Saints abound in
my country, if you'd believe people's account of themselves."
"Not quite so, Signor Bolto. You and me no great saint. Italian honor
saint because he holy and good."
By this time Ithuel had got his two feet on the round of his seat, his
knees spread so as to occupy as much space as an unusual length of leg
would permit, and his arms extended on the tops of two chairs, one on
each side of him, in a way to resemble what is termed a spread eagle.
Andrea Barrofaldi regarded all this with wonder. It is true, he expected
to meet with no great refinement in a wine-house like that of Benedetta;
but he was unaccustomed to see such nonchalance of manner in a man of
the stranger's class, or, indeed, of any class; the Italian mariners
present occupying their chairs in simple and respectful attitudes, as if
each man had the wish to be as little obtrusive as possible. Still he
let no sign of his surprise escape him, noting all that passed in a
grave but attentive silence. Perhaps he saw traces of national
peculiarities, if not of national history, in the circumstances.
"Honor saint because he holy and good!" said Ithuel, with a very
ill-concealed disdain--"why, that is the very reason why we _don't_
honor 'em. When you honor a holy man, mankind may consait you do it on
that very account, and so fall into the notion you worship him, which
would be idolatry, the awfullest of all sins, and the one to which every
ra'al Christian gives the widest bairth.
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