my way to Milan; and from thence (after a day or two's rest)
I mean to come to England by the grandest Alpine pass that the snow may
leave open. You know this place as famous of yore for fiddles. I don't
see any here now. But there is a whole street of coppersmiths not far
from this inn; and they throb so d----ably and fitfully, that I thought
I had a palpitation of the heart after dinner just now, and seldom was
more relieved than when I found the noise to be none of mine.

I was rather shocked yesterday (I am not strong in geographical details)
to find that Romeo was only banished twenty-five miles. That is the
distance between Mantua and Verona. The latter is a quaint old place,
with great houses in it that are now solitary and shut up--exactly the
place it ought to be. The former has a great many apothecaries in it at
this moment, who could play that part to the life. For of all the
stagnant ponds I ever beheld, it is the greenest and weediest. I went to
see the old palace of the Capulets, which is still distinguished by
their cognizance (a hat carved in stone on the courtyard wall). It is a
miserable inn. The court was full of crazy coaches, carts, geese, and
pigs, and was ankle-deep in mud and dung. The garden is walled off and
built out. There was nothing to connect it with its old inhabitants, and
a very unsentimental lady at the kitchen door. The Montagues used to
live some two or three miles off in the country. It does not appear
quite clear whether they ever inhabited Verona itself. But there is a
village bearing their name to this day, and traditions of the quarrels
between the two families are still as nearly alive as anything can be,
in such a drowsy neighbourhood.

It was very hearty and good of you, Jerrold, to make that affectionate
mention of the "Carol" in _Punch_, and I assure you it was not lost on
the distant object of your manly regard, but touched him as you wished
and meant it should. I wish we had not lost so much time in improving
our personal knowledge of each other. But I have so steadily read you,
and so selfishly gratified myself in always expressing the admiration
with which your gallant truths inspired me, that I must not call it time
lost, either.

You rather entertained a notion, once, of coming to see me at Genoa. I
shall return straight, on the 9th of December, limiting my stay in town
to one week. Now couldn't you come back with me? The journey, that way,
is very cheap, costing l