We were very glad, I say, to part from all this at Bologna and take the noon train for Genoa.  In our car there were none but Italians, and the exchange of “La Perseveranza” of Milan for “Il Popolo” of Turin with one of them quickly opened the way for conversation and acquaintance. (En passant:  I know of no journal in the United States whose articles are better than those of the “Perseveranza,” and it was gratifying to an American to read in this ablest journal of Italy nothing but applause and encouragement of the national side in our late war.) My new-made friend turned out to be a Milanese.  He was a physician, and had served as a surgeon in the late war of Italian independence; but was now placed in a hospital in Milan.  There was a gentle little blonde with him, and at Piacenza, where we stopped for lunch, “You see,” said he, indicating the lady, “we are newly married,”—­which was, indeed, plain enough to any one who looked at their joyous faces, and observed how great disposition that little blonde had to nestle on the young man’s broad shoulder.  “I have a week’s leave from my place,” he went on, “and this is our wedding journey.  We were to have gone to Florence, but it seems we are fated not to see that famous city.”

He spoke of it as immensely far off, and herein greatly amused us Americans, who had outgrown distances.

“So we are going to Genoa instead, for two or three days.”  “Oh, have you ever been at Genoa?” broke in the bride.  “What magnificent palaces!  And then the bay, and the villas in the environs!  There is the Villa Pallavicini, with beautiful gardens, where an artificial shower breaks out from the bushes, and sprinkles the people who pass.  Such fun!” and she continued to describe vividly a city of which she had only heard from her husband; and it was easy to see that she walked in paradise wherever he led her.

They say that Italian husbands and wives do not long remain fond of each other, but it was impossible in the presence of these happy people not to believe in the eternity of their love, and it was hard to keep from “dropping into poetry” on account of them.  Their bliss infected every body in the car, and in spite of the weariness of our journey, and the vexation of the misadventures which had succeeded one another unsparingly ever since we left home, we found ourselves far on the way to Genoa before we thought to grumble at the distance.  There was with us, besides the bridal party, a lady travelling from Bologna to Turin, who had learned English in London, and spoke it much better than most Londoners.  It is surprising how thoroughly Italians master a language so alien to their own as ours, and how frequently you find them acquainted with English.  From Russia the mania for this tongue has spread all over the Continent, and in Italy English seems to be prized first among the virtues.

As we drew near Genoa, the moon came out on purpose to show us the superb city, and we strove eagerly for a first glimpse of the proud capital where Columbus was born.  To tell the truth, the glimpse was but slight and false, for railways always enter cities by some mean level, from which any picturesque view is impossible.