he young English _attache_ last night, at
the theatre, and they have been out this morning; and, strange to say,
that the Marquis, the very best swordsman we have ever had here, was
disarmed and run through the side by his antagonist."

"Is the wound dangerous?" said the King, coolly.

"I believe not, your Majesty. Beauclerc has behaved very well since it
happened; he has not left the Marquis for a moment, and has, they say,
asked pardon most humbly for his offence, which was, indeed, a very
gross neglect of the Marchesa no husband could pardon."

"So I heard," said the King, yawning. "The Marquis is very tiresome, and
a great bore: but, for all that, he is a man of spirit; and I am glad
he has shewn this young foreigner that Italian honour cannot be outraged
with impunity!"

Such is the true version; and, let people smile as they like at the
theory, I can assure them it is no laughing matter. It is, doubtless,
somewhat strange to our northern ideas of domestic happiness that a
husband should feel called on to punish a want of sufficient attention
to his wife, from the man whom the world regards as her lover. We have
our own ideas on the subject; and, however sensitive we may feel on this
subject, I sincerely hope we shall never push punctilio so far as the
Neapolitans.

Such, without the slightest exaggeration, are the pictures Italy
presents, for more impressive on the minds of our travelling youth than
all that Correggio has touched or Raphael rendered immortal. Will their
contemplation injure us? Shall we become by habit more lenient to vice,
and less averse to its shame? or shall we, as some say, be only more
charitable to others, and less hypocritical ourselves? I sadly fear
that, in losing what many call "our affected prudery," we lose the best
safeguard of virtue. It was, at the least, the "livery of honour," and
we shewed ourselves not ashamed to wear it. And yet there are those who
will talk to you--ay, and talk courageously--of the domestic LIFE OP
ITALY!

The remark has been so often made, that by the mere force of repetition
it has become like an acknowledged truth, that, although strangers
are rarely admitted within its precincts, there exists in Italy and
in Italian cities a state of domestic enjoyment to which our boasted
home-life in England must yield the palm. Never was there any more
absurd assertion less propped by fact--never was the "_ignotum_" so
easily taken "_pro beatifico_."

The dome