serve hot with butter.”  Long was the manipulation, and the result but indifferent,—­the toast hard and cold, the butter far from fresh; but it was a step in advance, and I chuckled over it.  For a short time, alas!  Mine was the fate of all reformers.  Routine stood in my way.  The waiters fled at my approach, and vied with each other as to who should not serve me.  I gave up the attempt in disgust.  Shortly after, I left Turin,—­without joy this time, but also without regret.

Ten years have elapsed, and here I am again, on my third visit.  The journey from Genoa to Turin took, ten years ago, twenty-four hours by diligence.  Now it is accomplished in four by railway.  To say that this accelerated ratio of travelling represents but fairly the average of progress realized in almost all directions, within this space of time, is no mere form of speech.  To whatever side I turn, my eyes are agreeably surprised by material signs of improvement.  From what but yesterday was waste land, where linen was spread to dry, steam-engines raise their shrill cry, and a double terminus sends forth and receives, in its turn, merchandise, passengers, and ideas.  At the gate of the city, so to say, a gigantic work, the piercing of Mount Cenis, is actually going on.  Where I left, literally left, cows browsing in peace, two new quarters have risen, as if by magic,—­that of Portanuova, aristocratic and rich, and that of San Salvario, less showy, but not less comfortable.  A third is in contemplation; nay, already begun,—­to be raised on the spot where once stood the citadel, (and prison for political offenders,) of sinister memory, now levelled with the ground.  I take this last as a capital novelty.  Another, more significant still, is the Protestant Temple, which stares me in the face,—­a poor work of Art, if you will, but no less the embodiment of one of the most precious conquests, religious freedom.  I would fain not grow emphatic,—­but when I contrast the present with the past, when I recollect, for instance, how the Jews were formerly treated, and see them now in Parliament, I cannot help warming up a little.  Monuments to Balbo, the stanch patriot and nervous biographer of Dante,—­to General Bava, the conqueror at Goito,—­to Pepe, the heroic defender of Venice, grace the public walks.  One to Gioberti, the eminent philosopher, is in course of preparation.  If these are not signs of radically changed times, and changed for the better, I don’t know what are.

Nor is the moral less improved than the material physiognomy of the city.  I see a thriving, orderly community,—­no trace of antagonism, but a free, good-natured intercourse between all classes, and a general look of ease and contentment.  Of course, there are poor in Turin, as everywhere else,—­except Japan, if we may credit travellers; but nowhere are my eyes saddened by the spectacle of that abject destitution which blunts, nay, destroys, the sense of self-respect.  The operatives, especially,—­what are here