The loneliness he now beheld on all sides, was not the loneliness of
ruin--the buildings near him were in perfect repair; it was not the
loneliness of pestilence--there were no corpses strewn over the
untrodden pavements of the streets; it was not the loneliness of
seclusion--there were no barred windows, and few closed doors; it was a
solitude of human annihilation. The open halls were unapproached; the
benches before the wine-shops were unoccupied; remains of gaudy
household wares still stood on the counters of the street booths,
watched by none, bought by none; particles of bread and meat (treasures,
fated to become soon of greater value than silver and gold, to
beleaguered Rome) rotted here in the open air, like garbage upon
dunghills; children's toys, women's ornaments, purses, money, love-
tokens, precious manuscripts, lay scattered hither and thither in the
public ways, dropped and abandoned by their different owners, in the
hurry of their sudden and universal flight. Every deserted street was
eloquent of darling projects desperately resigned, of valued labours
miserably deserted, of delighting enjoyments irretrievably lost.
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