uniform on, and I did
not know he was one till I met him a month or so later in the Strand.
When we got to Blackwall the music struck up and people began to dance. I
never saw a man dance so much in my life. He did not miss a dance all
the way to Clacton, nor all the way back again, and when not dancing he
was flirting and cracking jokes. I could hardly believe my eyes when I
reflected that this man had painted the famous "Last Judgment," and had
made all those statues.

Dante is, or was a year or two ago, a waiter at Brissago on the Lago
Maggiore, only he is better-tempered-looking, and has a more intellectual
expression. He gave me his ideas upon beauty: "Tutto ch' e vero e
bello," he exclaimed, with all his old self-confidence. I am not afraid
of Dante. I know people by their friends, and he went about with Virgil,
so I said with some severity, "No, Dante, il naso della Signora Robinson
e vero, ma non e bello"; and he admitted I was right. Beatrice's name is
Towler; she is waitress at a small inn in German Switzerland. I used to
sit at my window and hear people call "Towler, Towler, Towler," fifty
times in a forenoon. She was the exact antithesis to Abra; Abra, if I
remember, used to come before they called her name, but no matter how
often they called Towler, every one came before she did. I suppose they
spelt her name Taula, but to me it sounded Towler; I never, however, met
any one else with this name. She was a sweet, artless little hussy, who
made me play the piano to her, and she said it was lovely. Of course I
only played my own compositions; so I believed her, and it all went off
very nicely. I thought it might save trouble if I did not tell her who
she really was, so I said nothing about it.

I met Socrates once. He was my muleteer on an excursion which I will not
name, for fear it should identify the man. The moment I saw my guide I
knew he was somebody, but for the life of me I could not remember who.
All of a sudden it flashed across me that he was Socrates. He talked
enough for six, but it was all in _dialetto_, so I could not understand
him, nor, when I had discovered who he was, did I much try to do so. He
was a good creature, a trifle given to stealing fruit and vegetables, but
an amiable man enough. He had had a long day with his mule and me, and
he only asked me five francs. I gave him ten, for I pitied his poor old
patched boots, and there was a meekness about him that touched m