Case IH Tractor Steiger Quadtrac

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620 Tier 4B Service Manual_48193194
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Case IH Tractor Steiger Quadtrac Rowtrac 370, 420, 470, 500, 540, 580, 620 Tier
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“My good sir,” said the Doctor, bowing low from his perch on the
stile, “I never presumed to say that there were more asses than one
in the story; but I thought that I could not better explain my
meaning, which is simply this—you scrubbed the ass's head, and
therefore you must lose the soap. Let the fanciullo have the
sixpence; and a great sum it is, too, for a little boy, who may spend
it all upon pocket-money!”

“There, Lenny—you hear?” said the Parson, stretching out the

sixpence. But Lenny retreated, and cast on the umpire a look of
great aversion and disgust.

“Please, Master Dale,” said he, obstinately, “I'd rather not.”

“It is a matter of feeling, you see,” said the Parson, turning to the
umpire; “and I believe the boy is right.”

“If it is a matter of feeling,” replied Dr. Riccabocca, “there is no more

to be said on it. When Feeling comes in at the door, Reason has
nothing to do but to jump out of the window.”

“Go, my good boy,” said the Parson, pocketing the coin; “but stop!
give me your hand first. There—I understand you—good-by!”

Lenny's eyes glistened as the Parson shook him by the hand, and,
not trusting himself to speak, he walked off sturdily. The Parson
wiped his forehead, and sat himself down on the stile beside the
Italian. The view before them was lovely, and both enjoyed it
(though not equally) enough to be silent for some moments. On the
other side the lane, seen between gaps in the old oaks and
chestnuts that hung over the moss-grown pales of Hazeldean Park,
rose gentle verdant slopes, dotted with sheep and herds of deer; a
stately avenue stretched far away to the left, and ended at the right
hand, within a few yards of a ha-ha that divided the park from a
level sward of table-land gay with shrubs and flower-plots, relieved
by the shade of two mighty cedars. And on this platform, only seen
in part, stood the squire's old-fashioned house, red brick, with stone
mullions, gable-ends, and quaint chimney-pots. On this side the
road, immediately facing the two gentlemen, cottage after cottage
whitely emerged from the curves in the lane, while, beyond, the
ground declining gave an extensive prospect of woods and
cornfields, spires and farms. Behind, from a belt of lilacs and
evergreens, you caught a peep of the parsonage-house, backed by
woodlands, and a little noisy rill running in front. The birds were still
in the hedgerows, only as if from the very heart of the most distant
woods, there came now and then the mellow note of the cuckoo.

“Verily,” said Mr. Dale softly, “my lot has fallen on a goodly heritage.”

The Italian twitched his cloak over him, and sighed almost inaudibly.
Perhaps he thought of his own Summer Land, and felt that amidst all
that fresh verdure of the North, there was no heritage for the
stranger.

However, before the Parson could notice the sigh or conjecture the
cause, Dr. Riccabocca's thin lips took an expression almost
malignant.

“Per Bacco!” said he; “in every country I find that the rooks settle
where the trees are the finest. I am sure that, when Noah first
landed on Ararat, he must have found some gentleman in black
already settled in the pleasantest part of the mountain, and waiting
for his tenth of the cattle as they came out of the ark.”

The Parson turned his meek eyes to the philosopher, and there was
in them something so deprecating rather than reproachful, that Dr.
Riccabocca turned away his face, and refilled his pipe. Dr. Riccabocca
abhorred priests; but though Parson Dale was emphatically a parson,
he seemed at that moment so little of what Dr. Riccabocca
understood by a priest, that the Italian's heart smote him for his
irreverent jest on the cloth. Luckily at this moment there was a
diversion to that untoward commencement of conversation, in the
appearance of no less a personage than the donkey himself—I mean
the donkey who ate the apple.
Chapter VI.

The Tinker was a stout swarthy fellow, jovial and musical withal, for
he was singing a stave as he flourished his staff, and at the end of
each refrain down came the staff on the quarters of the donkey. The
tinker went behind and sung, the donkey went before and was
thwacked.

“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr. Riccabocca; “in mine it is not the
ass that walks first in the procession, who gets the blows.”

The Parson jumped from the stile, and, looking over the hedge that
divided the field from the road—“Gently, gently,” said he; “the sound
of the stick spoils the singing! O Mr. Sprott, Mr. Sprott! a good man
is merciful to his beast.”

The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend, for it

stopped short, pricked one ear wistfully, and looked up.

The Tinker touched his hat, and looked up too. “Lord bless your
reverence! he does not mind it, he likes it. I vould not hurt thee;
vould I, Neddy?”

The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps a fly had settled
on the sore, which the chestnut leaves no longer protected.

“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott,” said the Parson,
more politely, I fear, [pg 667] than honesty—for he had seen enough
of that cross-grained thing called the human heart, even in the little
world of a country parish, to know that it requires management, and
coaxing, and flattering, to interfere successfully between a man and
his own donkey—“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he
has already got a sore on his shoulder as big as my hand, poor
thing!”

“Lord love 'un! yes; that vas done a playing with the manger, the day
I gave 'un oats!” said the Tinker.

Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyed the ass. The
ass pricked up his other ear, and surveyed Dr. Riccabocca. In that
mutual survey of physical qualifications, each being regarded
according to the average symmetry of its species, it may be doubted
whether the advantage was on the side of the philosopher.

The Parson had a great notion of the wisdom of his friend, in all
matters not immediately ecclesiastical.

“Say a good word for the donkey!” whispered he.

“Sir,” said the Doctor, addressing Mr. Sprott, with a respectful

salutation, “there's a great kettle at my house—the Casino—which
wants soldering: can you recommend me a Tinker?”

“Why, that's all in my line,” said Sprott, “and there ben't a Tinker in
the country that I vould recommend like myself, thof I say it.”

“You jest, good sir,” said the Doctor, smiling pleasantly. “A man who
can't mend a hole in his own donkey, can never demean himself by
patching up my great kettle.”

“Lord, sir!” said the Tinker, archly, “if I had known that poor Neddy
had had two sitch friends in court, I'd have seen he was a
gintleman, and treated him as sitch.”

“Corpo di Bacco.” quoth the Doctor, “though that jest's not new, I
think the Tinker comes very well out of it.”

“True; but the donkey!” said the Parson, “I've a great mind to buy
it.”
“Permit me to tell you an anecdote in point,” said Dr. Riccabocca.

“Well?” said the Parson, interrogatively.

“Once in a time,” pursued Riccabocca, “the Emperor Adrian, going to

the public baths, saw an old soldier, who had served under him,
rubbing his back against the marble wall. The emperor, who was a
wise, and therefore a curious, inquisitive man, sent for the soldier,
and asked him why he resorted to that sort of friction. ‘Because,’
answered the veteran, ‘I am too poor to have slaves to rub me
down.’ The emperor was touched, and gave him slaves and money.
The next day, when Adrian went to the baths, all the old men in the
city were to be seen rubbing themselves against the marble as hard
as they could. The emperor sent for them, and asked them the same
question which he had put to the soldier; the cunning old rogues, of
course, made the same answer. ‘Friends,’ said Adrian, ‘since there
are so many of you, you will just rub one another!’ Mr. Dale, if you
don't want to have all the donkeys in the county with holes in their
shoulders, you had better not buy the Tinker's!”

“It is the hardest thing in the world to do the least bit of good,”
groaned the Parson, as he broke a twig off the hedge nervously,
snapped it in two, and flung the fragments on the road—one of
them hit the donkey on the nose. If the ass could have spoken Latin,
he would have said, “Et tu, Brute!” As it was, he hung down his
ears, and walked on.

“Gee hup,” said the Tinker, and he followed the ass. Then stopping,
he looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the Parson's eyes were
gazing mournfully on his protégé, “Never fear, your reverence,” cried
the Tinker kindly; “I'll not spite 'un.”
Chapter VII.

“Four o'clock,” cried the Parson, looking at his watch; “half-an-hour

after dinner-time, and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be
punctual, because of the fine trout the Squire sent us. Will you
venture on what our homely language calls ‘pot luck,’ Doctor?”

Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially if Italians, was by no

means inclined to the credulous view of human nature. Indeed, he
was in the habit of detecting self-interest in the simplest actions of
his fellow-creatures. And when the Parson thus invited him to pot
luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for Mrs. Dale
enjoyed the reputation of having what her friends styled “her little
tempers.” And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge “little tempers” in
the presence of a third person, not of the family, so Dr. Riccabocca
instantly concluded that he was invited to stand between the pot
and the luck! Nevertheless—as he was fond of trout, and a much
more good-natured man than he ought to have been according to
his principles—he accepted the hospitality; but he did so with a sly
look from over his spectacles, which brought a blush into the guilty
cheeks of the Parson. Certainly Riccabocca had for once guessed
right in his estimate of human motives.

The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and
entered the parsonage lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sate on
watch for their master, sprung toward him barking; and the sound
drew the notice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out
from the sash window which opened on the lawn. Now, O reader! I
know that in thy secret heart, thou art chuckling over the want of
knowledge in the sacred arcana of the domestic [pg 668] hearth,
betrayed by the author; thou art saying to thyself, “A pretty way to
conciliate little tempers indeed, to add to the offense of spoiling the
fish the crime of bringing an unexpected friend to eat it. Pot luck,
quotha, when the pot's boiled over this half hour!”

But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O reader, learn that both the
author and Parson Dale knew very well what they were about.

Dr. Riccabocca was the special favorite of Mrs. Dale, and the only
person in the whole country who never put her out, by dropping in.
In fact, strange though it may seem at first glance, Dr. Riccabocca
had that mysterious something about him which we of his own sex
can so little comprehend, but which always propitiates the other. He
owed this, in part, to his own profound but hypocritical policy; for he
looked upon woman as the natural enemy to man—against whom it
was necessary to be always on the guard; whom it was prudent to
disarm by every species of fawning servility and abject
complaisance. He owed it also, in part, to the compassionate and
heavenly nature of the angels whom his thoughts thus villainously
traduced—for women like one whom they can pity without
despising; and there was something in Signor Riccabocca's poverty,
in his loneliness, in his exile, whether voluntary or compelled, that
excited pity; while, despite the threadbare coat, the red umbrella,
and the wild hair, he had, especially when addressing ladies, that air
of gentleman and cavalier which is or was more innate in an
educated Italian, of whatever rank, than perhaps in the highest
aristocracy of another country in Europe. For, though I grant that
nothing is more exquisite than the politeness of your French marquis
of the old régime—nothing more frankly gracious than the cordial
address of a highbred English gentleman—nothing more kindly
prepossessing than the genial good-nature of some patriarchal
German, who will condescend to forget his sixteen quarterings in the
pleasure of doing you a favor—yet these specimens of the suavity of
their several nations are rare; whereas blandness and polish are
common attributes with your Italian. They seem to have been
immemorially handed down to him, from ancestors emulating the
urbanity of Cæsar, and refined by the grace of Horace.
“Dr. Riccabocca consents to dine with us,” cried the Parson, hastily.

“If madame permit?” said the Italian, bowing over the hand
extended to him, which, however, he forebore to take, seeing it was
already full of the watch.

“I am only sorry that the trout must be quite spoiled,” began Mrs.
Dale, plaintively.

“It is not the trout one thinks of when one dines with Mrs. Dale,”
said the infamous dissimulator.

“But I see James coming to say that dinner is ready?” observed the
Parson.

“He said that three quarters of an hour ago, Charles dear,” retorted
Mrs. Dale, taking the arm of Dr. Riccabocca.
Chapter VIII.

While the Parson and his wife are entertaining their guest, I propose
to regale the reader with a small treatise apropos of that “Charles
dear,” murmured by Mrs. Dale;—a treatise expressly written for the
benefit of The Domestic Circle.

It is an old jest that there is not a word in the language that conveys
so little endearment as the word “dear.” But though the saying itself,
like most truths, be trite and hackneyed, no little novelty remains to
the search of the inquirer into the varieties of inimical import
comprehended in that malign monosyllable. For instance, I submit to
the experienced that the degree of hostility it betrays is in much
proportioned to its collocation in the sentence. When, gliding
indirectly through the rest of the period, it takes its stand at the
close, as in that “Charles dear” of Mrs. Dale—it has spilt so much of
its natural bitterness by the way that it assumes even a smile,
“amara lento temperet risu.” Sometimes the smile is plaintive,
sometimes arch. Ex. gr.

(Plaintive.)

“I know very well that whatever I do is wrong, Charles dear.”

“Nay, I am only glad you amused yourself so much without me,

Charles dear.”

“Not quite so loud! If you had, but my poor head, Charles dear,” &c.

(Arch.)
“If you could spill the ink any where but on the best table-cloth,
Charles dear!”

“But though you must always have your own way, you are not quite
faultless, own, Charles dear,” &c.

In this collocation occur many dears, parental as well as conjugal; as

—“Hold up your head and don't look quite so cross, dear.”

“Be a good boy for once in your life—that's a dear,” &c.

When the enemy stops in the middle of the sentence, its venom is
naturally less exhausted. Ex. gr.

“Really, I must say, Charles dear, that you are the most fidgety
person,” &c.

“And if the house bills were so high last week, Charles dear, I should
just like to know whose fault it was—that's all.”

“Do you think, Charles dear, that you could put your feet any where
except upon the chintz sofa?”

“But you know, Charles dear, that you care no more for me and the
children than,” &c.

But if the fatal word spring up, in its primitive [pg 669] freshness, at
the head of the sentence, bow your head to the storm. It then
assumes the majesty of “my” before it; is generally more than
simple objurgation—it prefaces a sermon. My candor obliges me to
confess that this is the mode in which the hateful monosyllable is
more usually employed by the marital part of the one flesh; and has
something about it of the odious assumption of the Petruchian
pater-familias—the head of the family—boding, not perhaps “peace,
and love, and quiet life,” but certainly “awful rule and right
supremacy.” Ex. gr.
“My dear Jane—I wish you would just put by that everlasting tent-
stitch, and listen to me for a few moments,” &c.

“My dear Jane—I wish you would understand me for once—don't

think I am angry—no, but I am hurt. You must consider,” &c.

“My dear Jane—I don't know if it is your intention to ruin me; but I
only wish you would do as all other women do who care three
straws for their husbands' property,” &c.

“My dear Jane—I wish you to understand that I am the last person
in the world to be jealous; but I'll be d—d if that puppy, Captain
Prettyman,” &c.

Now, if that same “dear” could be thoroughly raked and hoed out of
the connubial garden, I don't think that the remaining nettles would
signify a button. But even as it was, Parson Dale, good man, would
have prized his garden beyond all the bowers which Spenser and
Tasso have sung so musically, though there had not been a single
specimen of “dear,” whether the dear humilis, or the dear superba,
the dear pallida, rubra, or nigra; the dear umbrosa, florens, spicata;
the dear savis, or the dear horrida; no, not a single dear in the
whole horticulture of matrimony which Mrs. Dale had not brought to
perfection; but this, fortunately, was far from being the case. The
dears of Mrs. Dale were only wild flowers, after all.
Chapter IX.

In the cool of the evening, Dr. Riccabocca walked home across the
fields. Mr. and Mrs. Dale had accompanied him half way; and as they
now turned back to the Parsonage, they looked behind, to catch a
glimpse of the tall, outlandish figure, winding slowly through the
path amidst the waves of the green corn.

“Poor man!” said Mrs. Dale, feelingly; “and the button was off his
wristband! What a pity he has nobody to take care of him! He seems
very domestic. Don't you think, Charles, it would be a great blessing
if we could get him a good wife?”

“Um,” said the Parson; “I doubt if he values the married state as he

ought.”

“What do you mean, Charles? I never saw a man more polite to

ladies in my life.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? You are always so mysterious, Charles dear.”

“Mysterious! No, Carry; but if you could hear what the Doctor says
of the ladies sometimes.”

“Ay, when you men get together, my dear. I know what that means—
pretty things you say of us. But you are all alike; you know you are,
love!”

“I am sure,” said the Parson, simply, “that I have good cause to

speak well of the sex—when I think of you, and my poor mother.”
Mrs. Dale, who, with all her “tempers,” was an excellent woman, and
loved her husband with the whole of her quick little heart, was
touched. She pressed his hand, and did not call him dear all the way
home.

Meanwhile the Italian passed the fields, and came upon the high-
road about two miles from Hazeldean. On one side stood an old-
fashioned solitary inn, such as English inns used to be before they
became railway hotels—square, solid, old-fashioned, looking so
hospitable and comfortable, with their great signs swinging from
some elm tree in front, and the long row of stables standing a little
back, with a chaise or two in the yard, and the jolly landlord talking
of the crops to some stout farmer, who has stopped his rough pony
at the well-known door. Opposite this inn, on the other side the
road, stood the habitation of Dr. Riccabocca.

A few years before the date of these annals, the stage-coach, on its
way to London, from a seaport town, stopped at the inn, as was its
wont, for a good hour, that its passengers might dine like Christian
Englishmen—not gulp down a basin of scalding soup, like everlasting
heathen Yankees, with that cursed railway whistle shrieking like a
fiend in their ears! It was the best dining-place on the whole road,
for the trout in the neighboring rill were famous, and so was the
mutton which came from Hazeldean Park.

From the outside of the coach had descended two passengers who,
alone, insensible to the attractions of mutton and trout, refused to
dine—two melancholy-looking foreigners, of whom one was Signor
Riccabocca, much the same as we see him now, only that the black
suit, was less threadbare, the tall form less meagre, and he did not
then wear spectacles; and the other was his servant. They would
walk about while the coach stopped. Now the Italian's eye had been
caught by a mouldering dismantled house on the other side the
road, which nevertheless was well situated; half-way up a green hill,
with its aspect due south, a little cascade falling down artificial rock-
work, and a terrace with a balustrade, and a few broken urns and
statues before its Ionic portico; while on the roadside stood a board,
with characters already half effaced, implying that the house [pg
670] was to be “Let unfurnished, with or without land.”

The abode that looked so cheerless, and which had so evidently

hung long on hand, was the property of Squire Hazeldean. It had
been built by his grandfather on the female side—a country
gentleman who had actually been in Italy (a journey rare enough to
boast of in those days), and who, on his return home, had
attempted a miniature imitation of an Italian villa. He left an only
daughter and sole heiress, who married Squire Hazeldean's father;
and since that time, the house, abandoned by its proprietors for the
larger residence of the Hazeldeans, had been uninhabited and
neglected. Several tenants, indeed, had offered themselves: but your
Squire is slow in admitting upon his own property a rival neighbor.
Some wanted shooting. “That,” said the Hazeldeans, who were great
sportsmen and strict preservers, “was quite out of the question.”
Others were fine folks from London. “London servants,” said the
Hazeldeans, who were moral and prudent people, “would corrupt
their own, and bring London prices.” Others, again, were retired
manufacturers, at whom the Hazeldeans turned up their agricultural
noses. In short, some were too grand, and others too vulgar. Some
were refused because they were known so well: “Friends are best at
a distance,” said the Hazeldeans. Others because they were not
known at all: “No good comes of strangers,” said the Hazeldeans.
And finally, as the house fell more and more into decay, no one
would take it unless it was put into thorough repair: “As if one was
made of money!” said the Hazeldeans. In short, there stood the
house unoccupied and ruinous; and there, on its terrace, stood the
two forlorn Italians, surveying it with a smile at each other, as, for
the first time since they set foot in England, they recognized, in
dilapidated pilasters and broken statues, in a weed-grown terrace
and the remains of an orangery, something that reminded them of
the land they had left behind.
On returning to the inn, Dr. Riccabocca took the occasion of learning
from the innkeeper (who was indeed a tenant of the Squire's) such
particulars as he could collect; and a few days afterward Mr.
Hazeldean received a letter from a solicitor of repute in London,
stating that a very respectable foreign gentleman had commissioned
him to treat for Clump Lodge, otherwise called the “Casino;” that the
said gentleman did not shoot—lived in great seclusion—and, having
no family, did not care about the repairs of the place, provided only
it were made weather-proof—if the omission of more expensive
reparations could render the rent suitable to his finances, which
were very limited. The offer came at a fortunate moment—when the
steward had just been representing to the Squire the necessity of
doing something to keep the Casino from falling into positive ruin,
and the Squire was cursing the fates which had put the Casino into
an entail—so that he could not pull it down for the building
materials. Mr. Hazeldean therefore caught at the proposal even as a
fair lady, who has refused the best offers in the kingdom, catches at
last at some battered old captain on half-pay, and replied that, as for
rent, if the solicitor's client was a quiet respectable man, he did not
care for that. But that the gentleman might have it for the first year
rent free, on condition of paying the taxes and putting the place a
little in order. If they suited each other, they could then come to
terms. Ten days subsequently to this gracious reply, Signor
Riccabocca and his servant arrived; and, before the year's end, the
Squire was so contented with his tenant that he gave him a running
lease of seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years, at a rent nearly
nominal, on condition that Signor Riccabocca would put and
maintain the place in repair, barring the roof and fences, which the
Squire generously renewed at his own expense. It was astonishing,
by little and little, what a pretty place the Italian had made of it, and
what is more astonishing, how little it had cost him. He had indeed
painted the walls of the hall, staircase, and the rooms appropriated
to himself, with his own hands. His servant had done the greater
part of the upholstery. The two between them had got the garden
into order. The Italians seemed to have taken a joint love to the
place, and to deck it as they would have done some favorite chapel
to their Madonna.

It was long before the natives reconciled themselves to the odd

ways of the foreign settlers—the first thing that offended them was
the exceeding smallness of the household bills. Three days out of
the seven, indeed, both man and master dined on nothing else but
the vegetables in the garden, and the fishes in the neighboring rill;
when no trout could be caught they fried the minnows (and
certainly, even in the best streams, minnows are more frequently
caught than trouts). The next thing which angered the natives quite
as much, especially the female part of the neighborhood, was the
very sparing employment the two he creatures gave to the sex
usually deemed so indispensable in household matters. At first
indeed, they had no woman servant at all. But this created such
horror that Parson Dale ventured a hint upon the matter, which
Riccabocca took in very good part, and an old woman was forthwith
engaged, after some bargaining—at three shillings a week—to wash
and scrub as much as she liked during the daytime. She always
returned to her own cottage to sleep. The man-servant, who was
styled in the neighborhood “Jackeymo,” did all else for his master—
smoothed his [pg 671] room, dusted his papers, prepared his coffee,
cooked his dinner, brushed his clothes, and cleaned his pipes, of
which Riccabocca had a large collection. But, however close a man's
character, it generally creeps out in driblets; and on many little
occasions the Italian had shown acts of kindness, and, on some
more rare occasions, even of generosity, which had served to silence
his calumniators, and by degrees he had established a very fair
reputation—suspected, it is true, of being a little inclined to the Black
Art, and of a strange inclination to starve Jackeymo and himself—in
other respects harmless enough.

Signor Riccabocca had become very intimate, as we have seen, at

the Parsonage. But not so at the Hall. For though the Squire was
inclined to be very friendly to all his neighbors—he was, like most
country gentlemen, rather easily huffed. Riccabocca had, if with
great politeness, still with great obstinacy, refused Mr. Hazeldean's
earlier invitations to dinner, and when the Squire found, that the
Italian rarely declined to dine at the Parsonage, he was offended in
one of his weak points, viz., his regard for the honor of the
hospitality of Hazeldean Hall—and he ceased altogether invitations
so churlishly rejected. Nevertheless, as it was impossible for the
Squire, however huffed, to bear malice, he now and then reminded
Riccabocca of his existence by presents of game, and would have
called on him more often than he did, but that Riccabocca received
him with such excessive politeness that the blunt country gentleman
felt shy and put out, and used to say that “to call on Riccabocca was
as bad as going to court.”

But I left Dr. Riccabocca on the high-road. By this time he has

ascended a narrow path that winds by the side of the cascade, he
has passed a trellis-work covered with vines, from the which
Jackeymo has positively succeeded in making what he calls wine—a
liquid, indeed, that, if the cholera had been popularly known in those
days, would have soured the mildest member of the Board of
Health; for Squire Hazeldean, though a robust man who daily carried
off his bottle of port with impunity, having once rashly tasted it, did
not recover the effect till he had had a bill from the apothecary as
long as his own arm. Passing this trellis, Dr. Riccabocca entered upon
the terrace, with its stone pavement smoothed and trim as hands
could make it. Here, on neat stands, all his favorite flowers were
arranged. Here four orange trees were in full blossom; here a kind of
summer-house or Belvidere, built by Jackeymo and himself, made
his chosen morning room from May till October; and from this
Belvidere there was as beautiful an expanse of prospect as if our
English Nature had hospitably spread on her green board all that she
had to offer as a banquet to the exile.

A man without his coat, which was thrown over the balustrade, was
employed in watering the flowers; a man with movements so
mechanical—with a face so rigidly grave in its tawny hues—that he
seemed like an automaton made out of mahogany.
“Giacomo,” said Dr. Riccabocca, softly.

The automaton stopped its hand, and turned its head.

“Put by the watering-pot, and come here,” continued Riccabocca in

Italian; and, moving toward the balustrade, he leaned over it. Mr.
Mitford, the historian, calls Jean Jacques “John James.” Following
that illustrious example, Giacomo shall be Anglified into Jackeymo.
Jackeymo came to the balustrade also, and stood a little behind his
master.

“Friend,” said Riccabocca, “enterprises have not always succeeded

with us. Don't you think, after all, it is tempting our evil star to rent
those fields from the landlord?” Jackeymo crossed himself, and made
some strange movement with a little coral charm which he wore set
in a ring on his finger.

“If the Madonna send us luck, and we could hire a lad cheap?” said
Jackeymo, doubtfully.

“Piu vale un presente che due futuri,” said Riccabocca. “A bird in the
hand is worth two in the bush.”

“Chi non fa quondo può, non può fare quondo vuole”—(“He who will
not when he may, when he will it shall have nay”)—answered
Jackeymo, as sententiously as his master. “And the Padrone should
think in time that he must lay by for the dower of the poor
signorina”—(young lady).

Riccabocca sighed, and made no reply.

“She must be that high now!” said Jackeymo, putting his hand on
some imaginary line a little above the balustrade. Riccabocca's eyes,
raised over the spectacles, followed the hand.

“If the Padrone could but see her here—”

“I thought I did!” muttered the Italian.

“He would never let her go from his side till she went to a
husband's,” continued Jackeymo.

“But this climate—she could never stand it,” said Riccabocca,

drawing his cloak round him, as a north wind took him in the rear.

“The orange trees blossom even here with care,” said Jackeymo,
turning back to draw down an awning where the orange trees faced
the north. “See!” he added, as he returned with a sprig in full bud.

Dr. Riccabocca bent over the blossom, and then placed it in his
bosom.

“The other one should be there, too,” said Jackeymo.

“To die—as this does already!” answered Riccabocca. “Say no more.”

Jackeymo shrugged his shoulders; and then, glancing at his master,

drew his hand over his eyes.

[pg 672]
There was a pause. Jackeymo was the first to break it.

“But, whether here or there, beauty without money is the orange

tree without shelter. If a lad could be got cheap, I would hire the
land, and trust for the crop to the Madonna.”

“I think I know of such a lad,” said Riccabocca, recovering himself,

and with his sardonic smile once more lurking about the corner of
his mouth—“a lad made for us!”

“Diavolo!”

“No, not the Diavolo! Friend, I have this day seen a boy who—
refused sixpence!”