in weaving garlands there, and the swains keep such a piping on those
familiar notes,--_Amore, dolore, crudele_, and _miele_. Poor little
poets! they knew no other tunes. Do not now weak voices twitter from a
hundred books, in unconscious imitation of the hour's great singers?

I think some of the pleasantest people in Italy are the army
gentlemen. There is the race's gentleness in their ways, in spite of
their ferocious trade, and an American freedom of style. They brag in
a manner that makes one feel at home immediately; and met in travel,
they are ready to render any little kindness.

The other year at Reggio (which is not far from Modena) we stopped to
dine at a restaurant where the whole garrison had its coat off and was
playing billiards, with the exception of one or two officers, who were
dining. These rose and bowed as we entered their room, and when the
waiter pretended that such and such dishes were out (in Italy the
waiter, for some mysterious reason, always pretends that the best
dishes are out), they bullied him for the honor of Italy, and made him
bring them to us. Indeed, I am afraid his life was sadly harassed by
those brave men. We were in deep despair at finding no French bread,
and the waiter swore with the utmost pathos that there was none; but
as soon as his back was turned, a tightly laced little captain rose
and began to forage for the bread. He opened every drawer and cupboard
in the room, and finding none, invaded another room, captured several
loaves from the plates laid there, and brought them back in triumph,
presenting them to us amid the applause of his comrades. The dismay of
the waiter, on his return, was ineffable.

Three officers, who dined with us at the _table d'hôte_ of the Stella
d'Oro in Ferrara (and excellent dinners were those we ate there), were