"You must not judge of the sound of Italian from what proceeds from my mouth," said I. "It is not my native language. I have had little practice in it, and only speak it very imperfectly.""Nor must you judge of Italian from what you have heard me speak,"said the man of Como; "I am not good at Italian, for the Milanese speak amongst themselves a kind of jargon, composed of many languages, and can only express themselves with difficulty in Italian. I have been doing my best to speak Italian, but should be glad now to speak English, which comes to me much more glibly.""Are there any books in your dialect, or jergo, as I believe you call it?" said I.
"I believe there are a few," said the Italian.
"Do you know the word slandra?" said I.
"Who taught you that word?" said the Italian.
"Giovanni Gestra," said I; "he was always using it.""Giovanni Gestra was a vulgar illiterate man," said the Italian;"had he not been so he would not have used it. It is a vulgar word; Rossi would not have used it.""What is the meaning of it?" said the landlady eagerly.
"To roam about in a dissipated manner," said I.
"Something more," said the Italian. "It is considered a vulgar word even in jergo.""You speak English remarkably well," said I; "have you been long in Britain?""I came over about four years ago," said the Italian.
"On your own account?" said I.
"Not exactly, signore; my brother, who was in business in Liverpool, wrote to me to come over and assist him. I did so, but soon left him, and took a shop for myself at Denbigh, where, however, I did not stay long. At present I travel for an Italian house in London, spending the summer in Wales, and the winter in England.""And what do you sell?" said I.
"Weather-glasses, signore - pictures and little trinkets, such as the country people like.""Do you sell many weather-glasses in Wales?" said I.
"I do not, signore. The Welsh care not for weather-glasses; my principal customers for weather-glasses are the farmers of England.""I am told that you can speak Welsh," said I; "is that true?""I have picked up a little of it, signore.""He can speak it very well," said the landlady; "and glad should Ibe, sir, to hear you and him speak Welsh together.""So should I," said the daughter who was seated nigh us, "nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear two who are not Welshmen speaking Welsh together.""I would rather speak English," said the Italian; "I speak a little Welsh, when my business leads me amongst people who speak no other language, but I see no necessity for speaking Welsh here.""It is a pity," said I, "that so beautiful a country as Italy should not be better governed.""It is, signore," said the Italian; "but let us hope that a time will speedily come when she will be so.""I don't see any chance of it," said I. "How will you proceed in order to bring about so desirable a result as the good government of Italy?""Why, signore, in the first place we must get rid of the Austrians.""You will not find it an easy matter," said I, "to get rid of the Austrians; you tried to do so a little time ago, but miserably failed.""True, signore; but the next time we try perhaps the French will help us.""If the French help you to drive the Austrians from Italy," said I, "you must become their servants. It is true you had better be the servants of the polished and chivalrous French, than of the brutal and barbarous Germans, but it is not pleasant to be a servant to anybody. However, I do not believe that you will ever get rid of the Austrians, even if the French assist you. The Pope for certain reasons of his own favours the Austrians, and will exert all the powers of priestcraft to keep them in Italy. Alas, alas, there is no hope for Italy! Italy, the most beautiful country in the world, the birth-place of the cleverest people, whose very pedlars can learn to speak Welsh, is not only enslaved, but destined always to remain enslaved.""Do not say so, signore," said the Italian, with a kind of groan.
"But I do say so," said I, "and what is more, one whose shoe-strings, were he alive, I should not he worthy to untie, one of your mighty ones, has said so. Did you ever hear of Vincenzio Filicaia?""I believe I have, signore; did he not write a sonnet on Italy?""He did," said I; "would you like to hear it?
"Very much, signore."
I repeated Filicaia's glorious sonnet on Italy, and then asked him if he understood it.
"Only in part, signore; for it is composed in old Tuscan, in which I am not much versed. I believe I should comprehend it better if you were to say it in English.""Do say it in English," said the landlady and her daughter: "we should so like to hear it in English.""I will repeat a translation," said I, "which I made when a boy, which though far from good, has, I believe, in it something of the spirit of the original:-"O Italy! on whom dark Destiny The dangerous gift of beauty did bestow, From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo, Which on thy front thou bear'st so visibly.
Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high, That more of fear, and less of love might show, He who now blasts him in thy beauty's glow, Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die;Then down from Alp no more would torrents rage Of armed men, nor Gallic coursers hot In Po's ensanguin'd tide their thirst assuage;Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot, Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage Victress or vanquish'd slavery still thy lot."
