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THE SIMPLETON'S ROAD.

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had every reason to be satisfied with his skill. He knew the best taverns, and followed the broadest and best roads, those leading to the most lovely spots of scenery the route afforded. They found journeying under his guidance every way pleasant.

After a month's travel they reached a chain of mountains formed by nature for the division of countries and people. This barrier was surmounted by a road once known as the Simpleton's road, now called the Simplon, being a corruption of the true name. It consisted of a series of perilous passes, sometimes along the face of the mountain, a thousand feet from its base, and over bridges of a single span, thrown over abysses unfathomable. Destruction met them on all hands; a mishap here would be fatal, and there was a traditional belief that this road was especially dangerous to pilgrims going to the Celestial City. It really seemed so, looking down from dizzy heights upon caverns and abysses, the roar of whose unseen waters came up from beneath like moans of the wounded and dying. Our ladies insisted upon walking over this famous pass. Alandresso was pleased to consider his skill impeached, and this only made Gertrude more fearful; so that they all toiled their way along these steeps, and across threads of wire and iron which spanned the gulfs below, and glad were they all to reach the inn on the other side of the mountains.

We have so much yet to tell of the pilgrimage of the Trueman party that we shall not give the various incidents of travel, but bring our readers at once with them to the Eternal City, which, with a vast multitude of people, is synonymous with the Celestial City. It was sometimes called St. Peter's, or more anciently Villa di Roma; and, at the time we speak of, was a city of

cathedrals, palaces, monasteries, and nunneries, inhabited by princes, priests, monks, nuns, strangers, and beggars. Without commerce or manufactures, they lived by the sale of relics, paintings, and plenary indulgences.

Alandresso drove his coach with a famous flourish and apparent recklessness, at the imminent danger of life and limb to the horde of beggars that beset the coach from the entrance-gate. He went careering onward at a famous rate, till he came to a grand square surrounded with palaces and public edifices, and drew up suddenly at the entrance of a palace.

"Whose residence is this, and why do we stop here?" asked Frank.

"This, sir," replied Alandresso, "is the palace of Prince Piombo Sylvio d'Istria, whose hospitality has induced him to rent it to one of his servants as hotel-keeper, and so condescends to receive strangers and pilgrims for a consideration."

"How do you know, Alandresso, that the keeper has any rooms unoccupied ?"

"That, sir, is a matter of my own. I have been twenty years a courier, and never yet made a mistake. Your suite of rooms were engaged a month since."

A troop of servants made their appearance in livery, who bowed quite as reverentially to Alandresso as to his masters. To some he gave orders concerning the baggage; to others, as to the coach and horses; and, giving up the reins, he led the Trueman party up a grand staircase into a suite of six noble apart

ments.

It was, certainly, very charming to be at once installed in a palace, furnished with elegance and taste, paintings and sculp

THE PEOPLE OF VILLA DI ROMA.

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ture, appropriate and graceful, in every room. There were signs of departing splendor, shown by patches of modern plastering in ceilings painted in fresco by the pencils of masters. The piazza was itself full of interest to them, for its stupendous temple and living splendor of perpetual fountains. The only thing requisite to complete the enchantment of this place was a cheerful, welldressed, busy, happy people. But these were wanting. At the base of the columns of the temple, under porches, upon the steps of all the palaces, mansions, churches, were to be seen, lounging and crawling about, a lazy, ragged race, who, though wearing the marks of utter destitution, seemed indifferent to their condition. They were content with so much of sunshine or shade as was desirable. Nor were there beggars only; for, mingled up with them, were bareheaded priests, in brown dresses and ropes round their waists, scarcely a degree above the beggars. The crimped black hair and coal-black eyes of all these people Oliver described, by what he regarded as a happy hit, as being the beau-ideal of a band of conspirators. And, though it would have required many lanterns, and the strictest scrutiny, for a modern Diogenes to have picked out either an honest man or woman from this multitude, the ancient Diogenes would have found hundreds whose philosophical recklessness of everything but sunshine he himself might have envied.

The importance of their courier was most conspicuous. He examined everything in and about their rooms; and his complaints, and the changes ordered by him, were at once attended to, though they seemed sometimes mere expressions of whim; but, on the whole, they saw his zeal was all well directed, and they sat by in silence.

Dinner was announced, and there was a great show of covers as at the Brunnens, but they revealed little that was attractive. If the dinner was meagre, the wines were miserable. Frank ordered the host to appear, and, shortly after, a personage in an embroidered uniform, with a cocked hat and plume of a fieldmarshal, made his appearance, and, with many bows, advanced. Oliver thought it was Prince Piombo in person, and rose; but Frank, who made a better guess, kept his seat. When he came to a stand-still, and made his last bow, he begged to receive the orders of his distinguished guests. Frank told him this was the last dinner of empty covers which he would pay for; and, as for his wines, he would not have them; and added, "Hereafter let there be nothing but water placed on the table." The dismay of the host was great. He said an entire mistake had been made; that henceforth he would attend to the table in person; and, as for his wines, he could and would produce such wines as Prince Cardinal Lambruschini alone could equal; and, so saying, this magnificent Prince de la Cuisine made his bow, and, trailing the plumes of his cocked hat along the pavement, disappeared.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FATHER GERIOT AND MRS. MAY CALL UPON THEM.

As they were sitting in the balcony of their parlor, which opened upon the piazza, a splendid barouche and four, with two high church dignitaries, a lady and a gentleman, in it, drove past

MRS. MAY AND HER PARTY.

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them. The lady waved her handkerchief to them and bowed; but the coach, turning into the next street, prevented them from recognizing her.

In the evening was brought up the card of Father Geriot, who was received. He expressed great pleasure in meeting them once more. On being asked where were Blanco and Angelique, he told them that Blanco had become a priest, and would preach his first sermon on the occasion of the taking the black veil by his sister. Our ladies asked in what convent Angelique was, and where it was situated, and if she could be seen by them; to all which inquiries Father Geriot gave satisfactory replies, and offered his aid in any way in which he could be useful to them during their stay. Frank begged him to dine with them, and bring Blanco along with him, promising him the best dinner the palace could serve up. This was touching the father in a weak spot; and he promised to do so with alacrity, and a heartiness which showed that it was possible even for Father Geriot, who usually appeared masked, sometimes to show the real live man.

The next day, just as they had risen from breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. May were ushered into their saloon. The meeting was one of gladness on all hands. Mrs. May said her husband and herself had been in the city for a couple of months, and had a suite of apartments in the Palazzo di Ternore, and concluded a long visit by inviting them to a party at her rooms that evening.

"And who shall we meet there?" asked Annie.

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Indeed, I cannot well tell you,” replied Mrs. May. “Man of 'my dear five hundred friends;' but, first of all, those distinguished persons with whom I was riding yesterday when I had the delight to see you in the balcony. These are known as the

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