There was first of all a soup, of a somewhat thin and watery consistency. This was followed by some roast meat, surrounded by chopped-up vegetables of different kinds--_finocchi_, little hard potatoes and small onions--savoury, perhaps, but scarcely tempting to those accustomed to other things. It disappeared quickly, nevertheless. The third course was tiny birds dexterously chopped in halves, very hard, very spare in proportions, bearing, in fact, a suspicious likeness to starving sparrows, caught unawares and sacrificed to make a feast for Lucullus. Salad accompanied this dish. After it had been eaten a long pause followed, during which the members of the company entertained each other with conversation--conversation of a polyglot description. The Americans, with nasal, unabashed and unabashable distinctness, gave their views on the subject of Italy in general and the Eternal City in particular. Rome did not please them--that particular set of them--and they said so with characteristic courage. They had been there nearly three weeks, and they guessed they were almost through now, and should be ready to go in a few days. The antiquities were interesting, they admitted, but the streets would be a disgrace to the latest Western city in America; and the beggars were a scourge. The ancient Roman didn’t know everything, and, for their part, they thought Canova’s statue of the Princess Pauline Borghese and the Carlo Dolcis in one or two of the picture-galleries were just lovely--sweet, they were; and they were going to take home copies of several of them. ‘Canova’s things,’ said one portly matron, ‘were beautiful--so soft; they couldn’t be softer if they were cut out of butter or blanc-mange.’ ‘Butter!’ murmured Hans Riemann, in an ecstasy; ‘dear woman, I thank thee for that epithet! “The Butterman.” It supplies a long-felt want in my vocabulary--a descriptive epithet for Canova. Do you call this feast of reason nothing, Minna?’ ‘I call it delightful,’ said Minna, whose eyes were brimming over with laughter, and her cup of pleasure was now filled to the brim by the spectacle of an American citizen refusing butter to his cheese, remarking with closed eyes and an ineffable expression to his neighbour: ‘Butter, sir; no. I never touch butter outside Philadelphia.’