‘I say, driver, what’s your name?’ asked Rocjean of the vetturino.

‘Caesar, padrone mio,’ answered the man.

‘Are you descended from the celebrated Julius?’ asked Caper, laughing.

‘Yes, sir, my grandfather’s name was Julius.’

  ’’That every like is not the same, O Caesar! 
  The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon,’’

soliloquized Caper; and as by this time they had reached a place where both he and Rocjean thought a fine view of the ruined aqueduct might be taken, they ordered the driver to stop, and taking out their sketching materials, sent him back to Rome, telling him to come out for them about four o’clock, when they would be ready to return.

While they were yet in the road, there came along a very large countryman, mounted on a very small jackass; he was sitting side-saddle fashion, one leg crossed over the other, the lower leg nearly touching the ground; one hand held a pipe to his mouth, while the other held an olive branch, by no means an emblem of peace to the jackass, who twitched one long ear and then the other, in expectation of a momentary visit from it on either side of his head.  Following, at a dutiful distance behind, came a splendid specimen of a Roman peasant-woman, a true contadina:  poised on her head was a very large round basket, from over the edge of which sundry chickens’ heads and cocks’ feathers arose, and while Caper was looking at the basket, he saw two tiny little arms stuck up suddenly above the chickens, and then heard a faint squall—­it was her baby.  An instantaneous desire seized Caper to make a rough sketch of the family group, and hailing the man, he asked him for a light to his cigar.  The jackass was stopped by pulling his left ear—­the ears answering for reins—­and after giving a light, the man was going on, when Caper, taking a scudo from his pocket, told him that if he would let him make a sketch of himself, wife, and jackass, he would give it to him, telling him also that he would not detain them over an hour.

‘If you’ll give me a buona mano besides the scudo, I’ll do it,’ he answered.

The buona mano is the ignis fatuus that leads on three fourths of the Italians; it is the bright spark that wakes them up to exertion.  No matter what the fixed price for doing any thing may be, there must always be a something undefined ahead of it, to crown the work when accomplished.  It makes labor a lottery; it makes even sawing wood a species of gambling.  Caper promised a buona mano.

The man told his wife that the Signore was to make a ritratto, a picture of them all, including the jackass, at which she laughed heartily, showing a splendid set of brilliantly white teeth.  A finer type of woman it would be hard to find, for she was tall, straight, with magnificent bust and broad hips.  Her hair, thick and black, was drawn back from her forehead like a Chinese, and was confined behind her