XV.

Arrival at Florence. Is of opinion, that the Venus of Medicis is a modern performance, and that a very indifferent one, and much inferior to the K. Charles at Charing Cross. Account of the city, and manners of the inhabitants. A learned Dissertation on the true situation of Gomorrah.

And here will end the first part of these instructive and entertaining voyages. The Subscribers are to pay twenty guineas; nineteen down, and the remainder upon delivery of the book. N.B.-A few are printed on the softest royal brown paper for the use of the curious.

MY DEAR, DEAR WHARTON1-(Which is a dear more than I give anybody else. It is very odd to begin with a parenthesis, but) You may think me a beast for not haveing sooner wrote to you, and to be sure a beast I am. Now, when one owns it, I don't see what you have left to say. I take this opportunity to inform you (an opportunity I have had every week this twelvemonth) that I am arrived safe at Calais, and am at present at

1 Thomas Wharton, M.D. (1717-1794), of Old-Park, near Durham. With this gentleman Mr. Gray contracted an acquaintance very early; and though they were not educated together at Eton, yet afterwards at Cambridge, when the Doctor was Fellow of Pembroke Hall, they became intimate friends, and continued so to the time of Mr. Gray's death.—[Mason.]

Florence, a city in Italy in I don't know how many degrees N. latitude. Under the line I am sure it is not, for I am at this instant expiring with cold. You must know, that not being certain what circumstances of my history would particularly suit your curiosity, and knowing that all I had to say to you would overflow the narrow limits of many a good quire of paper, I have taken this method of laying before you the contents, that you may pitch upon what you please, and give me your orders accordingly to expatiate thereupon: for I conclude you will write to me; won't you? oh! yes, when you know, that in a week I set out for Rome, and that the Pope is dead, and that I shall be (I should say, God willing; and if nothing extraordinary intervene; and if I'm alive, and well; and in all human probability) at the coronation of a new one. Now as you have no other correspondent there, and as if you do not, I certainly shall not write again (observe my impudence), I take it to be your interest to send me a vast letter, full of all sorts of news, and bawdy, and politics, and such other ingredients, as to you shall seem convenient with all decent expedition. Only do not be too severe upon the Pretender; and if you like my style, pray say so. This is à la Françoise; and if you think it a little too foolish, and impertinent, you shall be treated alla Toscana with a thousand Signoria Illustrissimas, in the meantime I have the honour to remain Your lofing frind tell deth,

Florence, March 12, N. S. [1740].

T. GRAY.

P.S.-This is à l'Angloise. I don't know where you are; if at Cambridge, pray let me know all how, and about it; and if my old friends, Thompson, or Clarke fall in your way, say I am extremely theirs. But if you are in town, I entreat you to make my best compliments to Mrs. Wharton. Adieu.-Yours sincerely a second time.

XXVIII. TO MRS. DOROTHY GRAY.

Florence, March 19, 1740. and we are to set out The conclave is still

THE Pope1 is at last dead, for Rome on Monday next. sitting there, and likely to continue so some time longer, as the two French Cardinals are but just arrived, and the German ones are still expected. It agrees mighty ill with those that remain inclosed: Ottoboni2 is already dead of an apoplexy; Altieri3 and several others are said to be dying, or very bad: yet it is not expected to break up till after Easter. We shall lie at Sienna the first night, spend a day there, and in two more get to Rome. One begins to see in this country the first promises of an Italian spring,

1 Clement XII. (Lorenzo Corsini). He had been elected in July 1730, and died Feb. 6, 1740.—[Ed.]

2 Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni (1667-1740) had died on the 28th of February. He was a very wealthy patron of art and letters. -[Ed.]

3 Three of the Altieri family were Cardinals at this time. The one Gray mentions was Giambattista Altieri (1663-1740), Archbishop of Tyre, who died on the 12th of March.—[Ed.]

clear unclouded skies, and warm suns, such as are not often felt in England; yet, for your sake, I hope at present you have your proportion of them, and that all your frosts, and snows, and short breaths are, by this time, utterly vanished. I have nothing new or particular to inform you of; and, if you see things at home go on much in their old course, you must not imagine them more various abroad. The diversions of a Florentine Lent are composed of a sermon in the morning, full of hell and the devil; a dinner at noon, full of fish and meagre diet; and in the evening, what is called a Conversazione, a sort of assembly at the principal people's houses, full of I cannot tell what. Besides this, there is twice a week a very grand

XXIX. TO MRS. DOROTHY GRAY.

Rome, April 2, N. S., 1740. THIS is the third day since we came to Rome, but the first hour I have had to write to you in. The journey from Florence cost us four days, one of which was spent at Sienna, an agreeable, clean, old city, of no great magnificence or extent; but in a fine situation, and good air. What it has most considerable is its cathedral, a huge pile of marble, black and white laid alternately, and laboured with a Gothic niceness and delicacy in the old-fashioned way. Within too are some paintings and sculpture of considerable hands. The sight of this, and some collections that were

shewed us in private houses, were a sufficient employment for the little time we were to pass there and the next morning we set forward on our journey through a country very oddly composed; for some miles you have a continual scene of little mountains cultivated from top to bottom with rows of olive-trees, or else elms, each of which has its vine twining about it, and mixing with the branches; and corn sown between all the ranks. This diversified with numerous small houses and convents, makes the most agreeable prospect in the world. But, all of a sudden, it alters to black barren hills, as far as the eye can reach, that seem never to have been capable of culture, and are as ugly as useless. Such is the country for some time before one comes to Mount Radicofani, a terrible black hill, on the top of which we were to lodge that night. It is very high, and difficult of ascent; and at the foot of it we were much embarrassed by the fall of one of the poor horses that drew This accident obliged another chaise, which was coming down, to stop also; and out of it peeped a figure in a red cloak, with a handkerchief tied round its head, which, by its voice and mien, seemed a fat old woman: but upon its getting out, appeared to be Senesino,1 who was returning from Naples to Sienna, the place of his birth and residence. On the highest

us.

1 Certain nicknames were borne by Italian singers in succession, and this is evidently not the famous Senesino (Ferdinando Tenducci), the sopranist, for he was only a boy at the time. Perhaps Francesco Bernardi is intended.—[Ed.]

VOL. II.

F