Rain began to fall, and when, about ten o'clock, I alighted at Cotrone, the night was loud with storm.
There was but one vehicle at the station, a shabby, creaking, mud-plastered sort of coach, into which I bundled together with two travellers of the kind called commercial--almost the only species of traveller I came across during these southern wanderings.

A long time was spent in stowing freightage which, after all, amounted to very little; twice, thrice, four, and perhaps five times did we make a false start, followed by uproarious vociferation, and a jerk which tumbled us passengers all together.

The gentlemen of commerce rose to wild excitement, and roundly abused the driver; as soon as we really started, their wrath changed to boisterous gaiety.

On we rolled, pitching and tossing, mid darkness and tempest, until, through the broken window, a sorry illumination of oil-lamps showed us one side of a colonnaded street.

"Bologna! Bologna!" cried my companions, mocking at this feeble reminiscence of their fat northern town.