ick pillars that support the arches; the
arcades are not even picturesque. Liking always to leave Bologna as
quickly as possible, and, on this occasion, learning that there was no
hope of crossing the Apennines to Florence, we made haste to take the
first train for Genoa, meaning to proceed thence directly to Naples by
steamer.

It was a motley company that sat down in Hotel Brun the morning
after our arrival in Bologna to a breakfast of murky coffee and furry
beefsteaks, associated with sleek, greasy, lukewarm fried potatoes. I
am sure that if each of our weather-bound pilgrims had told his story,
we had been as well entertained as those at Canterbury. However, no
one thought fit to give his narrative but a garrulous old Hebrew from
London, who told us how he had been made to pay fifteen guineas for a
carriage to cross the Apennines, and had been obliged to walk part of
the way at that price. He was evidently proud, now the money was gone,
of having been cheated of so much; and in him we saw that there was
at least one human being more odious than a purse-proud
Englishman--namely, a purse-proud English Jew. He gave his noble name
after a while, as something too precious to be kept from the
company, when recommending one of the travellers to go to the Hotel
d'Angleterre in Rome: "The best 'otel out of England. You may mention
my name, if you like--Mr. Jonas." The recipient of this favor noted
down the talismanic words in his pocket-book, and Mr. Jonas, conscious
of having conferred a benefit on his race, became more odious to it
than ever. An Englishman is of a composition so uncomfortably original
that no one can copy him, though many may caricature. I saw an
American in London once who thought himself an Englishman because he
wore leg-of-mutton whiskers, declaimed against universal suffrage and
republics, and had an appetite for high game. He was a hateful animal,
surely, but he was not the British lion; and this poor Hebrew at
Bologna was not a whit more successful in his imitation of the
illustrious brute, though he talked, like him, of nothing but hotels,
and routes of travel, and hackmen and porters, and seemed to have
nothing to do in Italy but get through it as quickly and abusively as
possible.

We were very glad, I say, to part from all this at Bologna and take
the noon train for Genoa. In our car there were none but Italians,
and the exchange of "_La Perseveranza_" of Milan for "_Il Popolo_"
of Turin with