friend's face, weep with him, rejoice with him, eat with him, drink
with him, and--betray him; they do this every day, and do it well.
They can also lie artistically, dressing up imaginary details with
great skill, gamble and sing, swear, and talk scandal. They can lead
a graceful, dissolute, _far niente_ life, loll in carriages, and be
whirled round for hours, say the Florence Cascine, the Roman Pincio,
and the park at Milan--smoking the while, and raising their hats to
the ladies. They can trot a well-broken horse--not too fresh, on a
hard road, and are wonderful in ruining his legs. A very few can
drive what they call a _stage_ (_Anglicè_, drag) with grave and
well-educated wheelers, on a very straight road--such as do this
are looked upon as heroes--shoot a hare sitting, also tom-tits and
sparrows. But they can neither hunt, nor fish, nor row. They are ready
of tongue and easy of offense. They can fight duels (with swords),
generally a harmless exercise. They can dance. They can hold strong
opinions on subjects on which they are crassly ignorant, and yield
neither to fact nor argument where their mediaeval usages are
concerned. All this the golden youths of Young Italy can do, and do it
well.

Yet from such stuff as this are to come the future ministers,
prefects, deputies, financiers, diplomatists, and senators, who are to
regenerate the world's old mistress! Alas, poor Italy!

The Guinigi Palace opposite forms a striking contrast to Count
Nobili's abode. It is as silent as the grave. Every shutter is closed.
The great wooden door to the street is locked; a heavy chain is drawn
across it. The Marchesa Guinigi has strictly commanded that it should
be so. She will have nothing to do with the festival of the Holy
Countenance. She will take no part in it whatever. Indeed, she has