“That is not wonderful,” I answered; “I am an American.”

“Is that so?” he asked.  “Well, America’s a pretty good place, ain’t it?  A good sight better than over here—­that is what I think,” and, pointing to the Duke Sermoneta said, “Is that gent American, too?”

“No,” I answered.  “He is an Italian.  Those were his horses you tamed this afternoon.”

“Is that so?  Well, I would not like to tell him that them boys of his can’t ride worth a cent and the horses ain’t worth their hide.”

I hoped that Duke Sermoneta had not overheard this conversation.

Buffalo Bill showed us a young Indian woman who had had a baby a few days ago.

“It was baptized this morning,” he added.  “What do you think it was called?”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked the Duke, looking at the brown, wizened face of the little thing, which was swaddled in an old shawl.

“A girl,” answered the young mother, in English.

“Then I suppose you called it Roma,” I said.

“No,” said Buffalo Bill.  “It is the custom among the Indians to give to the baby the name of the first thing the mother sees after its birth.”

“Then they must have named it Tent,” I said.

Buffalo Bill laughed.  “No, you must guess again.  It was called Saint Peter’s.”

“Poor little girl!” said the kind-hearted Duke, and put a gold piece in the ready and delighted hand of the mother.

ROME, 1890.

Dear ——­,—­Signor Sonsogni, the promoter of music and art, gave several librettos of operas to different composers in Italy, and promised a large reward to the victorious competitor.

Signor Crispi kindly offered me his loge, thinking that it would interest me to be present at one of the performances.  There had been many of these before, but nothing remarkable had so far been produced.

We arrived in the theater while they were playing a short opera of two acts, which was unfavorably received and quickly condemned with contempt and hisses.

The judges looked bored to death and discouraged, and the audience seemed ready to growl and grumble at anything.

Mugnoni led the orchestra in his usual excitable manner.  If any of the operas had been good for anything they would have shown at their best under his masterful baton.

Then came the “Cavalleria Rusticana.”

Already when the overture was played the audience was enchanted, and as it progressed the enthusiasm became greater and greater, the excited audience called for the autore (author).

Mascagni, urged and pushed forward from the sidewings, evidently against his will, appeared, looking very shabby in an old gray suit with trousers turned up, as if he had just come in from the street.  His hair was long and unkempt, his face haggard and thin—­evidently he had been starved and unwashed for weeks.  This really was the case.