said, when discoursing weakly
about the events which had taken place on the sixth of February in
Milan, "you who fish for tench, can easily understand this matter. Our
great monarchy is fishing with a line. The twin baits are Lombardy and
the Venetian provinces; two round and tempting morsels, with iron
inside. Our monarchy has cast them there at its feet, opposite the
lurking-place of that foolish little fish, Piedmont. In 1848 it grabbed
at the bait Lombardy, but eventually succeeded in spitting it out and
making off. Milan is our float. When Milan moves, it means that the
little fish is just beneath. Last year the float moved a wee bit, but
the dear little fish had only sniffed at the bait. But wait, some day
there will be a violent movement, and we shall give a jerk; there will
be some struggling, some floundering, but we shall land our little fish,
and never let it escape again, the little white, red, and green pig!"

Bianconi had laughed heartily at this, and often when he sat down to
fish, he would amuse himself by ruminating on this graceful simile, from
which would generally arise other subtle and profound political musings.
That morning the lake was quiet and most favourable to contemplation.
The tallest grass of the precipitous bottom could be seen standing
erect, a sign that there was no under-current. The baited hook cast far
out, sunk straight and slowly, the line stretched evenly and smoothly
below the float which sailed behind it a little way, surrounded by a
series of tiny rings, that told of the ticklings of small carp, and then
sunk into repose, a sign that the bait was resting on the bottom, and
that the carp no longer worried it. The fisherman placed the short rod
on the low wall, and fell to thinking of Engineer Ribera.

Though he was not aware of it Bianconi had a large dose of meekness in
one corner of his heart which God, without informing him of it, had made
with a false bottom. The world had proof of this in 1859, when the dear
little fish, having swallowed the bait Lombardy, with the hook, the
line, the rod, the Commissary, and everything else, Bianconi took to
planting national and constitutional cabbages at Precotto. In spite of
this hidden meekness, as he now laid down his rod and reflected that
poor, old Engineer Ribera was to be fished for, he experienced a
singular satisfaction, neither in his heart, nor his head, nor in any of
the usual senses, but in a particular sense of his own, pu