Pictures from Italy
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for death?” “Excuse me; particularly recommended,” was again the answer. “He has a bad tumour in his neck, no doubt occasioned by the hardship of his miserable life. If he continues to be neglected, and he remains where he is, it will kill him.” “Excuse me, I can do nothing. He is particularly recommended.” The Englishman was staying in that town, and he went to his home there; but the figure of this man chained to the bedstead made it no home, and destroyed his rest and peace. He was an
position as tourist. In Verona, ‘I read Romeo and Juliet in my own room at the inn that night – of course, no Englishman had ever read it there, before’ (p. ref). Nor, in some ways, is Dickens an atypical visitor. He does not fail to note down a catalogue of complaints against precisely those things which most irritated and distressed English visitors to the Continent: the brutality of foreigners towards animals; dirt; garlic-eating; the constant demand for tips; solid, lumpy furniture; women
suppressed by the French.” “Monasteries or convents?” “No. The French again! Nearly all suppressed by Napoleon.” “Much business?” “Very little business.” “Many strangers?” “Ah Heaven!” I thought he would have fainted. “Then, when we have seen the two large churches yonder, what shall we do next?” said I. He looked up the street, and down the street, and rubbed his chin timidly; and then said, glancing in my face as if a light had broken on his mind, yet with a humble appeal to my
precious metals, shine and sparkle on every side. A windlass slowly removes the front of the altar; and, within it, in a gorgeous shrine of gold and silver, is seen, through alabaster, the shrivelled mummy of a man: the pontifical robes with which it is adorned, radiant with diamonds, emeralds, rubies: every costly and magnificent gem. The shrunken heap of poor earth in the midst of this great glitter, is more pitiful than if it lay upon a dunghill. There is not a ray of imprisoned light in all
seemed to have been plundered from behind the scenes of some travelling circus. When we were fairly going off again, we began, in a perfect fever, to strain our eyes for Rome; and when, after another mile or two, the Eternal City appeared, at length, in the distance; it looked like—I am half afraid to write the word—like LONDON !!! There it lay, under a thick cloud, with innumerable towers, and steeples, and roofs of houses, rising up into the sky, and high above them all, one Dome. I swear,