n 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; five--there, stop! If we
enter into another alliance with those infernal ruffians!--if they're
not branded in the face of Europe as inhuman butchers! if I--by George!
if I were an Italian I'd handle a musket myself, and think great guns
the finest music going. Mind, if there's a subscription for the widows
of these poor fellows, I put down my name; so shall my wife, so shall my
daughters, so we will all, down to the baby!"

Merthyr's name was shouted first on his return to England by Mrs. Chump.
He was waiting on the platform of the London station for the train to
take him to Richford, when, "Oh! Mr. Pow's, Mr. Pow's!" resounded, and
Mrs. Chump fluttered before him. She was on her way to Brookfield, she
said; and it was, she added, her firm belief that heaven had sent him
to her sad, not deeming "that poor creature, Mr. Braintop, there,
sufficient for the purpose. For what I've got to go through, among
them at Brookfield, Mr. Pow's, it's perf'ctly awful. Mr. Braintop,"
she turned to the youth, "you may go now. And don't go takin' ship
and sailin' for Italy after the little Belloni, for ye haven't a
chance--poor fella! though he combs 's hair so careful, Mr. Pow's, and
ye might almost laugh and cry together to see how humble he is, and
audacious too--all in a lump. For, when little Belloni was in the
ship, ye know, and she thinkin', 'not one of my friends near to wave a
handkerchi