!" They had great
pleasure of it. Did we think Signor Leencolen would be reelected?

I supposed that he had been elected that day, I said.

Ah! this was the election day, then. _Cospetto_!

At this the Genoese frowned superior intelligence, and the Crimean
gazing admiringly upon him, said he had been nine months at Nuova
York, and that he had a brother living there. The poor Crimean
boastfully added that he himself had a cousin in America, and that the
Americans generally spoke Spanish. The count from Piacenza wore an
air of pathetic discomfiture, and tried to invent a transatlantic
relative, as I think, but failed.

I am persuaded that none of these warriors really had kinsmen in
America, but that they all pretended to have them, out of politeness
to us, and that they believed each other. It was very kind of them,
and we were so grateful that we put no embarrassing questions. Indeed,
the conversation presently took another course, and grew to include
the whole table.

There was an extremely pretty Italian present with her newly wedded
husband, who turned out to be a retired officer. He fraternized at
once with our soldiers, and when we left the table they all rose and
made military obeisances. Having asked leave to light their cigars,
they were smoking--the sweet young bride blowing a fairy cloud from
her rosy lips with the rest. "Indeed," I heard an Italian lady once
remark, "why should men pretend to deny us the privilege of smoking?
It is so pleasant and innocent." It is but just to the Italians to
say that they do not always deny it; and there is, without doubt, a
certain grace and charm in a pretty _fumatrice_. I suppose it is a
habit not so pleasing in an ugly or middle-aged woman.

IV.

THROUGH BOLOGNA TO GENOA.

I.

We had intended to stay only one day at Ferrara, but just at that
time the storms predicted on the Adriatic and Mediterranean coasts, by
Mathieu de la Drome, had been raging all over Italy, and the railway
communications were broken in every direction. The magnificent work
through and under the Apennines, between Bologna and Florence, had
been washed away by the mountain torrents in a dozen places, and the
roads over the plains of the Romagna had been sapped by the flood, and
rendered useless, where not actually laid under water.

On the day of our intended departure we left the hotel, with other
travellers, gayly incredulous of the landlord's fear that no train
would start for B