in sight, some
speculation as to his nationality continued: he had been heard to speak
nothing but Italian, and yet the flower of English cultivation was
signally manifest in his style and bearing. The purchase of that day's
journal, giving information that the Lombard revolt was fully, it was
thought finally, crushed out, and the insurgents scattered, hanged, or
shot, suggested to a young lady in a group melancholy with luggage, that
the wounded gentleman was one who had escaped from the Austrians.

"Only, he is English."

"If he is, he deserves what he's got."

A stout Briton delivered this sentence, and gave in addition a sermon on
meddling, short, emphatic, and not uncheerful apparently, if estimated by
the hearty laugh that closed it; though a lady remarked, "Oh, dear me!
You are very sweeping."

"By George! ma'am," cried the Briton, holding out his newspaper, "here's
a leader on the identical subject, with all my views in it! Yes! those
Italians are absurd: they never were a people: never agreed. Egad! the
only place they're fit for is the stage. Art! if you like. They know all
about colouring canvas, and sculpturing. I don't deny 'em their merits,
and I don't mind listening to their squalling, now and then: though, I'll
tell you what: have you ever noticed the calves of those singers?--I
mean, the men. Perhaps not--for they' ve got none. They're sticks, not
legs. Who can think much of fellows with such legs? Now, the next time
you go to the Italian Opera, notice 'em. Ha! ha!--well, that would sound
queer, told at secondhand; but, just look at their legs, ma'am, and ask
yourself whether there's much chance for a country that stands on legs
like those! Let them paint, and carve blocks, and sing. They're not fit
for much else, as far as I can see."

Thus, in the pride of his manliness, the male Briton. A shrill cry drew
the attention of this group once more to the person who had just kindly
furnished a topic. He had been met on his way by a lady unmistakeably
foreign in her appearance. "Marini!" was the word of the cry; and the
lady stood with her head bent and her hands stiffened rigidly.

"Lost her husband, I dare say!" the Briton murmured. "Perhaps he's one of
the 'hanged, or shot,' in the list here Hanged! shot! Ask those Austrians
to be merciful, and that's their reply. Why, good God! it's like the
grunt of a savage beast! Hanged! shot!--count how many for one day's
work! Ten at Verona; fifteen at Mantua