Whither some sweet leave-taking verses have followed us, written by
the facetious Abate Ravasi, a native of Rome, but for many years an
inhabitant of Milan. His agreeable sonnet, every line ending with
_tutto_, being upon a subject of general importance, would serve as a
better specimen of his abilities than lines dictated only by partial
friendship;--but I hear _that_ is already circulated about the world, and
printed in one of our magazines; to them let him trust his fame, they
will pay my just debts.
We have now seen this enchanting spot in spring, summer, and autumn;
nor could winter’s self render it undelightful, while uniting every
charm, and gratifying every sense. Greek and Roman antiquities salute
one at the gates; Gothic remains render each place of worship venerable:
Nature in her holiday dress decks the environs, and society animates
with intellectual fire the amiable inhabitants. Oh! were I to live here
long, I should not only excuse, but applaud the Scaligers for straining
probability, and neglecting higher praise, only to claim kindred with
the Scalas of Verona. Improvisation at this place pleases me far better
than it did in Tuscany. Our truly-learned Abate Lorenzi astonishes all
who hear him, by _repeating_, not _singing_, a series of admirably just
and well-digested thoughts, which he, and he alone, possesses the power
of arranging suddenly as if by magic, and methodically as if by study,
to rhymes the most melodious, and most varied; while the Abbé Bertola,
of the university at Pavia, gives one pleasure by the same talent in
a manner totally different, singing his unpremeditated strains to the
accompaniment of a harpsichord, round which stand a little chorus of
friends, who interpolate from time to time two lines of a well-known
song, to which he pleasingly adapts his compositions, and goes on gracing
the barren subject, and adorning it with every possible decoration of
wit, and every desirable elegance of sentiment. Nothing can surely
surpass the happy promptitude of his expression, unless it is the
brilliancy of his genius.
We were in a large company last night, where a beautiful woman of quality
came in dressed according to the present taste, with a gauze head-dress,
adjusted turbanwise, and a heron’s feather; the neck wholly bare. Abate
Bertola bid me look at her, and, recollecting himself a moment, made this
Epigram improviso:
Volto e Crin hai di Sultana,
Perchè mai mi vien disdetto,
Sodducente Mussulmana
Di gittarti il _Fazzoletto_?
of which I can give no better imitation than the following:
While turban’d head and plumage high
A Sultaness proclaims my Cloe;
Thus tempted, tho’ no Turk, I’ll try
The handkerchief you scorn--to throw ye.
This is however a weak specimen of his powers, whose charming fables
have so completely, in my mind, surpassed all that has ever been written
in that way since La Fontaine. I am strongly tempted to give one little
story out of his pretty book.
Una lucertoletta
Diceva al cocodrillo,
Oh quanto mi diletta
Di veder finalmente
Un della mia famiglia
Si grande e si potente!
Ho fatto mille miglia
Per venirvi a vedere,
Mentre tra noi si serba
Di voi memoria viva;
Benche fuggiam tra l’erba
E il sassoso sentiero:
In sen però non langue
L’onor del prisco sangue.
L’anfibio rè dormiva
A questi complimenti,
Pur sugli ultimi accenti
Dal sonno se riscosse
E dimandò chi fosse?
La parentela antica,
Il viaggio, la fatica,
Quella torno a dire,
Ed ei torne a dormire.
Lascia i grandi ed i potenti,
A sognar per parenti;
Puoi cortesi stimarli
Se dormon mentre parli.
Walking full many a weary mile
The lizard met the crocodile;
And thus began--how fat, how fair,
How finely guarded, Sir, you are!
’Tis really charming thus to see
One’s kindred in prosperity.
I’ve travell’d far to find your coast,
But sure the labour was not lost:
For you must think we don’t forget
Our loving cousin now so great;
And tho’ our humble habitations
Are such as suit our slender stations,
The honour of the lizard blood
Was never better understood.
Th’ amphibious prince, who slept content,
Ne’er listening to her compliment,
At this expression rais’d his head,
And--Pray who are you? cooly said;
The little creature now renew’d
Her history of toils subdu’d,
Her zeal to see her cousin’s face,
The glory of her ancient race;
But looking nearer, found my lord
Was fast asleep again--and snor’d.
Ne’er press upon a rich relation
Rais’d to the ranks of higher station;
Or if you will disturb your coz,
Be happy that he does but doze.
But I will not be seduced by the pleasure of praising my sweet friends at
Verona, to lengthen this chapter with further panegyrics upon a place I
leave with the truest tenderness, and with the sincerest regret; while
the correspondence I hope long to maintain with the charming Contessa
Mosconi, must compensate all it can for the loss of her agreeable
Coterie, where my most delightful evenings have been spent; where so
many topics of English literature have been discussed; where Lorenzi
read Tasso to us of an afternoon, Bertola made verses, and the cavalier
Pindemonte conversed; where the three Graces, as they are called, joined
their sweet voices to sing when satiety of pleasure made us change our
mode of being happy, and kept one from wishing ever to hear any thing
else; while countess Carminati sung Bianchi’s duets with the only tenor
fit to accompany a voice so touching, and a taste so refined. _Verona!
qui te viderit, et non amarit_, says some old writer, I forget who,
_protinus amor perditissimo; is credo se ipsum non amat_[47]. Indeed I
never saw people live so pleasingly together as these do; the women
apparently delighting in each other’s company, without mean rivalry, or
envy of those accomplishments which are commonly bestowed by heaven with
diversity enough for all to have their share. The world surely affords
room for every body’s talents, would every body that possessed them but
think so; and were malice and affectation once completely banished from
cultivated society, _Verona_ might be found in many places perhaps; she
is now confined, I think, to the sweet state of _Venice_.