They at length stepped from the vehicle--indulged in some vehement remonstrances--smiled at Thompson's voluble execrations, which they found were equally unavailing--and were finally obliged to give up the point. They were shown into a small room. The chief inmates were some Papal soldiers of ruffianly air, engaged in the clamorous game of moro. Unlike the close shorn Englishmen, their beards and mustachios, were allowed to grow to such length, as to hide the greater part of the face. Their animated gestures and savage countenances, would have accorded well with a bandit group by Salvator. The landlord, an obsequious little man, with face pregnant with mischievous cunning, was watching with interest, the turns of the game; and assisting his guests, to quaff his vino ordinario, which Sir Henry afterwards found was ordinary enough. Delmé's equanimity of temper was already considerably disturbed. The scanty accommodation afforded them, by no means diminished his choler; which he began to expend on the obstinate driver, who had followed them into the room, and was busily placing chairs round one of the tables. "See what you can get for supper, you rascal!" "Signore! there are some excellent fowls, and the very best wine of Velletri." The wine was produced and proved vinegar. The host bustled away loud in its praise, and a few seconds afterwards, the dying shriek of a veteran tenant of the poultry yard, warned them that supper was preparing. "Thompson!" said George, rather languidly, "do, like a good fellow, see that they put no garlic with the fowl!" "I will, Sir," replied the domestic; "and the wine, Mr. George, seems none of the best. I have a flask of brandy in the rumble." "Just the thing!" said Sir Henry. To their surprise, the landlord proffered sugar and lemons. Sir Henry's countenance somewhat brightened, and he declared he would make punch. Punch! thou just type of matrimony! thy ingredients of sweets and bitters so artfully blended, that we know not which predominate,--so deceptive, too, that we imbibe long and potent draughts, nor awake to a consciousness of thy power, till awoke by headache. Hail to thee! all hail! Thy very name, eked out by thine appropriate receptacle, recals raptures past--bids us appreciate joys present--and enjoins us duly to reverence thee, if we hope for joys in futurity. A bowl of punch! each merry bacchanal rises at the call! Moderate bacchanals all! for where is the abandoned sot, who would not rather dole out his filthy lucre, on an increase of the mere alchohol--than expend it on those grateful adjuncts, which, throwing a graceful veil over that spirit's grossness, impart to it its chief and its best attraction. Up rises then each hearty bacchanal! thrice waving the clear tinkling crystal, ere he emits that joyful burst, fresh from the heart, which from his uncontrolled emotion, meets the ear husky and indistinct.