whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstasies of admiration!  He gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere.  After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more—­we never admired any thing—­we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display.  We had found their weak point.  We have made good use of it ever since.  We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we have never lost our own serenity.

The doctor asks the questions, generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives.  It comes natural to him.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus.  Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress.  He was full of animation—­full of impatience.  He said: 

“Come wis me, genteelmen!—­come!  I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo!—­write it himself!—­write it wis his own hand! —­come!”

He took us to the municipal palace.  After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us.  The guide’s eyes sparkled.  He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger: 

“What I tell you, genteelmen!  Is it not so?  See! handwriting Christopher Colombo!—­write it himself!”

We looked indifferent—­unconcerned.  The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause.—­Then he said, without any show of interest: 

“Ah—­Ferguson—­what—­what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?”

“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”

Another deliberate examination.

“Ah—­did he write it himself; or—­or how?”

“He write it himself!—­Christopher Colombo!  He’s own hand-writing, write by himself!”

Then the doctor laid the document down and said: 

“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that.”

“But zis is ze great Christo—­”

“I don’t care who it is!  It’s the worst writing I ever saw.  Now you musn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers.  We are not fools, by a good deal.  If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—­and if you haven’t, drive on!”

We drove on.  The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture.  He had something which he thought would overcome us.  He said: 

“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me!  I show you beautiful, O, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo!—­splendid, grand, magnificent!”