"It is considered a vulgar
word even in jergo."
"You speak English remarkably well," said I; "have you been long in
Britain?"
"I came over about four years ago," said the Italian.
"On your own account?" said I.
"Not exactly, signore; my brother, who was in business in
Liverpool, wrote to me to come over and assist him. I did so, but
soon left him, and took a shop for myself at Denbigh, where,
however, I did not stay long. At present I travel for an Italian
house in London, spending the summer in Wales, and the winter in
England."
"And what do you sell?" said I.
"Weather-glasses, signore - pictures and little trinkets, such as
the country people like."
"Do you sell many weather-glasses in Wales?" said I.
"I do not, signore. The Welsh care not for weather-glasses; my
principal customers for weather-glasses are the farmers of
England."
"I am told that you can speak Welsh," said I; "is that true?"
"I have picked up a little of it, signore."
"He can speak it very well," said the landlady; "and glad should I
be, sir, to hear you and him speak Welsh together."
"So should I," said the daughter who was seated nigh us, "nothing
would give me greater pleasure than to hear two who are not
Welshmen speaking Welsh together."
"I would rather speak English," said the Italian; "I speak a little
Welsh, when my business leads me amongst people who speak no other
language, but I see no necessity for speaking Welsh here."
"It is a pity," said I, "that so beautiful a country as Italy
should not be better governed."
"It is, signore," said the Italian; "but let us hope that a time
will speedily come when she will be so."
"I don't see any chance of it," said I. "How will you proceed in
order to bring about so desirable a result as the good government
of Italy?"
"Why, signore, in the first place we must get rid of the
Austrians."
"You will not find it an easy matter," said I, "to get rid of the
Austrians; you tried to do so a little time ago, but miserably
failed."
"True, signore; but the next time we try perhaps the French will
help us."
"If the French help you to drive the Austrians from Italy," said I,
"you must become their servants. It is true you had better be the
servants of the polished and chivalrous French, than of the brutal
and barbarous Germans, but it is not pleasant to be a servant to
anybody. However, I do not believe that you will ever get rid of
the Austrians, even if the French assist you. 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: "we
should so like to hear it in English."
"I will repeat a translation," said I, "which I made when a boy,
which though far from good, has, I believe, in it something of the
spirit of the original:-
"O Italy! on whom dark Destiny
The dangerous gift of beauty did bestow,
From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo,
Which on thy front thou bear'st so visibly.
Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high,
That more of fear, and less of love might show,
He who now blasts him in thy beauty's glow,
Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die;
Then down from Alp no more would torrents rage
Of armed men, nor Gallic coursers hot
In Po's ensanguin'd tide their thirst assuage;
Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot,
Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage
Victress or vanquish'd slavery still thy lot."
CHAPTER XXV
Lacing-up High-lows - The Native Village - Game Leg - Croppies Lie
Down - Keeping Faith - Processions - Croppies Get Up - Daniel
O'Connell.
I SLEPT in the chamber communicating with the room in which I had
dined. The chamber was spacious and airy, the bed first-rate, and
myself rather tired, so that no one will be surprised when I say
that I had excellent rest. I got up, and after dressing myself
went down. The morning was exceedingly brilliant. Going out I saw
the Italian lacing up his high-lows against a step. I saluted him,
and asked him if he was about to depart.
"Yes, signore; I shall presently start for Denbigh."
"After breakfast I shall start for Bangor," said I.
"Do you propose to reach Bangor to-night, signore?"
"Yes," said I.
"Walking, signore?"
"Yes," said I; "I always walk in Wales."
"Then you will have rather a long walk, signore; for Bangor is
thirty-four miles from here."
I asked him if he was married.
"No, signore; but my brother in Liverpool is."
"To an Italian?"
"No, signore; to a Welsh girl."
"And I suppose," said I, "you will follow his example by marrying
one; perhaps that good-looking girl the landlady's daughter we were
seated with last night?"
"No, signore; I shall not follow my brother's example.
