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