ADVENTURES ON THE ROAD TO SYRACUSE. 
65 
Signor, is Mendoza, and this lady is my wife. 5 ’ “ G-razia, 
Signor.” Then, turning to the subordinate. “Put that 
down-—Men-z-z-a. Va bene .” After some other questions 
as to profession, place of nativity, &c., he turned to the En¬ 
glishman, “Your name, Signor?” “Mine? My name is 
Norval : on the Grampian hills my father feeds his flocks, a 
frugal swain”—— “Excuse, Signor, what did you say? 
“ Smith, John Smith, if you like it better !” “ Va bene , Sig¬ 
nor; put that down : Giovanni Smiz; no, Semmit—Giovanni 
Semmit.” The man with the tails of the game-cocks in his 
hat put it down. “And your name, Signor?” turning to 
your humble servant. “ Sir,” said I, with a dash of honest 
pride in the thought that I was giving a name known in the 
remotest corners of the globe, “ My name is Brown-—John 
Brown, Americano, General in the Bobtail Militia.” “ Gra- 
zia ! Signor,” sffid the officer, bowing, as I flattered myself, 
even more profoundly than he had bowed to my friend 
John Smith. “ Put that down—Giovanni Brovvenni.” 
“ Brown !” said I; for I had no idea of having an honest 
name so barbarously Italianized, “ Si, Signor, Bruvven ,” 
“ No !” said I, sternly, “ not Bruvven-— Brown, Sir.” “ Si, 
Signor— Bruin.” “ No, Sir !” said I, indignantly, “ do you 
take me for a bear, Sir ? My name’s Brown, Sir.” “ Oerto, 
Signore, Bruin !” And Bruin was written down by the fea¬ 
thered man; and so stands my name to this day in the offi¬ 
cial archives of Syracuse— Giovanni Bruin, or John Bear. 
After this pleasant little passage of official dignity and 
governmental wisdom, we rattled on over a drawbridge ■, and 
under an arch, and through half a dozen gates, and up a 
long pier, and through some more gates, and finally into Or- 
tigia, or modern Syracuse, where we rattled through an in¬ 
terminable labyrinth of narrow and dirty streets, our postillion 
alternately cracking polkas with his whip, and blowing his 
brains through his horn, scattering the astonished inhabit¬ 
ants in all directions, and running over lazy dogs in his mad 
career. At last we brought up near the Hotel del Sole , 
where we were dragged out of the diligence by a whole regi¬ 
ment of ragged facchini , and piloted into the dark recesses 
of the Sole by the bald-headed Padrone. 
t 
