called the braccianti,—­this salt of all cities, this nursery of the army and navy, this inexhaustible source of production and riches, impress me by their appearance of comfort and good-humor.  It gladdens one’s heart to watch them, as they walk arm in arm of an evening, singing in chorus, or fill the pits of the cheaper theatres, or sit down at fashionable caffes in their jackets, with a self-confidence and freedom of manner pleasant to behold.  The play of free institutions is not counteracted here, thank God, by the despotism of conventionalities.  No shadow of frigid respectability hangs over people’s actions and freezes spontaneousness.

But this is all on the surface; let us go deeper, if we can, and have a peep at the workings beneath.  I knock for information on this head at the mind and heart of all sorts of people.  I note down the answers of the Minister and of the Deputy, as well as those of the waiter who serves my coffee and of the man who blacks my shoes, and here is what I find,—­a growing sense of the benefits of liberty, a deep-rooted attachment to the Re galantuomo, (the King, honest man,) a juster appreciation of the difficulties which beset the national enterprise, (the freeing of Italy from Austria,) and an honest confidence of overcoming them with God’s help.  This last feeling, I am glad to say, is, as it ought to be, general in the army.  This is what I find in the bulk.  There is no lack of dissenters, who regret the past, and take a gloomy view of the future.  I describe no Utopia.  Unanimity is no flower of this earth.

This improved state of things and feelings, within so short a period of time, reflects equal credit on the people which benefits by it and on the men who have lately presided over its destinies.  Among these last it were invidious not to mention, with well-deserved praise, the active and accomplished statesman who introduced free trade, caused Piedmont to take its share in the Crimean War, and last, not least, by a bold and skilful move, brought the Italian question before the Congress of Paris.

During the summer of 1848, I rented a couple of rooms in the Via dell’ Arcivescovado.  There often fell upon my ear, wafted across the court from the windows opposite mine, a loud and regular declamation.  I fancied it was a preacher learning by heart his sermon, or an actor his part.  I was told one day that it was Count Cavour, the owner of the house, who, as a prelude to his parliamentary career, was addressing an imaginary assembly.  The fact struck me the more, as the Count was not a member of Parliament at the time.  He was elected a Deputy and took his seat not long after.  I was present at his debut.  It was not brilliant.  Count Cavour was not born an orator; his delivery was far from fluent.  He had many things to say, and wanted to say them all at once.  The sense of the House was not favorable to the new member,—­that of the public galleries still less so.  No man