We saw a manuscript of Virgil, with annotations in the handwriting of
Petrarch, the gentleman who loved another man’s Laura, and lavished upon
her all through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material.
It was sound sentiment, but bad judgment. It brought both parties fame,
and created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts
that is running yet. But who says a word in behalf of poor Mr. Laura? (I
do not know his other name.) Who glorifies him? Who bedews him with
tears? Who writes poetry about him? Nobody. How do you suppose _he_
liked the state of things that has given the world so much pleasure?...
Let the world go on fretting about Laura and Petrarch if it will; but as
for me, my tears and my lamentations shall be lavished upon the unsung
defendant.
We saw also an autograph letter of Lucrezia Borgia, a lady for whom I
have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare
histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of
gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the
facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the
corpses ready for it. We saw one single coarse yellow hair from
Lucrezia’s head, likewise. It awoke emotions, but we still live. In this
same library we saw some drawings by Michael Angelo (these Italians call
him Mickel Angelo), and Leonardo da Vinci. (They spell it Vinci and
pronounce it Vinchy; foreigners always spell better than they
pronounce.) We reserve our opinion of these sketches.