LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES

Documents Biography Criticism

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Recollections of Writers

Leigh Hunt to Vincent and Mary Sabilla Novello, 17 June 1817

INTRODUCTION & INDEXES

DOCUMENT INFORMATION

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Contents

Preface

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX

John Keats

Charles Lamb

Mary Lamb

Leigh Hunt

Douglas Jerrold

Charles Dickens

Index

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Produced by CATH

Amici veri e costanti,—Miss Kent will have told you the reason why I did not write on Saturday. The boatman was waiting to snatch the letters out of my hand; and besides hers, I was compelled to write three—one to my brother John, one to Mr. Shelley, and another to Lord B.—Neither can I undertake to write you a long letter at present, and I must communicate with my other friends by driblets, one after the other; for my head is yet very tender, though I promise to get more health, and you know I have a great deal of writing to think about and to do. Be good enough therefore to show this letter to the Gliddons, the Lambs, Mr. Coulson, and Mr. Hogg, whom I also request to show you theirs, or such parts, of them as contain news of Italy and nothing private. Need I add, that of whatever length my letters may be, my heart is still the same towards you? I wish you could know how often we have thought and talked of you. You know my taste for travelling. I should like to take all my friends with me, like an Arabian caravan. Fond as I am of home, my home is dog-like, in the persons—not cat-like, in the place; and I should desire no better Paradise, to all eternity, than gipsyizing with those I love all over the world. But I must tell you news, instead of olds. I wrote the preceding page, seated

LEIGH HUNT AND HIS LETTERS.

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upon some boxes on deck, surrounded by the shipping and beautiful houses of Genoa; an awning over my head, a fine air in my face, and only comfortably warm, though the natives themselves are complaining of the heat. (I have not forgotten, by the bye, that your family, Novello, came from Piedmont, so that I am nearer to your old original country, and to England too, than I was two or three weeks ago.) I was called down from deck to Mrs. Hunt, who is very weak; a winter passage would certainly have killed her. The “Placidia” had a long passage for winter with rough winds; and even the agitations of summer travelling are almost too much for my wife; nor has that miserable spitting of blood ceased at all. But we hope much from rest at Pisa, As for the “Jane,” she encountered a violent storm in the Gulf of Lyons which laid her on her side, and did her great injury. Only think—as the young ladies say. Captain Whitney was destined after all to land me in Italy, for the “Jane” is here, and he accompanied me yesterday evening when I first went on shore. I found him a capital cicerone, and he seemed pleased to perform the office. My sensations on first touching the shore I cannot express to you. Genoa is truly la superba. Imagine a dozen Hampsteads one over the other, intermingled with trees, rock, and white streets, houses, and palaces. The harbour lies at the foot in a semicircle, with a quay full of good houses and public buildings. Bathers, both male and female, are constantly going by our vessel of a morning in boats with awnings, both to a floating bath, and to swim (i. e., the male) in the open sea. They return dressing themselves as they go, with an indelicacy, or else delicacy, very startling to us Papalengis. The ladies think it judicious to conceal their absolute ribs; but a man (whether gentleman or not I cannot say) makes nothing of putting on his shirt, as he returns; or even of alfrescoing it without one, as he goes; and people, great and small, are swimming about us in all directions. The servant, a jolly Plymouth damsel (for Elizabeth was afraid to go on), thinks it necessary to let us know that she takes no manner of interest in such spectacles. I had not gone through a street or two on shore before I had the luck to meet a religious procession, the last this season.

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RECOLLECTIONS OF WRITERS

Good God! what a thing! It consisted, imprimis, of soldiers; secondly, of John the Baptist, four years of age, in a sheepskin; thirdly, of the Virgin, five or six ditto, with a crown on her head, led by two ladies; fourthly, friars—the young ones (with some fine faces among them) looking as if they were in earnest, and rather melancholy—the others apparently getting worldly, sceptical, and laughing in proportion as they grew old; fifthly, a painting of St. Antonio; sixthly, monks with hideous black cowls all over their faces, with holes to look through; seventhly, a crucifix as large as life, well done (indeed, every work of art here has an air of that sort if nothing else); eighthly, more friars, holding large wax-lights, the ends of which were supported, or rather pulled down, by the raggedest and dirtiest boys in the city, who collect the dropping wax in paper and sell it for its virtues; ninthly, music, with violins; tenthly and lastly, a large piece of waxwork, carried on a bier by a large number of friars, who were occasionally encouraged by others to trot stoutly (for a shuffling trot is their pace), and representing St. Antonio paying homage to the Virgin, both as large as life, surrounded with lights and artificial flowers, and seated on wax clouds and cherubim. It would have made me melancholy had not the novelty of everything and the enormous quantity of women of all ranks diverted my thoughts. The women are in general very plain, and the men too, though less so; but when you do meet with fine faces, they are fine indeed; and the ladies are apt to have a shape and air very consoling for the want of better features. But my trembling hands, as well as the paper, tell me that I must leave off, and that I have gone, like Gilpin, “farther than I intended.” God bless you, dear friends. La Sposa and you must get me up a good long letter. My wife sends her best remembrances. Your ever affectionate friend,