m an American born, bred and--buttered,' said Caper.

'B-bullyf'ryou! We'resame spishies--allrite--d-driv'on!'

'Look here,' said the one of the two men who was least tipsy, 'if this
tother g-gen'leman and I could stick our heads into c-cold water we'd
come out tall right.'

'It's only a block or two back to the Trevi fountain,' answered Caper,
'and if your friend will go with you, you'll find water enough there.'

They went back to the fountain, and descending the steps with some
difficulty, the two men soon had their heads pretty well cooled off, and
came up with cleared intellects and improved pronunciation. In the
course of conversation it appeared that the two travelers, for such they
were, after rather too much wine at dinner in their hotel, had been
invited to the German Club, where Rhine wine, etc., had finished them
off: attempting to return to their hotel alone, they had lost their way.
As the four walked along, it came out that one of them owned a painting
by Rocjean, and when he discovered that one of his guides was no other
than that Americanized Frenchman, the whole party at once fraternized,
and disregarding any more moonlight effects, walked at once to Caper's
rooms, where over cigars and a bottle of Copalti's wine they signed,
sealed, and delivered a compact to have a good time generally for the
week the two travelers intended devoting to Rome. The moral of which is
... that you make more friends than meet enemies--walking round Rome by
night.

THE MYSTERIOUS IN ART.

They were in the presence of a man with flowing hair, flowing beard, and
flowing language, in a studio, all light from which was excluded by
heavy curtains, except enough to display an easel on which was placed a
painting, a background of dark blue where were many apparently spider
and crow-tracks.

'Those who in the profundity of their darkness incline to the belief
that the vitality of art, butterfly-like, has fled from this sunny
world, have made the biggest kind of a mistake,' said Mr. Artaxerxes
Phlamm, the Mystic Artist, to Caper. The hit was evidently intended for
Rocjean, but that descendant of the Gauls, for some reason, did not
smite back again; he contented himself with the remark:

'Art is long.'

'Yes, sir,' continued Mr. Phlamm, 'not only it has length, but breadth,
breadth, broadness--it extends from--yes--from--pole to pole.'

'Like a clothes-line,' said Caper.

'Ah!' continued Phlamm, with a pickled smile, '