There was one other decoration in this hole—­a thing more incongruous even than the modern lighting fixtures; and this stood out in bold black lettering upon the low-sloped ceiling.  A pair of vandals, a man and wife—­no doubt with infinite pains—­had smuggled in brush and marking pot and somehow or other—­I suspect by bribing guides and guards—­had found the coveted opportunity of inscribing their names here in the Doges’ black dungeon.  With their names they had written their address too, which was a small town in the Northwest, and after it the legend:  “Send us a postal card.”

I imagine that then this couple, having accomplished this feat, regarded their trip to Europe as being rounded out and complete, and went home again, satisfied and rejoicing.  Send them a postal card?  Somebody should send them a deep-dish poison-pie!

Looking on this desecration my companion and I grew vocal.  We agreed that our national lawgivers who were even then framing an immigration law with a view to keeping certain people out of this country, might better be engaged in framing one with a view to keeping certain people in.  Our guide harkened with a quiet little smile on his face to what we said.

“It cannot have been here long—­that writing on the ceiling,” he explained for our benefit.”  Presently it will be scraped away.  But”—­ and he shrugged his eloquent Italian shoulders and outspread his hands fan-fashion—­“but what is the use?  Others like them will come and do as they have done.  See here and here and here, if you please!”

He aimed a darting forefinger this way and that, and looking where he pointed we saw now how the walls were scarred with the scribbled names of many visitors.  I regret exceedingly to have to report that a majority of these names had an American sound to them.  Indeed, many of the signatures were coupled with the names of towns and states of the Union.  There were quite a few from Canada, too.  What, I ask you, is the wisdom of taking steps to discourage the cutworm and abate the gypsy-moth when our government permits these two-legged varmints to go abroad freely and pollute shrines and wonderplaces with their scratchings, and give the nations over there a perverted notion of what the real human beings on this continent are like?

For the tourist who has wearied of picture galleries and battlegrounds and ruins and abbeys, studying other tourists provides a pleasant way of passing many an otherwise tedious hour.  Certain of the European countries furnish some interesting types—­notably Britain, which producing a male biped of a lachrymose and cheerless exterior, who plods solemnly across the Continent wrapped in the plaid mantle of his own dignity, never speaking an unnecessary word to any person whatsoever.  And Germany:  From Germany comes a stolid gentleman, who, usually, is shaped like a pickle mounted on legs and is so extensively and convexedly eyeglassed as to give him the appearance