that at any moment
the wounded gentleman's steps might fail. There was no public war going
on just then: for which reason he was eyed suspiciously by the rest of
the passengers making their way up the beach; who seemed to entertain an
impression that he had no business at such a moment to be crippled,
and might be put down as one of those foreign fools who stand out for
a trifle as targets to fools a little luckier than themselves. Here,
within our salt girdle, flourishes common sense. We cherish life;
we abhor bloodshed; we have no sympathy with your juvenile points of
honour: we are, in short, a civilized people; and seeing that Success
has made us what we are, we advise other nations to succeed, or be
quiet. Of all of which the gravely-smiling gentleman appeared well
aware; for, with an eye that courted none, and a perfectly calm face, he
passed through the crowd, only once availing himself of his brown-faced
Beppo's spontaneously depressed shoulder when a twinge of pain shooting
from his torn foot took his strength away. While he remained 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 ca