As the carriages rolled by, Caper determined to observe the festivals.

The next day our artist entered his name in his banker’s register, and had the horror of seeing it mangled to ‘Jams Scraper’ in the list of arrivals published in the Giornale di Roma.  For some time after his arrival in Rome, he was pained to receive cards, circulars, notices, letters, advertisements, etc., from divers tradesmen, all directed to the above name.  In revenge, he here gives them a public airing.  One firm announces,—­

’Manafactury of Remain Seltings, Mosaiques, Cameas, Medalls, Erasofines, &c.’ (Erasofines is the Roman-English for crucifixes.) And on a slip of paper, handsomely printed, is an announcement that they make ’Romain Perles of all Couloueurs’—­there’s color for you!

A tailor, under the head of ‘Ici un parle Francais,’ prints, ’Merchant and tailor.  Cloths (clothes?) Reddy maid, Mercery Roman; Scarfs, etc.’

Another, ’Roman Artickles Manofactorer’—­hopes to be ’honnoured with our Custom, (American?), and flaters himsself we will find things to our likings.’  Everything but the English, you know—­that is not exactly to our liking.  Another, from a lady, reads,—­

A VENTRE!

une Galerie decomposee de 300 d’Anciens Maitres, et de l’ecole romaine peintres sur bois, sur cuivre et sur toit, &c.

Ventre for Vendre is bad enough, but a ’gallery of decomposed old masters and of Roman school painters on wood and on the roof,’ when it was intended to say ‘A gallery composed of 300 of the old masters—­’ But let us leave it untranslated; it is already decomposee.

A SHORT WALK.

Mr. Caper having indignantly rejected the services of all professors of the guiding art or ‘commissionaires,’ slowly sauntered out of his hotel the morning after his arrival, and, map in hand, made his way to the tower on the Capitoline Hill.  Threading several narrow, dirty streets, he at last went through one where in one spot there was such a heap of garbage and broccoli stumps that he raised his eyes to see how high up it reached against the walls of a palace; and there read, in black letters,

Immondezzaio;

literally translated, A Place for Dirt.  On the opposite wall, which was the side of a church, he saw a number of black placards on which were large white skulls and crossbones, and while examining these, a bare-headed, brown-bearded, stout Franciscan monk passed him.  From a passing glance, Caper saw he looked good-natured, and so, hailing him, asked why the skulls and bones were pasted there.

‘Who knows?’ answered the monk.  ’I came this morning from the Campagna; this is the first time in all my life I have been in this magnificent city.’

‘Can you tell me what that word means up there?’ said Caper, pointing to immondezzaio.