A

N American consulate is a veritable Mirza's Hill, where human life, in its various phases, with its sharps and flats, its tragedy and comedy, passes in continuous though informal review. Lexically it is a commercial agency, but practically it is that and a great deal more; in an accommodated sense, it is a police-station, a criminal court, despatch agency, bank of deposit, reading-room, post-office, -in fine, a general depository, or sort of omniana, where from time to time you may find everything, from a love-letter to a Saratoga trunk, or from a sailor's tarpauling to a lady's trousseau.

So, too, a consul is supposed to be a commercial agent; but in fact, and of necessity, he is everything by turns, and nothing long. What with debentures, invoices, protests, legalizations, and the rest of that category, his official duties are sufficiently numerous, and often perplexing; but his unofficial services, which never figure in the despatches, are still more multiform and multiplied. He conducts trials, in which he is at once advocate, judge, and jury. He draws up a legal instrument as a notary, signs it as a witness, and legalizes it as a consul. Now he is engaged in the humble vocation of an interpreter, or valet de place, and, presto! he is discharging the functions of a minister extraordinary. Now he is looking after the stray baggage of some unfortunate tourist, and anon he is deciding cases involving, not only the property and personal liberty, but even the lives, of his countrymen.

that has figured in some war of independence, no matter how remote, he calls for aid upon the United States Consul. If one of his countrywomen contemplates marriage, she consults the consular oracle. If she is married and wishes she were not, or if she is not married when in all conscience she ought to be, she confides the terrible secret to the consul. If a male child is born of American parentage, the consul is forthwith notified of the happy event, and thereupon issues a certificate of United States citizenship. Should one of his countrymen conclude that "it is not good for man to be alone," the consul may solemnize the rites of matrimony; or, should he die intestate, the latter becomes, by virtue of his office, the executor or administrator of his personal estate.

I should have considered the foregoing an exaggerated statement of the case, if I had not recently had occasion to pass a day at one of the principal Italian consulates, of which I propose to furnish a brief record from notes taken upon the spot. Having ordered a small box of sundries sent to my address by steamer from Marseilles, I called at the consulate to ascertain its whereabouts and to inquire for letters. Antonio, the messenger, soon arrived with the mail. By way of parenthesis we may say, that Antonio is a fixture of the office, having been connected with it for the last twenty years. He speaks four or five different languages, and yet is in blissful ignorance of his own age and surname. He knows that everybody calls him Antonio, and that's all he knows about it. He is slightly at fault sometimes with his languages, as he exclaimed, on coming into the office, and glancing at the stove to see if it were drawing well, "The stufa pulls fust-rate."

This struck me as being rather extraordinary, as one of the peculiarities of an Italian fireplace is, as Dickens has

it, that "everything goes up the chimney except the smoke."

"How about the box, Antonio ?"
"All right, Signore."

Though, to the best of my knowledge, it contained nothing dutiable, still, as I had been totally oblivious of the fact that the custom-house "Cerberus loves a sop," I anticipated some difficulty on that score, and inquired, with a little nervous anxiety, "How did you get it through, Antonio?"

"Why, sir, I told 'em it was only a little tapioca for the consul, who has the dyspepsy."

"Birbante!" exclaimed that worthy functionary with considerable fervor, as he wheeled around upon his tripod, "how dared you tell them that?"

"Why, you know, Signore Console, it is right to lie for my padrone; so I told 'em a lie in order to be honest."

"A very singular idea of honesty, certainly!" rejoined the consul, his severe aspect relaxing, notwithstanding his evident displeasure, into an involuntary smile. And yet not so singular either, when we consider the moral possibilities of a régime under which pious brigands, baptized with sacrilegious rites in human blood, can repeat with sanctimonious airs the Ave Maria over the mutilated corpses of their foully murdered victims. It was only an efflorescence of Machiavelianism, a rather original statement of the old dogma, that "the end justifies the means," enunciated and illustrated by an ignorant Italian porter.

I might have read the now crestfallen messenger a homily on veracity, but for the entrance of an honest-looking peasant, who wished to procure the consular legalization to some paper that he evidently deemed of considerable importance. As a preliminary, it was necessary that he should be sworn. The consul, after explaining the nature of an oath, requested him to raise his right hand. This he positively refused to do, until fully assured that, whatever other terrible consequences might follow, he would probably not fall down dead, as did Ananias and Sapphira, in

the event of his failing to tell the truth. It soon became further evident that he was superstitious to the last degree, and in this respect he is probably a fair representative of his class. As from believing too much we end by believing too little, so the natural rebound of superstition is infidelity. This is eminently true of the religious metamorphosis which is now taking place in Italy.

"What is your creed?" I inquired, a few days since, of a professor in one of the universities.

"Credo in Dio e buon vino," (I believe in God and good wine.)

It is to be feared that, among the more intelligent classes, Epicurus has more disciples than Jesus.

Meanwhile the consul had been despatching the mail that lay upon his desk.

There was a note from the mayor, enclosing an invitation to attend, on the following Sabbath, a military review in the morning and a grand ball in the evening; which, as the consul is a Protestant clergyman, seemed rather incongruous.

There was a letter in a feminine hand, in which the consul is informed that velvets and human hair are frightfully high in the United States, that she understands they are both very cheap in Italy, and that she will consider herself under lasting obligations if he will do her the favor of sending a quantity for herself and several of her lady friends, provided he can do so without the payment of the duties, the velvets, no doubt, because the duty is so high; and the hair, I suppose, on the ground of its being secondhand.

There is one in Italian, from a youth of belligerent proclivities, who proposes enlistment in the United States Army on condition that his expenses are paid to the United States and he is guaranteed a commission.

There is another in French, from a Hungarian refugee, who is desirous of emigrating to America. He is confident that the United States government