Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-01-18

bring her at least $4,000 year. Besides
this she has an income from her father, Mr..
Todd. or Dodd, or some such un-a-istocratic
person, who kept a shop in London or some
small English town, and departed this world
many years ago. leaving his daughter, Miss
Todd, or Dodd. or Dobbs, to write naughty
books and blossom out into Mile. de la
Rance, alias Ouidal
But someone has hinted that I am be-
coming gossip. Who ever heard of such
an unjust accusation?
Street of the ScuIptors.
We live in the ''Street of the Sculptors.
It is not very clean, but it is very artistic.
To live in the "Street of the Sculptors' costs
So a week. We have a big, bare, barn-like
room opening on loggia. 1t is brick paved,
and situated on the floor described in the
police register as "Piano T." Our room has.
brass bedstead, hard mattrass, two cot
ton pillows and counterpane. 1t boasts
also a sofa equally hard), three chairs, a
dressing case, a bureau and table. There is
a narrow strip of carpet alongside the bed to
step on when rising. This bit of carpet is a
mockery, inasmuch as IT is never in its
place when it is needed. There are white
muslin curtains at the window and row
of flower pots along the ledge.
from the time-stained walls. The landlady,
little pop-eyed old lady who hops about
like kangaroo, bobs her head In the door
every half-hour or 50 to make sure that we
have not gone off and taken some of the
furniture with US. This little signora is
the only person we see the first month. She
bargains with us for the breakfast, the
service, the lights, the room. She names a
sum, which we take the precaution to have
her write down. But when we come to
settle, fierce padrone (whom we have not
seen before) materializes. Then the
frightened little signora refuses to recognize
her own figures 1t seems it is her business
to smile upon the applicant, and take him
in at almost any amount that he is willing
to pay. The padrone then comes along and
proceeds to demand his own terms.
Always a Lively Scene.
We appeal to the sgnora. We show
her her own figures; she shrieks out that she
never saw them before. Then we tell the
padrone we will only do business with the
signora. The padrone says that the signora
is TOOL, and calls on all the saints and
devils to bear him out in his statement. It
is quite lively for a time, The slgnora
swings her hands and rolls her eyes; the
padrone swears in choice Italian. Then she
weeps and chokes her into silence, and
finally locks her into the kitchen.
1t goes without saying, that we pay the
padrone his price. And in time we even
grow accustomed to him. He cheats us at
every turn. but we get accustomed to his
dishonesty. There is no redress. All the
padrones who rent rooms are the same. So
we grin and bear our wrongs and fall into
the careless, lazy, idle life of Florence. We
breakfast in our room on "Caffe latte" and
rolls; we lunch at "Trattoria" on white
bread, ripe figs and red wine. We dine at a
French restaurant. The Italian cooking is
atrocious. Everything swims in garlic and
oil. The beet and mutton is cooked to
shreds. The soup floats in cheese. The
maccaroni is, of course, excellent And the
chianti-cheap
Dyspepsia on Top Again.
But all this notwithstanding, we do not
fare we'll in culinary way in Florence
My old enemy, dyspepsia, commences to
haunt my innocent slumbers. 1 thought 1
had "walked him to death" in Belgium.
No doubt he was only in a trance and the
smell of the garlic brought him to life again.
Garlic, to my mind, is quite capable-of
anything.
One feasts we'll on art, however, in Flor
ence. There are the galleries of the "Uf-
fzzi" and Pitti Palace for instance. What
more can one ask. Florence Is proud, and
justly so, of her picture galleries. The po-
sition which she occupies in the history OF
art and science is indeed great. From the
time of Dante Alighieri, author OF the
'Divine Comedy" down to the present day
of top-coats and silk hats, she has gone
steadily on piIing up her treasures. Now
she is the storehouse of the masterpieces of
past ages. Along the white, smooth road
leading to the "Pitti Palace" we lazily
tread our way. The blue sky burns red,
and purple and gold. The towers and
bridges over the sleepy Arno hang like
golden bows. Big brown girls leading don-
keys saunter slowly up the hill or rest on the
sun-burnt grass by the wayside.
Story of Petrarch's Love.
Once boy went whistling along this road.
He met little girl with q handful of
purple figs. She reached out her hand and
gave him one as she passed. And she was
Laura, and he-he was Petrarchl 1t vas a
pretty love story that, but, alas, it ended as
such ideal passion mostly does. Petrarch,
of course, loved her with all a poets ardor.
He sung her praises in poems that became
world famous. Charles ~, upon being
presented to her. asked permission to kiss
the beautiful eyes that had been celebrated
in such beautiful verse"
Laura, on her part, did not return the
poets passion. She became his friend-no
more. Her heart she bestowed on one Hugh
de Sades, whom she married, and by whom
she had Ii children, and no doubt grew
fat. Oh, Laura, what small souled woman
you must have been! Yet you will always
be famous, those IL youngsters, notwith-
standing. For you were the beloved OF
Petrarch. LILLIAN SPENCER.