Page:A Picture-book without Pictures and Other Stories (1848).djvu/137

 heat. Ah! we could not help longing to die such a death.

“&hairsp;‘If we were but across the Appenines! If we were but in Rome!’ sighed we. And we came thither; but for one week after another have been tramping about in nothing but wet and mud. People must see everything; and wonderful sights and rainy weather, never come to an end. Not a single warm sunbeam has refreshed us; the cold wind is always whistling round us. Oh Rome! Rome! For the first time this night do we inhale warmth in this blessed chimney corner, and we will inhale it till we burst! The upper leathers are gone already,—nothing remains but the hind quarters, and they will soon give way. Before, however, we die this blessed death, we wish to leave our history behind us; and we wish also that our corpses should be taken to Berlin, to repose near to that man who had the heart and the courage to describe ‘Italy as it is,’—even by the truth-loving Nicolai.”

And with these words the boots crumbled to pieces.

All was still: my night-lamp had gone