Jasper Republican, Volume 1, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 June 1875 — Young Italy. [ARTICLE]

Young Italy.

Anne Brewster, writing from Borne to the Philadelphia Bulletin, says: After I had finished my little meditation on the Quattro Fontane summit I turned to go home. After I had walked a few steps on I saw a boy about twelve years of age driving a girl in front of him. Driving literally, for she did not wish to go, and, very naturally, she did not like his mode of driving. He bad two sharp sticks, which were wedged into her back. They were poor children; had on few and ragged clothes; consequently the sticks hurt her. The girl .did not cry out, but she winced and hugged the wall. Such a surly little brute as the boy looked, and what a beast-like pleasure he seemed to take in pushing those sticks into the girl’s back! He set his teeth together and lowered his eyebrows most willfully and viciously. Obelisks; Imperial and Papal Rome; memories of great architects were swept out of my mind in the presenco of this bit of modem injustice. Of course I stopped, and, woman-like, remonstrated with the young tyrant. He shrank away from me as if he expected a blow. When he saw that no corporal punishment was inflicted he peeped back at me shyly and seemed a good deal surprised. A broad grin spread over his face when he found that he had so harmless an individual as I am to deal with. I saw that he was not such a badlooking little fellow after all. He had roguish, handsome eyes, curling brown hair and a rich olive skin, but he was very, very dirty. The girl, however, was not fair to behold in any way; she had an ugly, flat, degraded face, and she was a bold little minx. With the feminine economical instinct she began: “Dammi qualche cosa, Signorina, quattrina Signoina ho fame.” (Give me some money, lady. I am hungry.) But the boy did not ask tor anything; he was too superbo for t*t. I gave Ceccho, for such was his name, a little sermon, and after my “ preach” was over I said to the girl: “ Yes, I will give you two soldi.” Then to the boy: ‘‘l will give you only one, because yeu have been unkind to your sister”—for they had told me that was their relationship. I turned and walked to my own portone. After I had taken a few steps I looked back and saw just what I expected to see: the boy had taken the two soldi from the girl and was menacing with his hand to keep her from crying out. I walked instantly back and said to him as I turned his handsome face up to mine: “Suppose another boy should treat your sister in that way, what would you do?” His dirty brown face and neck grew brilliantly red; the blood flashed all over, or rather under, the skin, like a ruddy glow on the sky at sunset; he grumbled out with a shy laugh as he slipped his chin away from my hand, “L’ammazzerei.” (I’d kill him.) “You think, then, because she is your sister you have a right to be unkind,” I continued. “ How mean! Why, she belongs to you. She is part of yourself. You should protect her, and, instead of taking from her what she has, you should give her part of your own! Think she is part of yoursell —the weak part. Nothing in the world should be so dear to you as that little girl.” The boy slyly poked into the girl’s hand not only her two-penny piece, but also his own; then peeped up at me. Of course I gave him three pennies to make him equal with the girl; then I took his dirty little hand, turned his face again toward me, and said: “ Ceccho, I may never see you again, but do remember always to be manly (galant'uomo); never treat a girl badly, and do be kind to your sister/’ The boy put my hand to his lips with the inimitable grace that is so purely Italian; then he raced off, his face all aflame, with his hand over his eyes, which were running over with tears. I’d like to know that boy’s future. It is a marvelous nation, this of Italy. Grace, poetry, art, are the first natural instincts. No matter what an Italian may be doing, he is sure to throw a charm over it.