I received your letter at the foot of
Antonines’ Pillar, and have seen nothing at Rome
pleased me better—and now for our journey of seven days in the middle of
December. We travelled in furs and rugs like Russian bears; but the climate
softened as we proceeded—we found the trees in full leaf, and the
enchanting, lovely, and diversified scenery wore a fine October appearance. The
romantic views are beyond description—all the towns dreary ruins, too
much for English spirits to stand; we ascended to many of them (Cortona and
Perugia particularly) up perpendicular mountains, and the horns of the oxen
that drew us, were on a level with the top of our carriage; but oh, the inns!!!
We travelled with tea, sugar, tea-things and kettle, but
from Florence to Rome we could get neither milk nor butter. There was but one fire-place in each inn, and
that kept in the heat and let out the smoke. Our precious servant (a treasure) took care of us as if we were children, and
made a fire in a crock in our bedroom, which, with stone
floors, black rafters, and a bier for a bed,
and the smell of the stable to regale us (for it generally opened to it) was
quite beyond the reach of his art to make comfortable.
We always set off before daylight and stop before dark. Thirty miles from Rome
begins that fearful desert the
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The kindness of our Florence friends pursued, or rather
devancés us here. The
Princes Corsini and Borghese, who have the two finest palaces at
Rome, wrote to their librarians and agents to be of use to us in every way. The
Countess D’Albany wrote to the Duchess of
Devonshire to say we were expected, and yesterday (the day after
our arrival) are their invitations sent to us. The Princess
Borghese (Pauline, Napoleon’s beautiful sister) has written
to invite us to spend the evening, and the Duchess de
Braciano, has asked us for every Thursday evening whilst we
remain in Rome. To night we go to the Duchess of
Devonshire, and after her soirée, to
a concert at the Princess Borghese’s. The former
wrote us the kindest of notes. I think you will like to hear something of
Pauline. She is separated from Prince Borghese, who was so civil to us at
Florence; but she lives in his superb palace here quite like a little queen!
Nothing could equal her reception. She said it was noble in me not to fall heavy on the unfortunate,
&c. I confess I do not see that exquisite beauty she was so celebrated for.
She is, she says, much altered, and grown thin, fretting about her brother. Her
dress, though demi-toilette, very superb; and the
apartments, beyond
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The Eternal City disappoints at first entrance. I thought it mighty like an Irish town, shabby and dirty—we have yet seen nothing save St. Peter’s, to which we ran like mad the moment we arrived. The first impression of that disappointed too; the interior overwhelmed me! but not as I expected—but of such places and things it is impossible to speak with the little space a letter affords. The climate heavenly—orange trees in boxes out of every window, mignonette, &c.; young lamb, chickens, and salad every day. We have got into private lodgings, lots of visitors—Lord Fortescue and Lady Mary, Sir Thomas Lawrence (who has just shown us his picture of the Pope, that has left all the Italian painters in despair). I have two cardinals on my list of visitors. The Italian ladies dress as we do—the French toilette—some of them very fine creatures, a rich beauty, all glowing and bright—the most good-natured, caressing creatures. We get on famously with our Italian. I spoke all along the road to the common people, and got lots of information. Did I not tell you that Bartolini, of Florence, has done my bust in marble?—just as I had written so far, Canova called on us. He is delightful, and recalled Dénon to our recollection.
December 18.—We had a delightful party at the
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