was reciting at any of the
country fairs, of the man who sells rosaries and crucifixes. It is one
of the cent-songs of the Papal States, published _con licenza_, with
license; and a more cruel, disgusting, filthy, and demoralizing tendency
than it must have on the people can not well be imagined; and there are
hundreds of worse.'

While Rocjean was talking they had crossed the ponte Rotto, and as he
finished his sentence they stood in front of the ruined house of--Cola
di Rienzil, 'Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--the hope of Italy,
Rienzi, last of Romans!'

'Well,' said Rocjean, as he halted in front of the ruined house, and
looked carefully at the ornamented stones still left, 'when Saint
Peter's church shall be a circus, this house shall be a shrine.'

'That being the state of the case,' spoke Caper, 'let us walk up to the
Trevi fountain and see the effect by moonlight of its flashing waters,
and inhale the flavor of fried fish from the adjacent stands.'

They stood in front of the wild waters dashing, sparkling over the grand
mass of tumbled rocks reared behind the wall of a large palace. Neptune,
car, horses, tritons, all, stone as they were, seemed leaping into life
in the glittering rays of the moonlight, and the rush and splash of the
waters in the great basin below the street, contrasted with the silence
of the city, left a deep impression of largeness and force on the minds
of the two artists.

'Let us go down and drink the water, for he who drinks of it shall
return again to Rome!'

'With all my heart,' said Caper; 'for if the legend has one word of
truth in it, Garibaldi will be back again some _bello giorno_----'

'_Bello giorno_ means fine day; _giorno di bello_ means a day for war: I
drink to both!' spoke Rocjean, dipping water up in his hand.

They returned to the street, and were walking toward the Piazza di
Spagna, when they overtook two well-dressed men evidently none the
better for too much wine. As they passed them, one of the men said to
the other:

'J-im! I don't see but what we-we-'ll have to r-r-roost out-tall night.
I don't know 'ny 'talian, _you_ don't know 'ny 'talian, we-we-'re
nonpl'sh'd, I'm th-think'ng.'

'Ary borry boutere spikinglish?' said the other one to the two artists,
as they were walking on.

'Yes,' said Caper, 'four of 'em. If you've lost your way we'll set you
right. Where's your hotel?'

''Tel? Why, 'Tel Europe p'aza Spanya. Are you English?'

'No, sir! I'