File:With Shelley in Italy - being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 (1905) (14782104555).jpg

Identifier: withshelleyinitashelrich (find matches)
Title: With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822
Year: 1905 (1900s)
Authors: Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 1792-1822 McMahan, Anna Benneson
Subjects: Poetry of places -- Italy Italy -- Description and travel Poetry
Publisher: Chicago : McClurg
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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a long line over the blue waves, isone of the finest architectural delusions in the world. Itseems to have — and literally it has — its foundations in thesea. The silent streets are paved with water, and you hearnothing but the dashing of the oars, and the occasionalcries of the gondolieri. I heard nothing of Tasso. Thegondolas themselves are things of a most romantic andpicturesque appearance ; I can only compare them to mothsof which a coffin might have been the chrysalis. They arehung with black, and painted black, and carpeted withgrey; they curl at the prow and stern, and at the formerthere is a nondescript beak of shining steel, which glittersat the end of its long black mass. The Doges palace, with its library, is a fine monumentof aristocratic power. I saw the dungeons, where thesescoundrels used to torment their victims. They are ofthree kinds — one adjoining the place of trial, where theprisoners destined to immediate execution were kept. I(62) Ql\ CECILIA by Uapliad.
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You funjet that it is a pie/are (is you look at it: and yetit is most unlike any of those things which we call reality. — Letter from Bologna, p. 64. THE YEAR 1818 could not descend into them, because the day on which Ivisited it was festa. Another under the leads of the pal-ace, where the sufferers were roasted to death or madnessby the ardours of an Italian sun: and others called thePozzi — or wells, deep underneath, and communicatingwith those on the roof by secret passages — where theprisoners were confined sometimes half up to their middlesin stinking water. When the French came here, theyfound only one old man in the dungeons, and he could notspeak. But Venice, which was once a tyrant, is now thenext worse thing, a slave; for in fact it ceased to be free,or worth our regret as a nation, from the moment that theoligarchy usurped the rights of the people. Yet, I do notimagine that it was ever so degraded as it has been since theFrench, and especially the Austrian yoke. The A

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