'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. 'Excellencies, the last hole A-mer-i-cain. 'Tis the stoo-pen-doss Signora-pippi rivaire in all its mag-gnif-fi-cent booty. What is that cockatoo doing there? He is taking a fly. _You do not see the fly_? I mean a flight. _What is that bust to flin-ders_? That is a stim-boat was carryin' on too much stim, and the stim, which is made of coal, goes, off like gun-pow-dair if you put lights onto it. This is a fir-ful and awe-fool sight. The other stim-boat is not bustin', it is sailin'. What is that man behind the whil-house with the cards while another signer kicks into him on his coat-tails, I do not know. It is steel the sportifs of the artiste.' 'Excel-len-cies, the last hole. 'Tis the be-yu-ti-fool bustin'--no, not bustin', but ex-plo-sion of Vee-soov-yus. You can see the sublime sight, un-terrupt-ted be me ex-play-nations. I thank you for your attentions auri-cu-lar and pe-coo-niar-ry. _Adio_, until I have the play-shure of seein' you oncet more.' 'I tell you what, Rocjean,' said Caper, as he came out from the panorama, 'America has but a POOR SHOW in the Papal dominions.' * * * * * JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.