The Pope for certain
reasons of his own favours the Austrians, and will exert all the
powers of priestcraft to keep them in Italy. Alas, alas, there is
no hope for Italy! Italy, the most beautiful country in the world,
the birth-place of the cleverest people, whose very pedlars can
learn to speak Welsh, is not only enslaved, but destined always to
remain enslaved."
"Do not say so, signore," said the Italian, with a kind of groan.
"But I do say so," said I, "and what is more, one whose shoe-
strings, were he alive, I should not he worthy to untie, one of
your mighty ones, has said so. Did you ever hear of Vincenzio
Filicaia?"
"I believe I have, signore; did he not write a sonnet on Italy?"
"He did," said I; "would you like to hear it?
"Very much, signore."
I repeated Filicaia's glorious sonnet on Italy, and then asked him
if he understood it.
"Only in part, signore; for it is composed in old Tuscan, in which
I am not much versed. I believe I should comprehend it better if
you were to say it in English."
"Do say it in English," said the landlady and her daughter:
