is called, the
_seance_ was nearly over, and a scene of considerable uproar prevailed.
There had been a somewhat sharp altercation between General Bixio and
the "Left," and M. Mordini had repeatedly appealed to the President to
make the General recall some offensive epithets he had bestowed on the
"party of movement." There were the usual cries and gesticulations,
the shouts of derision, the gestures of menace; and, above all, the
tinkle-tinkle of the Presidents bell, which was no more minded than the
summons for a waiter in an Irish inn; and on they went in this hopeless
way, till some one, I don't know why, cried out, "That's enough--we are
satisfied;" by which it seemed that somebody had apologised, but for
what, or how, or to whom, I have not the very vaguest conception.

With all their depreciation of France, the Italians are the most
persistent imitators of Frenchmen, and the Chamber was exactly a copy of
the French Chamber in the old Louis Philippe days--all violence, noise,
sensational intensity, and excitement.

I have often heard public speakers mention the difficulty of adjusting
the voice to the size of a room in which they found themselves for the
first time, and the remark occurred to me as figuratively displaying one
of the difficulties of Italian public men. The speakers in reality never
clearly knew how far their words were to carry--whether they spoke to
the Chamber or to the Country.

Is there or is there not a public opinion in Italy? Can the public
speaker direct his words over the heads of his immediate surrounders
to countless thousands beyond them? If he cannot, Parliament is but a
debating-club, with the disadvantage of not being able to select the
subjects for discussion.

The glow of patriotism is never rightly warm, nor is the metal of party
truly malleable, without the strong blast of a public opinion.

The Turin Chamber has no echo in the country; and, so far as I see,
the Italians are far more eager to learn what is said in the French
Parliament than in their own.

I remember an old waiter at the Hibernian Hotel in Dublin, who got a
prize in the lottery and retired into private life, but who never could
hear a bell ring without crying out, "Coming, sir." The Italians remind
me greatly of him: they have had such a terrible time of flunkeyism,
that they start at every summons, no matter what hand be on the
bell-rope.

To be sure the French did bully them awfully in the last war. Nev