“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 handwriting, 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 mustn’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, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo!—splendid, grand, magnificent!” He brought us before the beautiful bust—for it _was_ beautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude: “Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand,—bust Christopher Colombo!—Beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!” The doctor put up his eyeglass—procured for such occasions: “Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?” “Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!” “Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well what did _he_ do?” “Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!” “Discover America. No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?” “Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!” “What did he die of?” “I do not know!—I cannot tell.” “Smallpox, think?” “I do not know, genteelmen!—I do not know _what_ he die of!” “Measles, likely?” “Maybe—maybe—I do not know—I think he die of somethings.” “Parents living?” “Im-posseeble!” “Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?” “Santa Maria!—_zis_ ze bust!—_zis_ ze pedestal!” “Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination, indeed. Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?” That joke was lost on the foreigner—guides cannot master subtleties of the American joke.