concur in that famous solution of all the wrecks
on Goodwin Sands, and have heartily
condemned Tenterden steeple; but, seeing that he
has not convinced, Ottoman cabman hoarsely
intimates that he has an argument in his quiver
which is, so to speak, a perfect clincher it is
only too plain, the thing is not worth discussion
—all the world knows it: Is NOT HIS BROTHER
GOVERNOR OF THE BANK.? A smile of triumph,
with an ominous shake of the brushy beard, and
he has lashed his horses into a furious gallop.
No need of argument after that! He retires
crowned from the discussion after that!

Burgher behind his counter, delving, a
perfect navvy, among his trays and shelves of
commodities below, upon the mysterious bogie
name being mentioned to him, is brought up
suddenly in his mining, and rests, as it were,
upon his spade. "An-to-NEL-li," he repeats,
softly (with the popular stress on third syllable).
"II Cardinale! ah, to be sure, yes!" The
"eminentissimo" is the bane of the country.
From those three Vatican windows descends
a blight worse than the aria caltiva, the bad
air." "What has he done? what has he done?
what has he done?" Burgher folding his
arms, pauses, then doubtfully goes on: "The
noble strangers will not buy; they cheapen our
wares; the harvests, signor, are getting worse
every year; the ground is parched with
excessive drought." "But," it is mildly objected,
"this is only Tenterden steeple again. Is this
poor baited eminentissimo one of the genii, or a
familiar of the Great Nameless?" "Pah!"
exclaims burgher, dropping his voice, "IL SUO
FRATELLO E GOVERNATORE DELLA BANCA."
Causa finita est!

"The day HE falls," another trading burgher
tells me, "all Rome will illuminate! The Santo
Padre himself is aweary of him." Comes then
impatient rejoinder, "What wrong has he
done? Has he robbed the state?" "Well,
no. But have you not heard? His brother is
Governor of the Bank." "Has he worked
homicide, murder, and the rest of it?" "No. But
his brother," &c. &c. It revolves in that eternal
circle: NON E FRATELLO IL GOVERNATORE DELLA
BANCA?

It was the misfortune of our Cardinal Secretary
of State to have first seen the light close to
the notoriously operatic locality of Terracina. It
is set out conspicuously in the almanacks of the
polite circles. Hence, I suspect as I muse about
him, that fitting on of the bouche de brigand;
hence the pleasant legends of the early life of
young Giacomo Antonelli, reared in all the excitement
of bandit life, and playfully taking part as
an outsider, dressed in a miniature little hat and
ribbons, and jacket of the regulation pattern,
while his sire and other friends stopped and
rifled the well-lined diligence.

Let us think of this, too. There are his
scarlet brethren, overshadowed by the broad
hat, hedging him round in a circle and watching
him distrustfully. There is a strong party
among the seventy who would thrust him gently
from the wheel, holding that his bad seamanship
has endangered the heavy temporal tender
which sails behind the spiritual bark of Saint
Peter. But they are powerless, single or in
combination. "If he fall, not one of us is fit to step
into his place." The days of ambitions cardinalships
are gone by, and these are mostly gentle,
pious well-meaning men, of little capability
beyond their ecclesiastical lasts. Such as look
on from afar off, think of the florid English
cardinal, sitting in the ministerial chair, and
signing decrees, but flounder sadly in such
speculation. He could not battle down the
tide of nationalities. Italy for the Italians is as
loud and persistent as was ever Ireland for the
Irish. He has no "party" among the seventy.
He will never sign himself " Nic. Card. Wise-
man, Segretario.

Amid all this tempest of obloquy, this din of
evil tongues, enough to chill the most iron
heart, the vellum-cheeked has a sort of comforting
bower to withdraw into—a circle of the
firmest and fastest friends man ever possessed.
Sheltered round by these protecting trees, for him
the storms no longer blow; he sits in the shade
and forgets that he has enemies. Cheerfully he
sits among them, and says, with a smile and with
a half sigh, that he is the best abused man in
Europe! He gives way to a childlike gaiety. It
is Cato at Tusculum over again. He is full of
a sweet merriment—the best abused man in
Europe. He brings out his marbles and curiosities,
and delivers a sportive lecture on their
beauties. He gives dinner parties, where he is
the smooth, graceful host. He dines out himself,
and is a witty talker.

No wonder, then, when gigantic friend strides
in cheerily one morning, and bids me arise, for
he has arranged a visit to the mysterious Cardinal,
that I spring up excitedly. He had seen, had
gigantic friend, the Secretary's secretary, and
all things had been made straight and smooth.

Not long is our Roman chariot scouring the
narrow line of streets between the English pale
and the towering ochre-coloured palace.

Flight after flight of marble stair. Broad,
sufficient for a dozen men to march up abreast,
each flight in itself so high that, after the third
or so is surmounted, you begin to pause and
gasp. It becomes a grand Mont Blanc ascent,
with eternal marble for eternal snows. And
now the Grands Mulets come in sight; we could
go yet higher, but we pass, instead, into this
ante-chamber, where are the servants sitting,
who rise up and do us homage. Pass on, if it so
please you, signori, into the next chamber.

A long low chamber, positively brilliant with
windows, whence is a matchless view; a pretty
chamber, with rich green and gold panelling,
and furnished with many elegancies. Furnished,
too, with visitors—patients it maybe, or clients
—sitting round, leaning on the tops of sticks or
umbrellas. A curious miscellany, suggesting
forcibly the dismal company that wait in a
dentist's ante-chamber. Most are of the humbler
order, one being clearly agricultural, on leave,
as it were, from "Wilkie's famous Rent Day.