The delight of one of our first journeys over the road between Padua and Ferrara was a Roman cameriere out of place, who got into the diligence at Ponte Lagoscuro.  We were six in all:  The Englishman who thought it particularly Italian to say “Si” three times for every assent; the Veneto (as the citizen of the province calls himself, the native of the city being Veneziano) going home to his farm near Padua; the German lady of a sour and dreadful countenance; our two selves, and the Roman cameriere.  The last was worth all the rest—­being a man of vast general information acquired in the course of service with families of all nations, and agreeably communicative.  A brisk and lively little man, with dancing eyes, beard cut to the mode of the Emperor Napoleon, and the impressive habit of tapping himself on the teeth with his railroad-guide, and lifting his eyebrows when he says any thing specially worthy of remark.  He, also, long after the conclusion of an observation, comes back to himself approvingly, with “Si!” “Vabene!” “Ecco!” He speaks beautiful Italian and constantly, and in a little while we know that he was born at Ferrara, bred at Venice, and is now a citizen of Rome.  “St. Peter’s, Signori,—­have you ever seen it?—­is the first church of the world.  At Ferrara lived Tasso and Ariosto.  Venice is a lovely city.  Ah! what beauty!  But unique.  My second country. Si, Signori, la mia seconda patria.”  After a pause, “Va bene.”

We hint to him that he is extremely fortunate in having so many countries, and that it will be difficult to exile so universal a citizen, which he takes as a tribute to his worth, smiles and says, “Ecco!”

Then he turns to the Veneto, and describes to him the English manner of living.  “Wonderfully well they eat—­the English.  Four times a day.  With rosbif at the dinner.  Always, always, always!  And tea in the evening, with rosbif cold. Mangiano sempre.  Ma bene, dico.”  After a pause, “Si!” “And the Venetians, they eat well, too.  Whence the proverb:  ‘Sulla Riva degli Schiavoni, si mangiano bei bocconi.’  (’On the Riva degli Schiavoni, you eat fine mouthfuls.’) Signori, I am going to Venice,” concludes the cameriere.

He is the politest man in the world, and the most attentive to ladies.  The German lady has not spoken a word, possibly not knowing the language.  Our good cameriere cannot bear this, and commiserates her weariness with noble elegance and originality. “La Signora si trova un poco sagrificata?” ("The lady feels slightly sacrificed!”) We all smile, and the little man very gladly with us.

“An elegant way of expressing it,” we venture to suggest.  The Veneto roars and roars again, and we all shriek, none louder than the Roman himself.  We never can get over that idea of being slightly sacrificed, and it lasts us the whole way to Padua; and when the Veneto gets down at his farm-gate, he first “reverences” us, and then says, “I am very sorry for you others who must be still more slightly sacrificed.”