’Pass on, illustrious gen-till-men, to the next hole.  ’Tis the be-yu-ti-fool city of Filadelfia.  The houses here are all built of woo-ood.  The two rivaires that cir-cum-vent the city are the Lavar (Delaware?) and the Hud-soon.  I do not know what is “a pum-king cart,” but the car-riage which you see before you is a fi-ah engine, be-cause the city is all built of woo-ood.  The tall stee-ple belongs to the kay-ker (Quaker) temple of San Cristo.’

Rocjean now gave the Venerable a paul, requesting him to dwell at length upon these scenes, as he was a Frenchman in search of a little of geography.

’Excellencies, I will do my en-dea-vors.  The gran-diose ship as lies in the Lavar (Delaware) riv-aire is fool of em-i-gr-rants.  The signora de-scen-din’ the side of the ship is in a dreadful sit-u-a-tion tru-ly. [Per-haps the artist was in a boat and de-scri-bed the scene as he saw it.] The elephant you see de-scen-din’ the street is a nay-tive of this tropi-cal re-gion, and the cock-a-toos infest the sur-round-in’ air.  The Moors you see along the wharves are the spon-ta-ne-ous born of the soil.  Those are kay-kers (Quakers?) on mules with broad-brimmed hats onto their heads; the sticks in their hands are to beat the Moors who live on their su-gar plan-tay-tions....  Music? did you ask, Madame?  We have none in this establish-ment.  Kone.

’Excellencies, the next hole.  ’Tis the be-yu-ti-fool city of Bal-ti-mory.  You behold in the be-fore ground a gr-rand feast day of Amer-i-cain peas-ants; they are be-hold-ing their noble Count re-pair-ring to the chase with a serf on a white hoarse-bag (horse-back?).  The little joke of the cattle is a play-fool fan-cy of the jocose artiste as did the panorama.  I am un-ac-count-able for veg-garies such as them.  The riv-aire in the bag-ground is the Signora-pippi’....

‘The what?’ asked Caper, shaking with laughter.

’A gen-till-man the other day told me that only the peasants in Americay say Missus or Mis-triss, and that the riv-aire con-se-kwen-tilly was not Missus-pippi, but, as I have had the honor of saying, the Signora-pippi rivaire.  The next hole, Excel-len-cies!—­’Tis the be-yu-ti-fool city of Vaskmenton (Washington), also on the Signora-pippi riv-aire.  The white balls on the trees is cot-ton.  Those are not white balls on the ground, those are ship;—­ships as have woolen growin’ onto their sides (sheep?).  ’Tis not a white bar-racks:  ’tis the Palazzo di Vaskmenton, a nobil gen-e-ral woo lives there, and was for-mer-ly king of the A-mer-i-cain nations.  What does that Moor, with the white lady in his arms? it is a negro peas-sant taking his mis-triss out to air,—­’tis the customs in those land....  That negress or fe-mail Moor with some childs is also airring, and, the white ‘ooman tyin’ up her stockings is a sportive of the artiste.  He is much for the hum-or-ous.