One evening Signor Bonvicino told me that his employer had a very
large connection in England, and that though he had never been in
London, he knew all about it almost as well as if he had. The
great centre of business, he said, was in Red Lion Square. It was
here his employer's agent resided, and this was a more important
part than even the city proper. I threw a drop or two of cold
water on this, but without avail. Presently I asked what the
waiter's name was, not having been able to catch it. I asked this
of the Signora, and saw a little look on her face as though she
were not quite prepared to reply. Not understanding this, I
repeated my question.

"Oh! his name is Cesare," was the answer.

"Cesare! but that is not the name I hear you call him by."

"Well, perhaps not; we generally call him Cricco," {18} and she
looked as if she had suddenly remembered having been told that
there were such things as prigs, and might, for aught she knew, be
in the presence of one of these creatures now.

Her husband came to the rescue. "Yes," said he, "his real name is
Julius Caesar, but we call him Cricco. Cricco e un nome di paese;
parlando cosi non si offende la religione." {19}

The Roman Catholic religion, if left to itself and not compelled to
be introspective, is more kindly and less given to taking offence
than outsiders generally believe. At the Sacro Monte of Varese
they sell little round tin boxes that look like medals, and contain