By eleven o’clock a large crowd was already gathering outside the Barracks.  At half-past we marched out into the street.  In front of us went the municipal brass band, gay with cocks’ feathers, and school-children carrying four banners on long flagstaffs.  There was tumultuous cheering and clapping from a dense crowd.  Flowers were showered upon us, and a very handsome girl gave me a bouquet of red roses.  The band played impossible march music, so that we weren’t able to keep much of a step.

But the enthusiasm was intense.  Spectators thronged all the windows overlooking our route, and the cheering crowd stretched thick and unbroken along both sides of the street all the way.  I noticed a specially enthusiastic group on the steps of the Castello, and several busy photographers.  In between the efforts of the band our men sang.  Outside the station we marched past the Italian General Commanding the District.  Then we were halted and the General made a speech.  I happened to look round, and found standing beside me, looking up at me, wide-eyed and wondering, the page boy from the Circolo, whom I had harangued on the destiny of the world’s youth, and afterwards tipped.  The band was playing over and over again, at short intervals, God Save the King, the Marcia Reale, the Marseillaise, the Brabanconne and the Marcia degli Alpini.  Whenever any of these national anthems was played, all the troops stood at attention, and we officers at the salute.

Then a little man with a black beard and an eager manner stepped forward and mounted a chair, and on behalf of the Association of Italian Teachers wished us good luck.  He spoke in English.  He told us that his wife was “an Englishman,” and recalled the names of Garibaldi and Gladstone, Palmerston and Cavour.  He then presented to the Major an Italian Flag, which was handed to our Battery Sergeant-Major to be carried at the head of the troops as they marched into the station.  Many Italian officers were present to say personal good-byes, and an immense crowd was on the platform cheering and singing, and distributing gifts and refreshments to our men.  One gift was a little piece of tricolour ribbon, which an old woman gave to one of us.  It had a note pinned to it addressed “to a brave British soldier,” saying that she had a son at the Front who always carried just such a little piece of ribbon as a talisman, cut off the same roll, and that it had always kept him safe, and that it would keep the British soldier safe too.  The note was signed “Tua Madrina” ("your god-mother").

At last it seemed that everyone was aboard, and the train started.  But it was then discovered that the Major, Jeune and Manzoni had been left behind, not expecting the train to start so soon.  They had chased it for a hundred yards down the line, but failed to catch it up.  So the stationmaster telephoned to Rovigo to stop the train there till the three missing ones arrived, which they ultimately did, riding on an engine specially placed at their disposal.  So ended our stay at Ferrara, in a blaze of wild enthusiasm.  And I believe that, collectively, we left a very good impression behind us.