ween my hands, and the chief moment has been
enjoyed, until I shall see the City.

Now I cry out and deplore me that this next sixty miles of way, but
especially the heat of the days and the dank mists of the night,
should have to be told as of a real journey in this very repetitive
and sui-similar world. How much rather I wish that being free from
mundane and wide-awake (that is to say from perilously dusty)
considerations and droughty boredoms, I might wander forth at leisure
through the air and visit the regions where everything is as the soul
chooses: to be dropped at last in the ancient and famous town of
Siena, whence comes that kind of common brown paint wherewith men,
however wicked, can produce (if they have but the art) very surprising
effects of depth in painting: for so I read of it in a book by a fool,
at six shillings, and even that was part of a series: but if you wish
to know anything further of the matter, go you and read it, for I will
do nothing of the kind.

Oh to be free for strange voyages even for a little while! I am tired
of the road; and so are you, and small blame to you. Your fathers also
tired of the treadmill, and mine of the conquering marches of the
Republic. Heaven bless you all!

But I say that if it were not for the incredulity and doubt and
agnostico-schismatical hesitation, and very cumbersome air of
questioning-and-peering-about, which is the bane of our moderns, very
certainly I should now go on to tell of giants as big as cedars,
living in mountains of precious stones, and drawn to battle by dragons
in cars of gold; or of towns where the customs of men were remote and
unexpected; of countries not yet visited, and of the gods returning.
For though it is permissible, and a pleasant thing (as Bacon says), to
mix a little falsehood with one's truth (so St Louis mixed water with
his wine, and so does Sir John Growl mix vinegar with his, unless I am
greatly mistaken, for if not, how does he give it that taste at his
dinners? eh? There, I think, is a question that would puzzle him!) yet
is it much more delectable, and far worthier of the immortal spirit of
man to soar into the empyrean of pure lying--that is, to lay the
bridle on the neck of Pegasus and let him go forward, while in the
saddle meanwhile one sits well back, grips with the knee, takes the
race, and on the energy of that steed visits the wheeling stars.

This much, then, is worth telling of the valley of the Serchio, th