least, was by no means pleasant. It took three-quarters of an
hour to put the oxen in the boat, it took half an hour to get them on the
other shore, and another hour to have the ferry boat back. The panorama
from the beach was splendid, the Po appeared in all the mighty power of
his waters, and as you looked with the glass at oxen and trees on the
other shore, they appeared to be clothed in all the colours of the
rainbow, and as if belonging to another world. Several peasants were
waiting for the boat near me, talking about the war and the Austrians,
and swearing they would, if possible, annihilate some of the latter. I
gave them the glass to look with, and I imagined that they had never seen
one before, for they thought it highly wonderful to make out what the
time was at the Luzzara Tower, three miles in a straight line on the
other side. The revolver, too, was a subject of great admiration, and
they kept turning, feeling, and staring at it, as if they could not make
out which way the cartridges were put in. One of these peasants, however,
was doing the grand with the others, and once on the subject of history
related to all who would hear how he had been to St. Helena, which was
right in the middle of Moscow, where it was so very cold that his nose
had got to be as large as his head. The poor man was evidently mixing one
night's tale with that of the next one, a tale probably heard from the
old Sindaco, who is at the same time the schoolmaster, the notary, and
the highest municipal authority in the place.

I started in the ferry boat with them at last. While crossing they got to
speak of the priests, and were all agreed, to put it in the mildest way,
in thinking extremely little of them, and only differed as to what
punishment they should like them to suffer.

On the side where we landed lay heaps of ammunition casks for the corps
besieging Borgoforte. Others were conveyed upon cars by my friends the
carrettieri, of whom it was decreed I should not be quit for some time to
come. Entering Guastalla I found only a few artillery officers, evidently
in charge of what we had seen carried along the route. Guastalla is a
neat little town very proud of its statue of Duke Ferrante Gonzaga, and
the Croce Rossa is a neat little inn, which may be proud of a smart young
waiter, who actually discovered that, as I wanted to proceed to Luzzara,
a few miles on, I had better stop till next morning, I did not take his
advice, and was s