“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 birthplace 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 be 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.’” CHAPTER XXV Lacing up Highlows—The Native Village—Game Leg—“Croppies Lie Down”—Keeping Faith—Processions—“Croppies Get Up”—Daniel O’Connell. I slept in the chamber communicating with the room in which I had dined. The chamber was spacious and airy, the bed first-rate, and myself rather tired, so that no one will be surprised when I say that I had excellent rest. I got up, and after dressing myself went down. The morning was exceedingly brilliant. Going out I saw the Italian lacing up his highlows against a step. I saluted him, and asked him if he was about to depart. “Yes, signore; I shall presently start for Denbigh.”