The Russellville Democrat., 1881-04-28
SOLD
The Balm of yeslyius.

piled the man.
 T must hear him, ? said the foreigner, delighted.
 Now. this American had read of the improyisatore often. He is a peculiarly Italian institution-a man who, general ly at twilight, pauses in crowded place. casts down his hat at his feet and improvises a story in prose or verse. He is much more romantic than the organ grinder, and gets many more small com.
 The American felt quite delighted al the opportunity afforded him, and took q place very near the porch on which the man had elevated himself. He posed himself this improvisatOre, most gracefully; beside his hat lay his knap- sack. He was handsome, as We all ex- pect poets to be and seldom find them. lis eyes rolled about him, and caught glints of light, and sparkled and grew soft as the eyes of the most estlmable Enelish-speaking person never could. His hair was black and rippling, and his olive cheek smooth Gs a giris. The American waited eagerly, and with TO- nance in his heart for the beginning. This is what he heard:
 "Signors and Signoras and Signorinas also," said the Italian, with that musical accent which makes the speech of some parts of Italy almost song to foreign ears-"Signors, Signoras and Signorinas l am about to tell you true story--a tale of fact. not of imagination. Think you it will interest you less for thaH No; assuredly you will remember that fact Is stranger than fiction. Besides, my grand- mother was not the prettiest woman III Naples. His grandmother hear some- one cry, laughing. An, Signor, you need not laugh; l am speaking of my grand mother. Beatrichi Pancini, at eighteen years of age. She was the beauty of the town, the envy Of the girls, the ador- ation of the youths of the place. Not q young fellow in Naples but admired her-but she had given her heart 10 one alone, Luigi Nannicci, the bravest of all the young Neapolitans, and when he was rich enough they were to be married Meanwhile no other, however handsome 0r gallant, could get 50 much as a smile from her. She was as constant and true as she was beautiful. Half way up the slope of Vesuvius, in little house long since destroyed by eruption, she lived with her father Her mother had per ished at her birth, and the father was very old. He had about his dwellings, little vineyard and few fig trees, hut his subsistence was derived from the sale of lotion which he himself had discovered, of which no one else knew the secret; he called 1t the Balm of Vesuvius. To procure its ingredients it was necessary that the old man should arise at night and climb the mountain and pluck certain weed that grew in the hollows of the earth before the sun had dried the dew upon it. At times, after the mountain had been silent for a long while, strange vine began to grow in the crater. This he must tear from its ped. for the roots were precious. He dared not confide his secret to any man, and at his age, the task of gather ingt ingredients for his lotion had grown laborious. However, when made the mixture was sovereign remedy for all those wounds and bruises the mount aineers and guides were so apt to receive It also cured rheumatism and allayed the anguish of fever pains. As he was honest and asked but fair price for this precious balm; the two managed to live upon its sale.. for Beatrice was a careful housekeeper and did not waste money as most girls of her age will do.
 "They were happy in their home, this good old man and his beautiful daught- CT; and, surely, it must have been de- mon who could have plotted evil against Beatrice--a demon or a jerl GUS lover The improyisatore paused and folded his arms.
 The American settled himself more comfortably and prepared to be interest ed. Now the romance was coming; 8 few small coin rattled into the hat lying at the story-teller's feet. It was what he was waiting for and he went on;
 'Piedro Tupelo was in love with Bea- trice and hated Luigi NannicCi bitterly.
 Love is strange thing, Signoras. The disappointed lover scarcely knows what it is he feels for the woman who scorns his passion. Is it love? Is it hate? He longs for her, yet he could kill her. Often when Beatrice and Luigi wandered hand in hand amongst the vines in the soft summer evenings, Piedro was be- hind them. Twice he had drawn his dagger to stab his rival, but he had sheathed it without striking, for Pledro could hate as hotly as he loved; but his life was precious to him, and he feared the wrath of Luigi's kinspcople, fl it were known that he had been his mur- derer.
 Alone, when no eye saw him, Piedro had resolved to the bloody deed-aione, near the dark crater of Nesuvius, or on the lonely road infested by brigands who robbed the wealthy or made them cap tive until their ransom was paid. Sig nors and Signoras it was not always a brigand who drove the knife to the heart of the dead man found at dawn staring with blank eyes toward heaven. It was sometimes the very kinsman who most bewailed his taking off, who had followed and done him to death for the sake of an inheritance, and ottener a jealous lover in whose way he stood, for Italians love and hate as they do not elsewhere.
 ''Piedro waited for his opportunity, bearing his stolen glimpses of Paradise as best he might, and the moment came at last"
 There was another pause. The Amer ican tossed a handful of coin into the hat. The improvisatore went on:
 "Signors, Signoras and Signorinas, you would not care to know on what em- bassy the handsome young Luigi was sent on the day when Piedro followed him out of Naples. It was one of i'm. portance, however, and he was employed by the Count di l.. If he pleased this patron some good place would surely be given him. Piedro heard him tell this tc Beatrice as they parted at the door o her fathers cottage.
 We can be married, Beatrice he said We will all live together, and your old father shall never know want. How happy we shall all be, my Beatrice