We arrived here yesterday afternoon, at between three and four. On
sending to the post-office this morning, I received your pleasant little
letter, and one from Miss Coutts, who is still at Paris. But to my
amazement there was none from Catherine! You mention her writing, and I
cannot but suppose that your two letters must have been posted together.
However, I received none from her, and I have all manner of doubts
respecting the plainness of its direction. They will not produce the
letters here as at Genoa, but persist in looking them out at the
post-office for you. I shall send again to-morrow, and every day until
Friday, when we leave here. If I find no letter from her _to-morrow_, I
shall write to her nevertheless by that post which brings this, so that
you may both hear from me together.
One night, at Naples, Edward came in, open-mouthed, to the table d'hote
where we were dining with the Tennents, to announce "The Marchese
Garofalo." I at first thought it must be the little parrot-marquess who
was once your escort from Genoa; but I found him to be a man (married to
an Englishwoman) whom we used to meet at Ridgway's. He was very glad to
see me, and I afterwards met him at dinner at Mr. Lowther's, our charge
d'affaires. Mr. Lowther was at the Rockingham play, and is a very
agreeable fellow. We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight,
preparatory to which I was near having the ridiculous adventure of not
being able to find the house and coming back dinnerless. I went in an
open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my
surprise, pulled up at the end of the Chiaja. "Behold the house," says
he, "of Il Signor Larthoor!"--at the same time pointing with his whip
into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were shining. "But the
Signor Larthoor," returns the Inimitable darling, "lives at Pausilippo."
"It is true," says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star),
"but he lives high up the Salita Sant' Antonio, where no carriage ever
yet ascended, and that is the house" (evening star as aforesaid), "and
one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant' Antonio!" I went up it, a
mile and a half I should think. I got into the strangest places, among
the wildest Neapolitans--kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables,
vineyards--was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible
Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked doors, in cracked female voices,
quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman.
By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old
Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not
rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in
his hand. To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor. "Sir," said
he, with the sweetest politeness, "can you speak French?" "Sir," said I,
"a little." "Sir," said he, "I presume the Signor Loothere"--you will
observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his
country--"is an Englishman." I admitted that he was the victim of
circumstances and had that misfortune. "Sir," said he, "one word more.
_Has_ he a servant with a wooden leg?" "Great Heaven, sir," said I, "how
do I know! I should think not, but it is possible." "It is always," said
the Frenchman, "possible. Almost all the things of the world are always
possible." "Sir," said I--you may imagine my condition and dismal sense
of my own absurdity, by this time--"that is true." He then took an
immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an
arch commanding a wonderful view of the bay of Naples, and pointed deep
into the earth from which I had mounted. "Below there, near the lamp,
one finds an Englishman, with a servant with a wooden leg. It is always
possible that he is the Signor Loothere." I had been asked at six, and
it was now getting on for seven. I went down again in a state of
perspiration and misery not to be described, and without the faintest
hope of finding the place. But as I was going down to the lamp, I saw
the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a man in a
white-waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it, fuming. I
dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most of the
whole story, and was indescribably popular. The best of it was, that as
nobody ever did find the place, he had put a servant at the bottom of
the Salita, to "wait for an English gentleman." The servant (as he
presently pleaded), deceived by the moustache, had allowed the English
gentleman to pass unchallenged.
The night before we left Naples we were at the San Carlo, where, with
the Verdi rage of our old Genoa time, they were again doing the
"Trovatore." It seemed rubbish on the whole to me, but was very fairly
done. I think "La Tenco," the prima donna, will soon be a great hit in
London. She is a very remarkable singer and a fine actress, to the best
of my judgment on such premises. There seems to be no opera here, at
present. There was a Festa in St. Peter's to-day, and the Pope passed to
the Cathedral in state. We were all there.
We leave here, please God, on Friday morning, and post to Florence in
three days and a half. We came here by Vetturino. Upon the whole, the
roadside inns are greatly improved since our time. Half-past three and
half-past four have been, however, our usual times of rising on the
road.
I was in my old place at the Coliseum this morning, and it was as grand
as ever. With that exception the ruined part of Rome--the real original
Rome--looks smaller than my remembrance made it. It is the only place on
which I have yet found that effect. We are in the old hotel.
You are going to Bonchurch I suppose? will be there, perhaps, when this
letter reaches you? I shall be pleased to think of you as at home again,
and making the commodious family mansion look natural and home-like. I
don't like to think of my room without anybody to peep into it now and
then. Here is a world of travelling arrangements for me to settle, and
here are Collins and Egg looking sideways at me with an occasional
imploring glance as beseeching me to settle it. So I leave off.
Good-night.
Ever, my dearest Georgy,
Most affectionately yours.
[Sidenote: Sir James Emerson Tennent.]
HOTEL DES ILES BRITANNIQUES, PIAZZA DEL POPOLO, ROME,
_Monday, Nov. 14th, 1853._