It is pleasant to record that the Italians
have great faith in the honor of the English and Americans, and never
hesitate to trust entire strangers, to any reasonable extent, on the
strength of their being of the honest Anglo-Saxon race.
This evening, U---- and I took a farewell walk in the Pincian Gardens to
see the sunset; and found them crowded with people, promenading and
listening to the music of the French baud. It was the feast of
Whitsunday, which probably brought a greater throng than usual abroad.
When the sun went down, we descended into the Piazza del Popolo, and
thence into the Via Ripetta, and emerged through a gate to the shore of
the Tiber, along which there is a pleasant walk beneath a grove of trees.
We traversed it once and back again, looking at the rapid river, which
still kept its mud-puddly aspect even in the clear twilight, and beneath
the brightening moon. The great bell of St. Peter's tolled with a deep
boom, a grand and solemn sound; the moon gleamed through the branches of
the trees above us; and U---- spoke with somewhat alarming fervor of her
love for Rome, and regret at leaving it.
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