_Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax, at Venice_
_Paris, Hotel de l'Université, près le Pont Royal_
I write, Fairfax, according to promise, to inform you that I have been
a fortnight in France, and four days in this city. The tract of country
over which I have passed, within these three months, is considerable.
From Naples to Rome; from Rome to Florence; from Florence to Venice,
where we spent our carnival; from Venice to Modena, Parma, and Genoa;
from thence to Turin; from Turin to Geneva; then, turning to the left,
to Lyons; and from Lyons to Paris. Objects have passed before me in
such a rapid succession, that the time I have spent abroad, though not
more than a year and a half, appears something like a life. The sight
of the proud Alps, which boldly look eternity in the face, imparts a
sensation of length of time wholly inadequate to the few hours that are
employed in passing them. The labour up is a kind of age; and the swift
descent is like falling from the clouds, once more to become an
inhabitant of earth.
Here at Paris I half fancy myself at home. And yet, to timid people who
have never beheld the ocean, and who are informed that seas divide
France and England, Paris appears to be at an unattainable distance.
Every thing is relative in this world; great or small near or distant
only by comparison. The traveller who should have passed the deserts,
and suffered all the perils all the emotions of a journey from Bengal
by land, would think himself much nearer home, at Naples, than I do,
coming from Naples, at Paris: and those who have sailed round the world
seem satisfied that their labour is within a hair's breadth of being at
an end, when they arrive, on their return, at the Cape of Good Hope.
You, Fairfax, have frequently asked me to give you accounts of this and
that place, of the things I have seen, and of the observations I have
made. But I have more frequently put the same kind of questions to
myself, and never yet could return a satisfactory answer. I have seen
people whose manners are so different from those of my own country,
that I have seemed to act with them from a kind of conviction of their
being of another species. Yet a moment's consideration undeceives me: I
find them to be mere men. Men of different habits, indeed, but actuated
by the same passions, the same desire of self-gratification. Yes,
Fairfax, the sun moon and stars make their appearance, in Italy, as
regularly as in England; nay much more so, for there is not a tenth
part of the intervening clouds.
When molested by their dirt, their vermin, their beggars, their
priests, and their prejudices, how often have I looked at them with
contempt! The uncleanliness that results from heat and indolence, the
obsequious slavishness of the common people, contrasted with their
loquacious impertinence, the sensuality of their hosts of monks, nay
the gluttony even of their begging friars, their ignorant adoration of
the rags and rotten wood which they themselves dress up, the protection
afforded to the most atrocious criminals if they can but escape to a
mass of stone which they call sacred, the little horror in which they
hold murder, the promptness with which they assassinate for affronts
which they want the spirit to resent, their gross buffooneries
religious and theatrical, the ridiculous tales told to the vulgar by
their preachers, and the improbable farces which are the delight of the
gentle and the simple, all these, and many other things of a similar
nature, seem to degrade them below rational creatures.
Yet reverse the picture, and they appear rather to be demi-gods than
men! Listen to their music! Behold their paintings! Examine their
palaces, their basins of porphyry, urns and vases of Numidian marble,
catacombs, and subterranean cities; their sculptured heroes, triumphal
arches, and amphitheatres in which a nation might assemble; their
Corinthian columns hewn from the rocks of Egypt, and obelisks of
granite transported by some strange but forgotten means from
Alexandria; the simplicity the grandeur and beauty of their temples and
churches; the vast fruitfulness of their lands, their rich vineyards,
teeming fields, and early harvests; the mingled sublime and beautiful
over the face of nature in this country, which is sheltered from
invaders by mountains and seas, so as by a small degree of art to
render it impregnable; their desolating earthquakes, which yet seem but
to renovate fertility; their volcanos, sending forth volumes of flame
and rivers of fire, and overwhelming cities which though they have
buried they have not utterly destroyed; these and a thousand other
particulars, which I can neither enumerate nor remember, apparently
speak them a race the most favoured of heaven, and announce Italy to be
a country for whose embellishment and renown earth and heaven, men and
gods have for ages contended.
The recollection of these things appears to be more vivid, and to give
me greater pleasure than I believe the sight of them afforded. Perhaps
it is my temper. Impatient of delay, I had scarcely glanced at one
object before I was eager to hunt for another. The tediousness of the
Ciceroni was to me intolerable. What cannot instantly be comprehended I
can scarcely persuade myself to think worthy of the trouble of enquiry.
I love to enjoy; and, if enjoyment do not come to me, I must fly to
seek it, and hasten from object to object till it be overtaken.
Intellectual pleasures delight me, when they are quick, certain, and
easily obtained. I leave those which I am told arise from patient
study, length of time, and severe application, to the fools who think
time given to be so wasted. Roses grow for me to gather: rivers roll
for me to lave in. Let the slave dig the mine, but for me let the
diamond sparkle. Let the lamb, the dove, and the life-loving eel writhe
and die; it shall not disturb me, while I enjoy the viands. The five
senses are my deities; to them I pay worship and adoration, and never
yet have I been slack in the performance of my duty.
What! Shall we exist but for a few years, and of those shall there be
but a few hours as it were of youth, joy, and pleasure, and shall we
let them slip? Shall we cast away a good that never can return; and
seek for pain, which is itself in so much haste to seek for us? Away
with such folly! The opposite system be mine.
The voluptuous Italian, as wise in this as in other arts, knows better.
He lives for the moment, and takes care not to let the moment slip. His
very beggars, basking in the sun, will not remove, so long as hunger
will suffer them to enjoy the happiness of being idle. Who so perfectly
understand the luxury of indolence as the Lazaroni of Naples?
The Italian, indeed, seems to exert all the craft for which he is so
famous, to accomplish this sole purpose of enjoyment. He marries a
wife, and the handsomest he can procure; that, when the ardour of
desire is satiated, she may fleece some gallant, who shall pay for his
pleasures elsewhere. And, as variety is the object of all, gallant
succeeds to gallant, while he himself flies from mistress to mistress,
and thus an equal barter is maintained.
This office of Cicisbeo is however an intolerably expensive one;
especially to our countrymen. The Signora is so inventive in her
faculties, there are so many trinkets which she dies to possess, and
her wants, real and artificial, are so numerous, that the purse is
never quiet in the pocket. And every Englishman is supposed to be
furnished with the purse of Fortunatus.
The worst because the most dangerous part of the business is, the ugly
and the old think themselves entitled to be as amorous as the young and
beautiful; and a tall fellow, with a little fresh blood in his veins,
is sure to have no peace for them. Prithee, Fairfax, tell me how the
Contessa behaved, when she found I had escaped from her amorous
pursuit. She began to make me uneasy; and I almost thought it was as
necessary for me to have a taster as any tyrant in Christendom. Poison
and the stiletto disturbed my dreams; for there were not only she, but
two or three more, who seemed determined to take no denial. I
congratulated myself, as I was rolling down mount Cenis, to think that
I was at length actually safe, and that the damned black-looking,
hook-nosed, scowling fellow from Bergamo, whom I had so often remarked
dogging me, was no longer at my heels.
But I have now bidden adieu to the _Cassini_, the _Carnivali_, and the
_Donne_; and soon shall see what provision this land of France affords.
For the short time that I have been here, I have no occasion to
complain of my reception. I do not know why, Fairfax, but we Englishmen
seem to be in tolerably good repute every where, with the ladies. Well,
well, pretty dears, they shall find me very much at their service. I
should be sorry to bring disgrace upon my nation, Fairfax. Would not
you?
I expect to find you a punctual correspondent. Fail not to let me know,
when, weary of being a _Cavaliere servente_, you shall leave the proud
banks of the Adriatic, and the wanton Venice, for some other abode;
that our letters may never miss their aim. I will relate every thing
that happens to me, when it can either afford you amusement to read, or
me satisfaction to write. You have too much honour and honesty not to
do the same. Or, if not, I will try what a threat can do: therefore
remember that, unless you fulfil the terms of our agreement, and give
me an account of all your rogueries, adventures, successes, and
hair-breadth escapes, I will choose some other more punctual and more
entertaining correspondent.
Observe further, and let that be a spur to your industry, I have a tale
in petto; a whimsical adventure which happened to me yesterday evening;
but which I shall forbear to regale you with, for three substantial
reasons: first because it is my good pleasure; secondly because I like
it; and lastly such is my sovereign will. Nay, if that be all, I can
give you three more: first because I am almost at the end of my paper;
next because I may want a good subject when I write again; and finally
because the post is a sturdy unceremonious fellow, and does not think
proper to wait my leisure.
So farewell; and believe me to be very sincerely yours,