Truly misery makes strange bedfellows! The misery of Messina had brought together an oddly assorted company of volunteers on board the “Bayern.” There was Mr. Gay, the Secretary of the Committee, a Fellow of Harvard College settled in Rome, who has devoted many years to the preparation of a History of the Italian Risorgimento; his splendid library at the Palazzo Orsini contains a remarkable collection of books and pamphlets on the subject. There was William Hooper of Boston, a man of affairs and a famous Harvard athlete, who had left the ease of his apartment opposite the Palazzo Margherita in Rome to act as treasurer to the expedition. There was Wilfred Thompson, the painter, who had left his studio and his little cat, to act as supercargo; Robert Hale, another painter, who in the list of assistants is set down as an assistant in the forward hold; the Avvocato Giordano, one of the most brilliant of the writers on the Tribuna. There was Weston Flint, the assistant treasurer, four Italian doctors, six nurses, and John Elliott (J.), who had left his studio to act “as interpreter and to assist in after holds and elsewhere.” These were the permanent members of the expedition. Now and then across this constellation of fixed stars flamed the meteor Chanler, a trail of glory behind him, and the indomitable Cutting, our Consul from Milan, who served in a thousand capacities beside inducing the German sailors to carry up the heavy cases to the temporary Consulate. They had some mishaps of course. The first day Mr. Gay fell down and broke a rib; the same day J. tumbled down an iron ladder into the hold and scraped the flesh off his lean shanks. Thompson, who had a cough, was drenched to the skin over and over again--that did not improve his health--and Cutting--alas and alas, that gallant soul who could never think of himself, had many a ducking besides the one Thompson describes, and endured endless discomforts at the “temporary Consulate” where he, Chanler and Major Landis lived during those first ghastly days. The only tie that bound together these men of varying tastes and habits, was the Red Cross each wore on his arm. In all the letters, reports, journals that tell the story of the “Bayern’s” cruise the most striking thing is the way these men speak of each other. Every man saw his comrades in a golden glow of enthusiasm; they were all good men and true in their fellows’ eyes! As the “Bayern” steamed across the harbor of Civitavecchia J. looked into the blue brocade saloon. Sor Michaele, the old opera singer, sat at the white and gold piano, his stiff fingers surprisingly limbered up, striking the keys briskly, while his shrunken voice quavered out “Spirito Gentil,” the glorious aria from La Favorita that he had sung in his far off youth, now made familiar the world over by Caruso and the “Victor.” After he had struck the last chords, the old man’s head dropped on his breast and he began to sob.