosen
to share his lot. And in the long Ital-
ian evenings when the frugal meal was
over, and Nita joined him at the door.
just in sight of the beautiful building
which was to them a mine of wealth,
he would touch gently the sweet chords
OF the harp, while her clear, rich voice
would softly carol forth the dear Italian
songs; or they would sit gazing at the
deep blue sky, which only Italy knows,
and build airy castles, such as Spain
never dreamt of, and people them with
thousand fancies of the joyous future.
But one day all was changed, and Nita
lay as in trance, smitten with the
deadly fever which is the curse of Italy.
Another day and she was dead, and
as the stricken husband turned from
the silent grave he turned his back for
ever upon Milan. He could no longer
stay where she was not amid the old
familiar scenes, and with only his harp
in hand-that one memento of the past
he wandered forth into the vast
world. Once, only. he turned as he
gained distant hilltop, to take one
last look at the old cathedral, towering
in its regal spIendor above the city, and
seeming to rear itself as monument
to all the earth.
Every city in Italy, almost, knew the
form of the sad and weary wanderer,
and the harp went with him always,
bringing food and sometimes shelter
for his head, though more often the
blue sky above was the only covering,
when amid the myriad stars he fancied
he could discern angel eyes looking
down upon him, or slept to dream OF
soft kisses on his lips and the moisture
of sweet breath lowering over him,
and woke to find but the dews of the
night upon his face. Then, as Italy
grew poorer amid the contending fac
tions and the strife that sprang up on
her ancient soil, as the soldi became
mom ~, more difficult to obtain, and
the harp failed sometimes to bring him