Three officers, who dined with us at the table d’hote of the Stella d’Oro in Ferrara (and excellent dinners were those we ate there), were visibly anxious to address us, and began not uncivilly, but still in order that we should hear, to speculate on our nationality among themselves.  It appeared that we were Germans; for one of these officers, who had formerly been in the Austrian service at Vienna, recognized the word bitter in our remarks on the beccafichi.  As I did not care to put these fine fellows to the trouble of hating us for others’ faults, I made bold to say that we were not Germans, and to add that bitter was also an English word.  Ah! yes, to be sure, one of them admitted; when he was with the Sardinian army in the Crimea, he had frequently heard the word used by the English soldiers.  He nodded confirmation of what he said to his comrades, and then was good enough to display what English he knew.  It was barely sufficient to impress his comrades; but it led the way to a good deal of talk in Italian.

“I suppose you gentlemen are all Piedmontese?” I said.

“Not at all,” said our Crimean.  “I am from Como; this gentleman, il signor Conte, (il signor Conte bowed,) is of Piacenza; and our friend across the table is Genoese.  The army is doing a great deal to unify Italy.  We are all Italians now, and you see we speak Italian, and not our dialects, together.”

My cheap remark that it was a fine thing to see them all united under one flag, after so many ages of mutual hate and bloodshed, turned the talk upon the origin of the Italian flag; and that led our Crimean to ask what was the origin of the English colors.

“I scarcely know,” I said.  “We are Americans.”

Our friends at once grew more cordial.  “Oh, Americani!” They had great pleasure of it.  Did we think Signor Leencolen would be reelected?

I supposed that he had been elected that day, I said.

Ah! this was the election day, then. Cospetto!

At this the Genoese frowned superior intelligence, and the Crimean gazing admiringly upon him, said he had been nine months at Nuova York, and that he had a brother living there.  The poor Crimean boastfully added that he himself had a cousin in America, and that the Americans generally spoke Spanish.  The count from Piacenza wore an air of pathetic discomfiture, and tried to invent a transatlantic relative, as I think, but failed.

I am persuaded that none of these warriors really had kinsmen in America, but that they all pretended to have them, out of politeness to us, and that they believed each other.  It was very kind of them, and we were so grateful that we put no embarrassing questions.  Indeed, the conversation presently took another course, and grew to include the whole table.