The learned Smelfungus travelled from Boulogne to Paris,--from
Paris to Rome,--and so on;--but he set out with the spleen and
jaundice, and every object he pass'd by was discoloured or
distorted.--He wrote an account of them, but 'twas nothing but the
account of his miserable feelings.

I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of the Pantheon: --he was
just coming out of it.--'TIS NOTHING BUT A HUGE COCKPIT, said he: -
-I wish you had said nothing worse of the Venus of Medicis, replied
I;--for in passing through Florence, I had heard he had fallen foul
upon the goddess, and used her worse than a common strumpet,
without the least provocation in nature.

I popp'd upon Smelfungus again at Turin, in his return home; and a
sad tale of sorrowful adventures had he to tell, "wherein he spoke
of moving accidents by flood and field, and of the cannibals that
each other eat: the Anthropophagi:"--he had been flayed alive, and
bedevil'd, and used worse than St. Bartholomew, at every stage he
had come at. -

- I'll tell it, cried Smelfungus, to the world. You had better
tell it, said I, to your physician.

Mundungus, with an immense fortune, made the whole tour; going on
from Rome to Naples,--from Naples to Venice,--from Venice to
Vienna,--to Dresden, to Berlin, without one generous connection or
pleasurable anecdote to tell of; but he had travell'd straight on,
looking neither to his right hand nor his left, lest Love or Pity
should seduce him out of his road.