In one
place he was so appalled at the sudden spectacle of a murdered man,
unveiled by the moonlight, that he jumped out of the window,
going through sash and all, and then remarks with the most childlike
simplicity that he "was not scared, but was considerably agitated."
It puts us out of patience to note that the simpleton is densely
unconscious that Lucrezia Borgia ever existed off the stage.
He is vulgarly ignorant of all foreign languages, but is frank enough
to criticize, the Italians' use of their own tongue. He says they
spell the name of their great painter "Vinci, but pronounce it Vinchy"
--and then adds with a naivete possible only to helpless ignorance,
"foreigners always spell better than they pronounce." In another
place he commits the bald absurdity of putting the phrase "tare
an ouns" into an Italian's mouth. In Rome he unhesitatingly
believes the legend that St. Philip Neri's heart was so inflamed
with divine love that it burst his ribs--believes it wholly
because an author with a learned list of university degrees strung
after his name endorses it--"otherwise," says this gentle idiot,
"I should have felt a curiosity to know what Philip had for dinner."
Our author makes a long, fatiguing journey to the Grotto del Cane
on purpose to test its poisoning powers on a dog--got elaborately
ready for the experiment, and then discovered that he had no dog.
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