Now the actual life here is over, I am going to Rome, and expect to see that fane of thought the last day of this week.
At Genoa and Leghorn, I saw for the first time Italians in their homes.

Very attractive I found them, charming women, refined men, eloquent and courteous.

If the cold wind hid Italy, it could not the Italians.

A little group of faces, each so full of character, dignity, and, what is so rare in an American face, the capacity for pure, exalting passion, will live ever in my memory,--the fulfilment of a hope! We started from Leghorn in an English boat, highly recommended, and as little deserving of such praise as many another bepuffed article.
In the middle of a fine, clear night, she was run into by the mail steamer, which all on deck clearly saw coming upon her, for no reason that could be ascertained, except that the man at the wheel said _he_ had turned the right way, and it never seemed to occur to him that he could change when he found the other steamer had taken the same direction.

To be sure, the other steamer was equally careless, but as a change on our part would have prevented an accident that narrowly missed sending us all to the bottom, it hardly seemed worth while to persist, for the sake of convicting them of error.
Neither the Captain nor any of his people spoke French, and we had been much amused before by the chambermaid acting out the old story of "Will you lend me the loan of a gridiron ?" A Polish lady was on board, with a French waiting-maid, who understood no word of English.