By-the-by, since that revered name comes under my pen, I may as well state, what every one will be glad to hear, that the author of the “Promessi Sposi” has perfectly recovered from his late illness.  It cannot be but that the wail of a nation has reached even across the Atlantic, without the aid of an electric cable.  He looks strong and healthy, and likely to be long spared to the love and veneration of his country.  I have this on the authority of a witness de visu et auditu, a friend of his and mine, who visited the great man, not a fortnight ago, in his retreat of Brusuglio, near Milan.

To leave the author for his book.  Do you recollect Renzo tying four fat capons by the legs, and carrying them, with their heads hanging down, to Signor Azzeccagarbugli,—­and the capons, in that awkward predicament, finding no better occupation than to peck at each other?  “As is too often the case with companions in misfortune,” observes the author, in his quiet, humoristic way.  We were just as wise.  Instead of saying, Mea culpa, we began to recriminate, and find fault with everything and everybody.  It was the fault of the Ministers, of the Camarilla, of the army, of the big epaulets, of the King.  Dynastic interest, of course, was not forgotten in the indictment.

Dynastic interest, forsooth!  So long as it combines and makes but one with the interest of the nation, I should like to know where is the great harm of it.  As if kings alone were defiled with that pitch!  As if we had not, each and all of us, low and high, rich and poor, our dynastic interest, and were not eager enough in its pursuit!  As if anybody scrupled at or were found fault with for pushing on his sons, enlarging his business, rounding his estate, in the view of transmitting it, thus improved, to his kindred and heirs!

But who thought of such things under the smart of defeat?  I do not intend, by this post-facto grumbling, to give myself credit for having been wiser than others.  By no means.  I played my part in the chorus of fault-finders, and cried out as loud as anybody.  The upshot was what might have been expected.  Independence went to the dogs—­for a while.  Liberty, thank God, remained in this little corner, at least,—­liberty, the great lever for those who use it wisely.  I know of nations, far more experienced than we are in political matters, and whose programme in 1848 was far less complicated than ours, who cannot say as much for themselves.

The times were unpropitious to the buttered-toast question, and it had quite slipped out of my mind.  I have never traced the string of associations which reminded me of it, on one certain morning.  Once more I made bold to ask if I could have buttered toast.  “Impossible,” said the waiter, curtly.  I was piqued.  “How impossible?” said I.  “Erase that word from your Dictionary, if you are to drive the Austrians from Italy.  Take a roll, cut it in halves, have it toasted, and