FLORENCE, _Oct._ 2, 1740, N.S.
Dear West,--T'other night as we (you know who _we_ are) were walking on
the charming bridge, just before going to a wedding assembly, we said,
"Lord, I wish, just as we are got into the room, they would call us out,
and say, West is arrived! We would make him dress instantly, and carry
him back to the entertainment. How he would stare and wonder at a
thousand things, that no longer strike us as odd!" Would not you? One
agreed that you should have come directly by sea from Dover, and be set
down at Leghorn, without setting foot in any other foreign town, and so
land at _Us_, in all your first full amaze; for you are to know, that
astonishment rubs off violently; we did not cry out Lord! half so much
at Rome as at Calais, which to this hour I look upon as one of the most
surprising cities in the universe. My dear child, what if you were to
take this little sea-jaunt? One would recommend Sir John Norris's convoy
to you, but one should be laughed at now for supposing that he is ever
to sail beyond Torbay.[1] The Italians take Torbay for an English town
in the hands of the Spaniards, after the fashion of Gibraltar, and
imagine 'tis a wonderful strong place, by our fleet's having retired
from before it so often, and so often returned.
[Footnote 1: Sir John Norris was one of the most gallant and skilful
seamen of his time; but an expedition in which he had had the command
had lately proved fruitless. He had been instructed to cruise about the
Bay of Biscay, in the hope of intercepting some of the Spanish
treasure-ships; but the weather had been so uninterruptedly stormy that
he had been compelled to return to port without having even seen an
enemy. The following lines were addressed to him upon this occasion:
Homeward, oh! bend thy course; the seas are rough;
To the Land's End who sails, has sailed enough.]
We went to this wedding that I told you of; 'twas a charming feast: a
large palace finely illuminated; there were all the beauties, all the
jewels, and all the sugar-plums of Florence. Servants loaded with great
chargers full of comfits heap the tables with them, the women fall on
with both hands, and stuff their pockets and every creek and corner
about them. You would be as much amazed at us as at anything you saw:
instead of being deep in the liberal arts, and being in the Gallery
every morning, as I thought of course to be sure I would be, we are in
all the idleness and amusements of the town. For me, I am grown so lazy,
and so tired of seeing sights, that, though I have been at Florence six
months, I have not seen Leghorn, Pisa, Lucca, or Pistoia; nay, not so
much as one of the Great Duke's villas. I have contracted so great an
aversion to inns and post-chaises, and have so absolutely lost all
curiosity, that, except the towns in the straight road to Great Britain,
I shall scarce see a jot more of a foreign land; and trust me, when I
return, I will not visit Welsh mountains, like Mr. Williams. After Mount
Cenis, the Boccheto, the Giogo, Radicofani, and the Appian Way, one has
mighty little hunger after travelling. I shall be mighty apt to set up
my staff at Hyde-park-corner: the alehouseman there at Hercules's
Pillars[1] was certainly returned from his travels into foreign parts.
[Footnote 1: The sign of the Hercules' Pillars remained in Piccadilly
till very lately. It was situated on part of the ground now [1798]
occupied by the houses of Mr. Drummond Smith and his brother.--MISS
BERRY. That is, on the space between Hamilton Place and Apsley House. It
was the inn mentioned in Fielding's "Tom Jones," and was notorious as a
favourite resort of the Marquis of Granby.]
Now I'll answer your questions.
I have made no discoveries in ancient or modern arts. Mr. Addison
travelled through the poets, and not through Italy; for all his ideas
are borrowed from the descriptions, and not from the reality. He saw
places as they were, not as they are.[1] I am very well acquainted with
Doctor Cocchi;[2] he is a good sort of man, rather than a great man; he
is a plain honest creature, with quiet knowledge, but I dare say all the
English have told you, he has a very particular understanding: I really
don't believe they meant to impose on you, for they thought so. As to
Bondelmonti, he is much less; he is a low mimic; the brightest cast of
his parts attains to the composition of a sonnet: he talks irreligion
with English boys, sentiment with my sister [Lady Walpole], and bad
French with any one that will hear him. I will transcribe you a little
song that he made t'other day; 'tis pretty enough; Gray turned it into
Latin, and I into English; you will honour him highly by putting it into
French, and Ashton into Greek. Here 'tis.
Spesso Amor sotto la forma
D'amistà ride, e s'asconde;
Poi si mischia, e si confonde
Con lo sdegno e col rancor.
In pietade ei si trasforma,
Par trastullo e par dispetto,
Ma nel suo diverso aspetto,
Sempre egli è l'istesso Amor.
Risit amicitiae interdùm velatus amictu,
Et benè compositâ veste fefeliit Amor:
Mox irae assumpsit cultus faciemque minantem,
Inque odium versus, versus et in lacrymas:
Sudentem fuge, nec lacrymanti aut crede furenti;
Idem est dissimili semper in ore Deus.
Love often in the comely mien
Of friendship fancies to be seen;
Soon again he shifts his dress,
And wears disdain and rancour's face.
To gentle pity then he changes;
Thro' wantonness, thro' piques he ranges;
But in whatever shape he move,
He's still himself, and still is Love.
[Footnote 1: Compare Letter to Zouch, March 20th, 1762. Fielding says
("Voyage to Lisbon") that Addison, in his "Travels," is to be looked
upon rather as a commentator on the classics, than as a writer of
travels.]
[Footnote 2: Antonio Cocchi, a learned physician and author at Florence,
a particular friend of Mr. Mann.--WALPOLE. He died in 1758.]
See how we trifle! but one can't pass one's youth too amusingly; for one
must grow old, and that in England; two most serious circumstances
either of which makes people grey in the twinkling of a bed-staff; for
know you, there is not a country upon earth where there are so many old
fools and so few young ones.
Now I proceed with my answers.
I made but small collections, and have only bought some bronzes and
medals, a few busts, and two or three pictures; one of my busts is to be
mentioned; 'tis the famous Vespasian in touchstone, reckoned the best in
Rome, except the Caracalla of the Farnese: I gave but twenty-two pounds
for it at Cardinal Ottoboni's sale. One of my medals is as great a
curiosity: 'tis of Alexander Severus, with the amphitheatre in brass;
this reverse is extant on medals of his, but mine is a _medagliuncino_,
or small medallion, and the only one with this reverse known in the
world: 'twas found by a peasant while I was in Rome, and sold by him for
sixpence to an antiquarian, to whom I paid for it seven guineas and a
half; but to virtuosi 'tis worth any sum.
As to Tartini's[1] musical compositions, ask Gray; I know but little in
music.
[Footnote 1: Giuseppe Tartini, of Padua, the celebrated composer of the
Devil's Sonata: in which he attempted to reproduce an air which he
dreamt that Satan had played to him while he was asleep; but, in his own
opinion, he failed so entirely, that he declared that if he had any
other means of livelihood he would break his violin and give up music.]
But for the Academy, I am not of it, but frequently in company with it:
'tis all disjointed. Madame ----, who, though a learned lady, has not
lost her modesty and character, is extremely scandalised with the other
two dames, especially with Moll Worthless [Lady Mary Wortley], who knows
no bounds. She is at rivalry with Lady W[alpole] for a certain Mr. ----,
whom perhaps you knew at Oxford. If you did not, I'll tell you: he is a
grave young man by temper, and a rich one by constitution; a shallow
creature by nature, but a wit by the grace of our women here, whom he
deals with as of old with the Oxford toasts. He fell into sentiments
with my Lady W[alpole] and was happy to catch her at Platonic love: but
as she seldom stops there, the poor man will be frightened out of his
senses when she shall break the matter to him; for he never dreamt that
her purposes were so naught. Lady Mary is so far gone, that to get him
from the mouth of her antagonist she literally took him out to dance
country dances last night at a formal ball, where there was no measure
kept in laughing at her old, foul, tawdry, painted, plastered personage.
She played at pharaoh two or three times at Princess Craon's, where she
cheats horse and foot. She is really entertaining: I have been reading
her works, which she lends out in manuscript, but they are too womanish:
I like few of her performances. I forgot to tell you a good answer of
Lady Pomfret to Mr. ----, who asked her if she did not approve Platonic
love? "Lord, sir," says she, "I am sure any one that knows me never
heard that I had any love but one, and there sit two proofs of it,"
pointing to her two daughters.
So I have given you a sketch of our employments, and answered your
questions, and will with pleasure as many more as you have about you.
Adieu! Was ever such a long letter? But 'tis nothing to what I shall
have to say to you. I shall scold you for never telling us any news,
public or private, no deaths, marriages, or mishaps; no account of new
books: Oh, you are abominable! I could find it in my heart to hate you,
if I did not love you so well; but we will quarrel now, that we may be
the better friends when we meet: there is no danger of that, is there?
Good-night, whether friend or foe! I am most sincerely
Yours.
_DEBATE ON PULTENEY'S MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE ON PAPERS RELATING TO THE
WAR--SPEECHES OF PULTENEY, PITT, SIR R. WALPOLE, SIR W. GEORGE,
ETC.--SMALLNESS OF THE MINISTERIAL MAJORITY._