The traveller of whom we speak had gone thither,
according to the well established custom, while his horses were being
changed. He had, however, been preceded by another man, whose strange
appearance soon attracted attention. The latter was about sixty years of
age, of middle height, and well made. He had been handsome, if one could
judge from the purity of the lines of his features, which time had not
entirely effaced. His _coiffure_ alone would have made him appear
whimsical and ridiculous, had not his head been noble and distinguished.
He wore powder; and locks such as once were known as _a l'aille de
pigeon_, were on each side of his face. A cloak of light silk was
buttoned over his breast, so as to conceal a blue coat on which a cross
of Saint Louis rested, being suspended to a broad blue ribbon. Sitting
between two of the prettiest girls of Ceprano, he talked to them in an
Italian, very little of which they understood; for his _patois_ called
forth from the volatile creatures bursts of laughter.

"Bah!" said he in French; "this is the consequence of not studying
foreign tongues. I cannot turn the _indigenes_ to profit. Pity, too,
when they are beautiful as these are."

"Signor, may I be your interpreter?" said the last comer, who had heard
only the latter portion of the old man's words.

"Thanks, Signor," said he; "heaven has sent you to the aid of a
barbarian who was pitilessly murdering the mother tongue of Tasso.
Formerly," continued he, "pantomime answered to talk with women as well
as language; now, however, I must explain myself in another manner. I
cannot, therefore, ask you to be the interpreter of my request of these
girls!"

"What, Signor, did you ask them?" said he.

"Nothing, but permission to write two signs on my tablets. A habit I
imported from London, a peculiar kind of statistics to introduce some
variety into the tedious stories travellers spin. I indicate the region
through which I pass by a single phrase or word which recalls to me what
they have most agreeable to the heart, mind, or senses. See," said he,
taking a rich pocket-book on which was a prince's coronet in gold, "all
Italy will occupy but two pages. Florence? _Flowers and museums._
Bologna? _Hams._ Milan? _La scala._ Leghorn? _Nothing._ Rome? _Every
thing. Et caetera._ I wished to write Ceprano? _kisses_: to prove that
here I touched the lips of the two prettiest women of Italy."

"If that is all," said the person to whom the o