“Oh, no! he had never heard of it in life, but only a hard heart would keep one so young and alone in the shades.” Here he wiped a tear.
The guide turned, quickly melting into the smile again, remarking: “The Tombs of the Scaligers.”
These monuments are indeed worth seeing, especially that of the last of this great family. This Scaliger, to outdo his ancestry had spent many years laboring with his own hands upon the marble which was to mark his resting-place. The devices were his own; no other person was employed in the hewing, the cutting, even in the erection of this showy memorial. Its maker died satisfied with the result of his lifetime, a work for ages to succeed.
The oldest of this name rests under a comparatively simple canopy. During the First Napoleon’s time this tomb was opened that a cast might be made of the head, there being no authentic representation extant; and by order of the Emperor, the bust was placed in the Louvre at Paris, and sketches of this wonderfully fine head sold for great sums.
“The house of the Capulets,” said the old man.
Standing beneath the balcony on the very spot where stood poor Romeo (or Charlotte Cushman as well), quite absorbed in the few lines of Shakspeare that floated in her mind, the lady was aroused from her revery by the guide, who, pointing at the almost obliterated coat-of-arms, said ambitiously:
“Chapeau, capello, Inglese!”
At the same time he crushed his head-gear, till his face was quite covered.