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at these stations was an Italian organ-grinder.
He came on board from one of the green glacier
beds, containing about half-a-dozen houses, and
landed upon another similarly peopled. He was a
merry, careless dog, and grinned with all his broad
white teeth when I saluted him in his native
tongue. Like the rest of these modern trovatore
who play organs, his motherland is the “paese di
Genoa.” Those that play concertinas and sing are
Calabrese; the pipers come from the Abruzzi; the
makers and vendors of plaster casts all hail from
the “Bagni di Lucca,” and the glass workers of
Hatton Garden come from the plains of
Lombardy, “vicino di Milano.” They are all abundant
enough in the Italian quarter of London, in and
about Leather Lane, but I little expected to find a
specimen here on the Arctic circle, and proceeding
farther north. He told me that the farmers and the
“pescatore” hereabouts give him a hearty welcome,
free quarters, as much as he can eat and drink,
and enough small money to pay his steamboat fare
from station to station; that he spends his summers
in the North, and works southward as the winter
approaches; that the Norwegians have better taste
and more love of music than the French and
English, as his concerts here are not given al fresco in
the public streets, but in the best room of the
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