What I chiefly admired in him
was not so much the extent and variety of his knowledge, or the
clearness and rectitude of his understanding, as the elevation of his
character, and the moderation of his language. Every word he uttered
was characterized by a profound sense of the dignity of his country, a
bitter regret at the disesteem and neglect into which that country had
fallen, and a firm hope in the justice of Europe in general and of one
great prince in particular, and a certain combination of pride,
melancholy, and sweetness which possessed an irresistible attraction
for me. He nourished no hatred either against the Pope or any other
person; he admitted the system of the priests, although utterly
intolerable to the country, to be perfectly logical in itself. His
dream was not of vengeance, but deliverance.
I learnt, some time afterwards, that my delightful travelling
companion was a man of the _mezzo ceto_, and that there are many more
such as he in Bologna.
But already had I inscribed in my tablets these words, thrice
repeated, dated from the Court of the Posts, Piazza del Gran' Duca,
Florence:--
_"There is an Italian Nation! There is an Italian Nation! There is an
Italian Nation!"_
CHAPTER VII.
THE NOBILITY.
An Italian has said with pungent irony, "Who knows but that one of
these days a powerful microscope may detect globules of nobility in
the blood?"
I am too national not to applaud a good joke, and yet I must confess
these "globules of nobility" do not positively offend my reason.
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