Poppa said as we steamed out of Paris that night that the Presidency itself would not induce him to reside there, and I think he meant it. I don't know whether the omnibus numeros and the correspondances where you change, or the men sitting staring on the side walks drinking things for hours at a time, or getting no vegetables to speak of with his joint, annoyed him most, but he was very decided in his views. Momma and I were not quite so certain; we had a guilty sense of ingratitude when we thought of the creations in the van; but the cobblestones biassed momma a good deal, who hoped she should get some sleep in Italy. I had breakfasted that morning in the most amusing way with Dicky Dod at a café in the Champs Elysées—poppa and momma had an engagement with Mr. and Mrs. Malt and couldn't come—and in the leniency of the recollection I said something favourable about the Arc de Triomphe at sunset; but I gathered from the Senator's remarks that, while the sunset was fine enough, he didn't see the propriety in using it that way as a background for Napoleon Bonaparte, so to speak.

"Result is," said the Senator, "the intelligent foreigner's got pretty nearly to go out of the town to see a sunset without having to think about Aboukir and Alexandria. But that's Paris all over. There isn't a street, or a public building, or a statue, or a fountain, or a thing that doesn't shout at you, 'Look at me! Think about me! Your admiration or your life!' Those Frenchmen don't mind it because it only repeats what they're always saying themselves, but if you're a foreigner it gets on your nerves. That city is too uniformly fine to be of much use to me—it keeps me all the time wondering why I'm not in one eternal good humour to match. There's good old London now—always looks, I should think, just as you feel. Looks like history, too, and change, and contrast, and the different varieties of the human lot."

"I see what you mean, poppa," I said. "There's too much equality in Paris, isn't there—to be interesting," but the Senator was too deeply engaged in getting out momma's smelling salts to corroborate this interpretation.

It is a very long way to Genoa if you don't stop at Aix-les-Bains or anywhere—twenty-four hours—but Mont Cenis occurs in the night, which is suitable in a tunnel. There came a chill through the darkness that struck to one's very marrow, and we all rose with one accord and groped about for more rugs. When broad daylight came it was Savoy, and we realised what we had been through. The Senator was inclined to deplore missing the realisation of the Mont Cenis, and it was only when momma said it was a pity he hadn't taken a train that would have brought us through in the daytime and enabled him to examine it, that he ceased to express regret. My parents are often vehicles of philosophy for each other.

Besides, in the course of the morning the Senator acknowledged that he got more tunnels than he had any idea he had paid for. They came with a precipitancy that interfered immensely with any connected idea of the scenery, though momma, in my interest, did her best to form one. "Note, my love," she said, as we began to penetrate the frontier country, "that majestic blue summit on the horizon to the left"—obliteration, and another tunnel! " Don't miss that jagged line of snows just beyond the back of poppa's head, dear one. Quick! they are melting away!"—but the next tunnel was quicker. "Put down that the dazzling purity of these lovely peaks must be realised, for it cannot be"—darkness, and the blight of another tunnel. It was very hard on momma's imagination, and she finally accepted the Senator's warning that it would be thrown completely out of gear if she went on, and abandoned the attempt to form complete sentences between tunnels. It was much simpler to exclaim "Splendid!" or "Glorious!" which one could generally do without being interrupted.

We were not prepared to enjoy anything when we arrived at Genoa, but there was Christopher Columbus in bronze, just outside the station in a little place by himself, and we felt bound to give him our attention before we went any further. He was patting America on the head, both of them life size, and carrying on that historical argument with his sailors in bas-relief below; and he looked a very fine character. As poppa said, he was just the man you would pick out to discover America. The Senator also remarked that you could see from the position of the statue, right there in full view of the travelling public, that the Genoese thought a lot of Columbus; relied upon him, in fact, as their biggest attraction. Momma examined him from the carriage. She said it was most gratifying to see him there in his own home, so to speak; but her enthusiasm did not induce her to get out. Momma's patriotism has always to be considered in connection with the state of her nerves.

The state of all our nerves was healed in a quarter of an hour. The Senator showed his coupons somewhat truculently, but they were received as things of price with disarming bows and real gladness. We were led through rambling passages into lofty white chambers, with marble floors and iron bedsteads, full of simplicity and cleanliness, where we removed all recollections of Paris without being obliged to consider a stuffy carpet or satin-covered furniture. Italy, in the persons of the portier and the chambermaid, laid hold of us with intelligible smiles, and we were charmed. Inside, the place was full of long free lines and cool polished surfaces, and pleasant curves. Outside, a thick-fronded palm swayed in the evening wind against a climbing hill of many-tinted, many-windowed houses, in all the soft colours we knew of before. When the portier addressed momma as "Signora" her cup of bliss ran over, and she made up her mind that she felt able, after all, to go down to dinner.

Remembering their sentiments, we bowed as slightly as possible when we saw the Miss Binghams across the table, and the Senator threw that into his voice, as he inquired how they liked la belle Italie so far, and whether they had had any trouble with their trunks coming in, which might have given them to understand that his politeness was very perfunctory. If they perceived it, they allowed it to influence them the other way, however. They asked, almost as cordially as if we were middle-class English people, whether we had actually survived that trip to Versailles, and forbore to comment when we said we had enjoyed it, beyond saying that if there was one enviable thing it was the American capacity for pleasure. Yet one could see quite plainly that the vacuum caused by the absence of the American capacity for pleasure was filled in their case by something very superior to it.

"This city new to you?" asked the Senator as the meal progressed.

"In a sense , yes," replied Miss Nancy Bingham.

"We've never studied it before," said Miss Cora.

"I suppose it has a fascination all its own," remarked momma.

"Oh, rather!" exclaimed Miss Nancy Bingham, and I reflected that when she was in England she must have seen a great deal of school-boy society. I decided at once, noting its effect upon the lips of a middle-aged maiden lady, that momma must not be allowed to pick up the expression.

"It's simply full of associations of old families—the Dorias, the Pallavicinis, the Durazzos," remarked Miss Cora. "Do you gloat on the medieval?"

"We're perfectly prepared to," said the Senator. "I believe we've got both Murray and Baedeker for this place. Now do you commit your facts to memory before going to bed the night previous, or do you learn them up as you go along?"

"Oh," said Miss Nancy Bingham, "we are of the opinion that one should always visit these places with a mind prepared. Though I myself have no objection to carrying a guide-book, provided it is covered with brown paper."

"Then you acquire it all beforehand," commented the Senator. "That, I must say, is commendable of you. And it's certainly the only business-like way of proceeding. The amount of time a person loses fooling over Baedeker on the spot——"

"One of us does," acknowledged Miss Nancy. "We take it in turns. And I must say it is generally my sister." And she turned to Miss Cora, who blushed and said, "How can you, Nancy!"

"And you use her, for that particular public building or historic scene, as a sort of portable, self-acting reference library," remarked poppa. "That's an idea that commends itself to me, daughter, in connection with you."

I was about to reply in terms of deprecation, when a confusion of sound drifted in from the street, of arriving cabs and expostulating voices. The Miss Binghams looked at each other in consternation and said with one accord, "It was the Fulda !"

"Was it?" inquired poppa. "Do you refer to the German Lloyd steamship of that name?"

"We do," said Miss Nancy. "About an hour ago we were sure we saw her steaming into the harbour."

"She comes from New York, I suppose," momma remarked.

"She does indeed," said Miss Nancy, "and she's been lying at the docks unloading Americans ever since she arrived. And here they are. Cora, have you finished?"

Cora said she had, and without further parley the ladies rose and rustled away. Their invading fellow-countrymen gratefully took their places, and the Senator sent a glance of scorn after them strong enough to make them turn round. After dinner, we saw a collection of cabin trunks and valises standing in the entrance hall labelled BINGHAM, and knew that Miss Nancy and Miss Cora were again in flight before the Nemesis of the American Eagle. I will not repeat poppa's sentiments.

On the hotel doorstep next morning waited Alessandro Bebbini. He waited for us—an hour and a half, because momma had some re-packing to do and we were going on next day. Nobody had asked him to wait, but he had a carriage ready and the look of having been ordered three months previously. He presented his card to the Senator, who glanced at him and said, "Do I look as if I wanted a shave?"

Alessandro Bebbini smiled—an olive flash of pity and amusement. "I make not the shava, Signore," he said, "I am the courier—for your kind dispositione I am here."

"You should never judge foreigners by their appearance, Alexander," rebuked momma.

"Well, Mr. Bebbini," said the Senator, "I guess I've got to apologise to you. You see they told me inside there that I should probably find a—a tonsorial artist out here on the steps"—poppa never minds telling a story to save people's feelings. "But you haven't convinced me," he continued, "that I've got any use for a courier."

"You wish see Genoa—is it not?"

"Well, yes," replied the Senator, "it is."

"Then with me you come alonga. I will translate you the city—shoppia, pallass—w'at you like. Also I am not dear man neither. In the season yes. Then I am very dear. But now is nobody."

"What does your time cost to buy?" demanded poppa.

"Very cheap price. Two francs one hour. Ten francs one day. But if with you I travel, make arrangimento, you und'stan', look for traina—'otel, biglietto, bagaglia —then I am so little you laugh. Two 'undred franc the month!" and Alessandro indicated with every muscle of his body the amazement he expected us to feel.

The Senator turned to the ladies of his family. "Now that I think of it," he said, "travels in Italy are never written without a courier. People wouldn't believe they were authentic. And Bramley said if you really wanted to enjoy yourself it was folly not to engage one."

"I suppose there's more choice in the season," said momma, glancing disapprovingly at Alessandro's swarthy collar. "And I confess I should have expected them to be garbed more picturesquely."

"Look at his language," I remarked. "You can't have everything."

The Senator said that was so. "I believe you can come along, Mr. Bebbini," he said; "we're strangers here and we'll get you to help us to enjoy ourselves for a month on the terms you name. You can begin right away."

Alessandro bowed and waved us to the carriage. It was only the ordinary commercial bow of Italy, but I could see that it made a difference to momma. He saw us seated and was climbing on the box when poppa interfered. "There's no use trying to work it that way," he said; "we can't ask you to twist your head off every time you emit a piece of information. Besides, there's no sense in your riding on the box when there's an extra seat. You won't crowd us any, Mr. Bebbini, and I guess we can refrain from discussing family matters for one hour."

So we started, with Mr. Bebbini at short range.

"I think," said he, "you lika first off the 'ouse of Cristoforo Colombo."

"I don't see how you knew," said poppa, "but you are perfectly correct. Cristoforo was one of the most distinguished Americans on the roll of history, and we, also, are Americans. At once, at once to the habitation of Cristoforo."

Alessandro leaned forward impressively.

"Who informa you Cristoforo Colombo was Americano? Better you don't believe these other guide—ignoranta fella. Cristoforo was Genoa man, born here, you und'stan'? Italiano. Only live in America a lill' w'ile—to discover, you und'stan'?"

"Mr. Bebbini," said poppa, "if you go around contradicting Americans on the subject of Christopher Columbus your business will decrease. As a matter of fact, Christopher wasn't born, he was made, and America made him. He has every right to claim to be considered an American, and it was a little careless of him not to have founded a family there. We make excuses for him—it's quite true he had very little time at his disposal—but we feel it, the whole nation of us, to this day."

The Via Balbi was cheerfully crooked and crowded, it had the modern note of the street car, and the mediæval one of old women, arms akimbo, in the nooks and recesses, selling big black cherries and bursting figs. Even the old women though, as momma complained, wore postilion basques and bell skirts, certainly in an advanced stage of usefulness, but of unmistakable genesis—just what had been popular in Chicago a year or two before.

"Really, my love," said momma, "I don't know what we shall do for description in Genoa, the people seem to wear no clothes worth mentioning whatever." We concluded that all the city's characteristically Italian garments were in the wash; they depended in novel cut and colour from every window that did not belong to a bank or a university; and sometimes, when the side street was narrow and the houses high, the effect was quite imposing. Poppa asked Alessandro Bebbini whether they were expecting royalty or anything, or whether it was like this every washing day, and we gathered that there was nothing unusual about it. But poppa said I had better mention it so that people might be prepared. Personally, I rather liked the display, it gave such unexpected colour and incident to those high-shouldering, narrow by-ways we looked down into from the upper level of the Via Balbi, where only here and there the sun strove through, and all the rest was a rich toned mystery; but there may be others like momma, who prefer the clothes line of the Occident and the privacy of the back yard.

The two sides of the Via Poverina almost touched foreheads. "Yes," said Alessandro Bebbini apologetically, "it is a ver' tight street."

Poppa was extremely pleased with the appearance of the house of Christopher Columbus, which Alessandro pointed out in the Via Assorotti. It was a comfortable looking edifice, with stone giants supporting the arch of the doorway, in every respect suitable as the residence of a retired navigator of distinction. Poppa said it was very gratifying to find that Cristoforo had been able, in his declining years, when he was our only European representative, to keep his end up with credit to America.

You so often found the former abodes of glorious names with a modern rental out of all proportion with their historic interest. This house, poppa calculated, would let to-day at a figure discreditable neither to Cristoforo himself, nor to the United States of America. Mr. Bebbini, unfortunately, could not tell him what that figure was.

On the steps of San Lorenzo Cathedral momma paused and cast a searching glance into all the corners.

"Where are the beggars?" she inquired, not without injury. "I have always been given to understand that church entrances in Italy were disgracefully thronged with beggars of the lowest type. I have never seen a picture of a sacred building without them!"

"So that was why you wanted so much small change, Augusta," said the Senator. "Mr. Bebbini says there's a law against them nowadays. Now that you mention it, I'm disappointed there too. Municipal progress in Italy is something you've not prepared for somehow. I daresay if we only knew it, they're thinking of lighting this town with electricity, and the Board of Aldermen are considering contracts for cable cars."

"Do not inquire, Alexander," begged momma, but the Senator had fallen behind with Mr. Bebbini in earnest conversation, and we gathered that its import was entirely modern.

It was our first Italian church and it was impressive, for a President of the French Republic had just fallen to the knife of an Italian assassin, and from the altar to the door San Lorenzo was in mourning and in penance. Masses for his soul's repose had that day been said and sung; near the door hung a request for the prayers of all good Christians to this end. Many of the grave-eyed people that came and went were doubtless about this business, but one, I know, was there on a private errand. He prayed at a chapel aside, kneeling on the floor beside the railings, his cap in his hands, grasping it just as the peasant in The Angelus grasps his. Inside the altar hung a picture of a pitying woman, and there were candles and foolish flowers of tinsel, but beside these, many tokens of hearts, gold and silver, thick below the altar, crowding the partition walls. The hearts were grateful ones—Alessandro explained in an undertone—brought and left by many who had been preserved from violent death by the saint there, and he who knelt was a workman just from hospital, who had fallen, with his son, from a building. The boy had been killed, the father only badly hurt. His heart token was the last—a little common thing—and tied with no rejoiceful ribbon but with a scrap of crape. I hoped Heaven would see the crape as well as the tribute. When we went away he was still kneeling in his patched blue cotton clothes, and as the saint had very beautiful kind eyes, and all the tinsel flowers were standing in the glowing light of stained glass, and the voice of the Church had begun to speak too, through the organ, I daresay he went away comforted.

Momma says there is only one thing she recollects clearly about San Lorenzo, and that is the Chapel of St. John the Baptist. This does not remain in her memory because of the Cinquecento screen or the altar-canopy's porphyry pillars which we know we must have seen because the guide-book says they are there, but because of the fact that Pope Innocent the Eighth had it closed to our sex for a long time, except on one day of the year, on account of Herodias. Momma considered this extremely invidious of Innocent the Eighth, and said it was a thing no man except a Pope would have thought of doing. What annoyed poppa was that she seemed to hold Alessandro Bebbini responsible, and covered him with reproaches, in the guise of argument, which he neither deserved nor understood. And when poppa suggested that she was probably as much to blame for Herodias's conduct as Mr. Bebbini was for the Pope's, she said that had nothing whatever to do with it, and she thanked Heaven she was born a Protestant anyway, distinctly implying that Herodias was a Roman Catholic. And if poppa didn't wish her back to give out altogether, would he please return to the carriage.

We wandered through a palace or two and thought how interesting it must have been to be rich in the days of "Sir Horatio Palavasene, who robbed the Pope to pay the Queen." Wealth had its individuality in those days, and expressed itself with truth and splendour in sculpture, and picture, and tapestry, and precious things, with the picturesqueness of contrast and homage. As the Senator said, a banquet hall did not then suggest a Fifth Avenue hairdresser's saloon. But now the Genoese merchant-princes would find that their state had lost its identity in machine made imitations, and that it would be more distinguished to be poor, since poverty is never counterfeited. But poppa declined to go as far as that.

Alessandro, as we drove round and up the winding roads that take one to the top of Genoa—the hotels and the palaces and the churches are mostly at the bottom—was full of joyous and rapid information. Especially did he continue to be communicative on the subject of Christopher Columbus, and if we are not now assured of the school that discoverer attended in his youth, and the altar rails before which he took the first communion of his early manhood, and the occupation of his wife's parents, and many other matters concerning him, it is the fault of history and not that of Alessandro Bebbini. After a cathedral and a palace and a long drive, this was bound to have its effect, and I very soon saw resentment in the demeanour of both my parents. So much so, that when we passed the family group in memory of Mazzini, and Alessandro explained dramatically that "the daughter he sitta down and cryo because his father is a-dead," poppa said, "Is that so?" without the faintest show of excitement, and momma declined even to look round.

It was not until the evening, however, when we were talking to some Milwaukee people, that we remembered, with the assistance of Baedeker and the Milwaukee people, a number of facts about Columbus that deprived Alessandro's information of its commercial value, while leaving his ingenuity, so to speak, at par. The Senator was so much annoyed, as he had made a special note of the state of preservation in which he had found the dwelling of our discoverer, that he had recourse to the most unscrupulous means of relieving us of Alessandro—who was to present himself next morning at eleven. He wrote an impulsive letter to "A. Bebbini, Esq.," which ran:

The Senator assured me afterwards that this was absolutely necessary—that A. Bebbini, if we introduced him in any quantity, would ruin the sale of our work, and if he accompanied us it would be impossible to keep him out. He said we ought to apologize for having even mentioned him in a book of travels which we hope to see taken seriously. And we do. t7TFuW3Mw92f9MwUKl/IzESAEu6rovuCTmk0xuDizz8Bw6mqPBnq+vaiVkF4ckNy

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