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Charles Dickens - Pictures from Italy
poem by TASSONE, too. Being quite content, however, to look at the outside of the tower, and feast, in
imagination, on the bucket within; and preferring to loiter in the shade of the tall Campanile, and about
the cathedral; I have no personal knowledge of this bucket, even at the present time.
Indeed, we were at Bologna, before the little old man (or the Guide-Book) would have considered that
we had half done justice to the wonders of Modena. But it is such a delight to me to leave new scenes
behind, and still go on, encountering newer scenes - and, moreover, I have such a perverse disposition in
respect of sights that are cut, and dried, and dictated - that I fear I sin against similar authorities in every
place I visit.
Be this as it may, in the pleasant Cemetery at Bologna, I found myself walking next Sunday morning,
among the stately marble tombs and colonnades, in company with a crowd of Peasants, and escorted by a
little Cicerone of that town, who was excessively anxious for the honour of the place, and most solicitous
to divert my attention from the bad monuments: whereas he was never tired of extolling the good ones.
Seeing this little man (a good-humoured little man he was, who seemed to have nothing in his face but
shining teeth and eyes) looking wistfully at a certain plot of grass, I asked him who was buried there.
'The poor people, Signore,' he said, with a shrug and a smile, and stopping to look back at me - for he
always went on a little before, and took off his hat to introduce every new monument. 'Only the poor,
Signore! It's very cheerful. It's very lively. How green it is, how cool! It's like a meadow! There are
five,' - holding up all the fingers of his right hand to express the number, which an Italian peasant will
always do, if it be within the compass of his ten fingers, - 'there are five of my little children buried there,
Signore; just there; a little to the right. Well! Thanks to God! It's very cheerful. How green it is, how
cool it is! It's quite a meadow!'
He looked me very hard in the face, and seeing I was sorry for him, took a pinch of snuff (every Cicerone
takes snuff), and made a little bow; partly in deprecation of his having alluded to such a subject, and
partly in memory of the children and of his favourite saint. It was as unaffected and as perfectly natural a
little bow, as ever man made. Immediately afterwards, he took his hat off altogether, and begged to
introduce me to the next monument; and his eyes and his teeth shone brighter than before.
CHAPTER VI - THROUGH BOLOGNA AND FERRARA
There was such a very smart official in attendance at the Cemetery where the little Cicerone had buried
his children, that when the little Cicerone suggested to me, in a whisper, that there would be no offence
in presenting this officer, in return for some slight extra service, with a couple of pauls (about tenpence,
English money), I looked incredulously at his cocked hat, wash-leather gloves, well-made uniform, and
dazzling buttons, and rebuked the little Cicerone with a grave shake of the head. For, in splendour of
appearance, he was at least equal to the Deputy Usher of the Black Rod; and the idea of his carrying, as
Jeremy Diddler would say, 'such a thing as tenpence' away with him, seemed monstrous. He took it in
excellent part, however, when I made bold to give it him, and pulled off his cocked hat with a flourish
that would have been a bargain at double the money.
It seemed to be his duty to describe the monuments to the people - at all events he was doing so; and
when I compared him, like Gulliver in Brobdingnag, 'with the Institutions of my own beloved country, I
could not refrain from tears of pride and exultation.' He had no pace at all; no more than a tortoise. He
loitered as the people loitered, that they might gratify their curiosity; and positively allowed them, now
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