he Campo Santo that last day, and on the road
back, just after passing through the walls, an Englishman who had lost
himself asked the way to the market-place. He was a little bit of a
self-important chap, with a gruff, coarse voice, and schoolmaster
written in large letters all over him. He knew no word of Italian, and
was evidently feeling lonely to a degree; and so, as I had no objection
to chatting with a countryman, we paced off together and dropped into
conversation. He was "doing" North Italy with a circular ticket, and as
he had read it all up with much thoroughness beforehand, he was very
naturally much disappointed with the reality. "S. Mark's was too small,
and Venice was most unhealthy. The sanitation of that part over the
Rialto Bridge, where the butchers' shops were, was a disgrace to the
country. The Duomo at Milan was squat, ugly, overrated, and the hotel
charges in that city were most exorbitant. Turin might be a good place
for shopping, but he had not gone there for that purpose. And Genoa,
again, was unsanitary." In fact, he was the stereotyped travelling
Briton, so full of melancholy discontent and disappointment that one
wondered why he did not commit suicide or go home. And as, add to this,
he laid down the law with the true schoolmaster's dogmaticalness on
every conceivable subject that cropped up, from music to tattooing, you
can guess that he had in him the makings of a very objectionable beast
indeed. However, he was so appallingly ignorant of all the matters he
plunged amongst as to be correspondingly amusing, and for that reason
alone I didn't give him the go-by at once.

We were passing a bookseller's shop, where he caught sight of a mangy,
leather-bound MS. in the window, and said he'd ask the price. He didn't
know in the least what it was about, and didn't seem to care; but
saying that he would make a good profit out of it at Quaritch's, went
into the shop. I didn't offer an opinion about his last statement, but
just followed. He was demanding "How much?"

"Vous parlez francais, m'sieu'?" asked the bookseller.

"Nong, mais this gentleman here parlez Italiano.--I say, will you
translate for me? Ask the fellow what he'll sell this for."

I did, and the bookseller started a long yarn about the MS. having come
out of the Marchese di Somebody-or-other's library, where it had lain
undisturbed for several thousand years. "Signor," said he, "the book is
of inestimable value, and I cannot part w