from the pocket of which always dangled the leaves of some wild salad
culled from our wasteful vacant lots or prodigal waysides.

[Illustration: "But I suppose this wine is not made of grapes, signor?"]

Altogether different in character was that Triestine, who came one evening
to be helped home at the close of a very disastrous career in Mexico. He
Was a person of innumerable bows, and fluttered his bright-colored
compliments about, till it appeared that never before had such amiable
people been asked charity by such a worthy and generous sufferer. In
Trieste he had been a journalist, and it was evident enough from his
speech that he was of a good education. He was vain of his Italian accent,
which was peculiarly good for his heterogeneously peopled native city; and
he made a show of that marvelous facility of the Triestines in languages,
by taking me down French books, Spanish books, German books, and reading
from them all with the properest accent. Yet with this boyish pride and
self-satisfaction there was mixed a tone of bitter and worldly cynicism, a
belief in fortune as the sole providence. As nearly as I could make out,
he was a Johnson man in American politics; upon the Mexican question he
was independent, disdaining French and Mexicans alike. He was with the
former from the first, and had continued in the service of Maximilian
after their withdrawal, till the execution of that prince made Mexico no
place for adventurous merit. He was now going back to his native country,
an ungrateful land enough, which had ill treated him long ago, but to
which he nevertheless returned in a perfect gayety of temper. What a
light-hearted rogue he was,--with such merry eyes, and such a pleasant
smile shaping his neatly trimmed beard and mustache! After he had supped,
and he Stood with us at the door taking leave, something happened to be
said of Italian songs, whereupon this blithe exile, whom the compassion of
strangers was enabling to go home after many years of unprofitable toil