TO THE HON.  H.S.  CONWAY.

RE DI COFANO, vulg.  RADICOFANI,

July 5, 1740, N.S.

You will wonder, my dear Hal, to find me on the road from Rome:  why, intend I did to stay for a new popedom, but the old éminences are cross and obstinate, and will not choose one, the Holy Ghost does not know when.  There is a horrid thing called the malaria, that comes to Rome every summer, and kills one, and I did not care for being killed so far from Christian burial.  We have been jolted to death; my servants let us come without springs to the chaise, and we are wore threadbare:  to add to our disasters, I have sprained my ancle, and have brought it along, laid upon a little box of baubles that I have bought for presents in England.  Perhaps I may pick you out some little trifle there, but don’t depend upon it; you are a disagreeable creature, and may be I shall not care for you.  Though I am so tired in this devil of a place, yet I have taken it into my head, that it is like Hamilton’s Bawn, and I must write to you.  ’Tis the top of a black barren mountain, a vile little town at the foot of an old citadel:  yet this, know you, was the residence of one of the three kings that went to Christ’s birthday; his name was Alabaster, Abarasser, or some such thing; the other two were kings, one of the East, the other of Cologn.  ’Tis this of Cofano, who was represented in an ancient painting, found in the Palatine Mount, now in the possession of Dr. Mead; he was crowned by Augustus.  Well, but about writing ­what do you think I write with?  Nay, with a pen; there was never a one to be found in the whole circumference but one, and that was in the possession of the governor, and had been used time out of mind to write the parole with:  I was forced to send to borrow it.  It was sent me under the conduct of a serjeant and two Swiss, with desire to return it when I should have done with it.  ’Tis a curiosity, and worthy to be laid up with the relics which we have just been seeing in a small hovel of Capucins on the side of the hill, and which were all brought by his Majesty from Jerusalem.  Among other things of great sanctity there is a set of gnashing of teeth, the grinders very entire; a bit of the worm that never dies, preserved in spirits; a crow of St. Peter’s cock, very useful against Easter; the crisping and curling, frizzling and frowncing of Mary Magdalen, which she cut off on growing devout.  The good man that showed us all these commodities was got into such a train of calling them the blessed this, and the blessed that, that at last he showed us a bit of the blessed fig-tree that Christ cursed.

FLORENCE, July 9.

My dear Harry, ­We are come hither, and I have received another letter from you with “Hosier’s Ghost." Your last put me in pain for you, when you talked of going to Ireland; but now I find your brother and sister go with you, I am not much concerned.  Should I be?  You have but to say, for my feelings are extremely at your service to dispose as you please.  Let us see:  you are to come back to stand for some place; that will be about April.  ’Tis a sort of thing I should do, too; and then we should see one another, and that would be charming:  but it is a sort of thing I have no mind to do; and then we shall not see one another, unless you would come hither ­but that you cannot do:  nay, I would not have you, for then I shall be gone. ­So, there are many ifs that just signify nothing at all.  Return I must sooner than I shall like.  I am happy here to a degree.  I’ll tell you my situation.  I am lodged with Mr. Mann, the best of creatures.  I have a terreno all to myself, with an open gallery on the Arno, where I am now writing to you.  Over against me is the famous Gallery:  and, on either hand, two fair bridges.  Is not this charming and cool?  The air is so serene, and so secure, that one sleeps with all the windows and doors thrown open to the river, and only covered with a slight gauze to keep away the gnats.  Lady Pomfret has a charming conversation once a week.  She has taken a vast palace and a vast garden, which is vastly commode, especially to the cicisbeo-part of mankind, who have free indulgence to wander in pairs about the arbours.  You know her daughters:  Lady Sophia is still, nay she must be, the beauty she was:  Lady Charlotte is much improved, and is the cleverest girl in the world; speaks the purest Tuscan, like any Florentine.  The Princess Craon has a constant pharaoh and supper every night, where one is quite at one’s ease.  I am going into the country with her and the prince for a little while, to a villa of the Great Duke’s.  The people are good-humoured here and easy; and what makes me pleased with them, they are pleased with me.  One loves to find people care for one, when they can have no view in it.

You see how glad I am to have reasons for not returning; I wish I had no better.

As to “Hosier’s Ghost,” I think it very easy, and consequently pretty; but, from the ease, should never have guessed it Glover’s.  I delight in your, “the patriots cry it up, and the courtiers cry it down, and the hawkers cry it up and down,” and your laconic history of the King and Sir Robert, on going to Hanover, and turning out the Duke of Argyle.  The epigram, too, you sent me on the same occasion is charming.

Unless I sent you back news that you and others send me, I can send you none.  I have left the Conclave, which is the only stirring thing in this part of the world, except the child that the Queen of Naples is to be delivered of in August.  There is no likelihood the Conclave will end, unless the messages take effect which ’tis said the Imperial and French ministers have sent to their respective courts for leave to quit the Corsini for the Albani faction:  otherwise there will never be a pope.  Corsini has lost the only one he could have ventured to make pope, and him he designed; ’twas Cenci, a relation of the Corsini’s mistress.  The last morning Corsini made him rise, stuffed a dish of chocolate down his throat, and would carry him to the scrutiny.  The poor old creature went, came back, and died.  I am sorry to have lost the sight of the Pope’s coronation, but I might have staid for seeing it till I had been old enough to be pope myself.

Harry, what luck the Chancellor has! first, indeed, to be in himself so great a man; but then in accident:  he is made Chief Justice and peer, when Talbot is made Chancellor and peer.  Talbot dies in a twelvemonth, and leaves him the seals at an age when others are scarce made Solicitors: ­then marries his son into one of the first families of Britain, obtains a patent for a Marquisate and eight thousand pounds a year after the Duke of Kent’s death:  the Duke dies in a fortnight, and leaves them all!  People talk of Fortune’s wheel, that is always rolling:  troth, my Lord Hardwicke has overtaken her wheel, and rolled away with it....  Yours ever.