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Antonio Canova (search for this): chapter 7
e two very happy evenings, which I shall always remember with grateful pleasure. Count Cicognara gave me a letter to her, and she immediately told me that her house, which is one of the finest palaces in Bologna, would be open to me every evening. She is still young, not above thirty, I should think, very beautiful, with uncommonly sweet and engaging manners and talents, which make her at once the centre of literary and elegant society in Bologna, and the friend and correspondent of Monti, Canova, Brougham, and many others of the first men of the times we live in. Last evening there were few persons at her coterie. Only two or three men of letters, a young Greek from Corcyra, a Count Marchetti and his pretty wife, Lord John Russell, and a few others. The conversation was chiefly literary, and so adroitly managed by Mad. Martinetti as to make it general, but as two of the persons present were strangers it began to fail at last, and she resorted to the very games we play in America t
Mont Blanc (search for this): chapter 7
ought me to him, he ordered his carriage and took me to Geneva, to a ball at Mad. de Saussure's, a distant relation of the famous De Saussure who first ascended Mont Blanc. I found there many English, and much of the fashionable and respectable society of the city; and I observed that the ladies were handsomer than at Paris, but morning. On the 16th of September Mr. Ticknor joined Dr. Edward Reynolds, Mr. Edward Brooks of Boston, and Dr. Wagner of South Carolina, in an excursion to Mont Blanc, which occupied three days, and excited and delighted him intensely. His description of these scenes, so new to him, is full, animated, and glowing. In the ere is another city of twenty-five thousand inhabitants in Europe or America of which this could be said. But I forget my story. Five days ago I went to see Mont Blanc and the great glacier of Chamouni. I dare not attempt to tell you what I saw and felt in these strange solitudes, where the genius and power of ages and genera
De Breme (search for this): chapter 7
the vintage till, after passing through a great number of villages, we entered Milan. . . . . In the evening I presented my letters to the Marquis, or Abbate, de Breme, a man of talents and learning, and son of one of the richest noblemen in Italy, who, in the times of French domination, was Minister of the Interior, and now lias no rival October 19.—As in all the Italian cities, so in Venice, there is little society, and the persons I have known who have lived there, such as Botta, De Breme, the Baron de Bonstetten, etc., have all told me it was to be seen best at Count Cicognara's. To him, therefore, they gave me letters, and I have found their prenger, and at his house—with Dandolo and several other of the patricians, and a few men of letters—I have passed my evenings as pleasantly as I did at Milan, with De Breme and Count Confalonieri. October 20.—This morning, like Portia's messenger, we passed With imagined speed Unto the tranect, to the common ferry Which trad
Henry Brougham (search for this): chapter 7
y happy evenings, which I shall always remember with grateful pleasure. Count Cicognara gave me a letter to her, and she immediately told me that her house, which is one of the finest palaces in Bologna, would be open to me every evening. She is still young, not above thirty, I should think, very beautiful, with uncommonly sweet and engaging manners and talents, which make her at once the centre of literary and elegant society in Bologna, and the friend and correspondent of Monti, Canova, Brougham, and many others of the first men of the times we live in. Last evening there were few persons at her coterie. Only two or three men of letters, a young Greek from Corcyra, a Count Marchetti and his pretty wife, Lord John Russell, and a few others. The conversation was chiefly literary, and so adroitly managed by Mad. Martinetti as to make it general, but as two of the persons present were strangers it began to fail at last, and she resorted to the very games we play in America to keep it
De Stael (search for this): chapter 7
sting than ever from her affliction, The death of Mad. de Stael. which, from her perfect openness of character, she hardie gave me a letter. She was a particular friend of Mad. de Stael's, and is a lady of large fortune, much talent, and elegato any study of the subject of the time. a cousin of Mad. de Stael, who is considered in Geneva but little her inferior in original power of mind, and of whom Mad. de Stael once said, Ma cousine Necker a tous les talens qu'on me suppose, et toutes que je n'ai pas. She is about fifty, and resembles Mad. de Stael a little, and is interesting in conversation from a certass of friends in Paris, and especially the family of Mad. de Stael, I brought many letters here, so that from the evening I va; from the birthplace of Rousseau, and the tomb of Mad. de Stael; and what is more, from the country made classical by the22.—I left the city of Calvin, Bonnet, Rousseau, and Mad. de Stael this morning at eight o'clock, with my friend Brooks, who
M. Huber (search for this): chapter 7
im. He was seventy-two years old at this time, but very fond of society, and mingled much with it. His appearance was very venerable, but, for his age, his vivacity was remarkable. Among his kindnesses to me, he drove me one afternoon to see M. Huber at his country-place, where he lived through the year, and which was prettily laid out. He was nearly seventy years old,—the author of an extraordinary Treatise on the Economy of Bees, which was much praised in a long article in the Edinburgh Rus that his conversation was often on subjects connected with the arts, and presupposed the use of sight; and yet such was his exact recollection or skill on these subjects, that, as M. de Bonstetten told me to observe, there was nothing in what M. Huber said which would remind us of his blindness. When we came away he gave me some engravings of horses which he had made in his youth, and which were singular because the animals were represented in unwonted positions. We stayed until after dark,
Chios (search for this): chapter 7
Cicognara, President of the Academy of Venice, Schlegel, Mustoxidis, a native of Corcyra and a member of the French Institute, and Dandolo, a young Venetian patrician of talent and acuteness. Six pamphlets have been published, and the war is not at an end. The question is, whether these four horses were a part of the Roman plunder of Greece, and, after having been placed by Nero on his arch at Rome, were transported by Constantine to ornament his new city, or whether they were originally of Chios, and, without having ever seen Athens or Rome, were brought in the fifth century, under Theodosius the younger, to Constantinople. It is a question that can never be decided, but it is a curious and interesting fact, that the young Dandolo, who has shown both learning and modesty in this controversy, is the direct lineal descendant of the blind old Doge of the same name, who in 1204 was the first to mount the breach at Constantinople, and, after having refused the Empire of the East, and pl
M. Dumont (search for this): chapter 7
l works, has been uncommonly kind to me ever since I have been in Geneva. To-day he invited me to a dinner, where I found myself surrounded by the corpus Academicum, and a representation of the Bibliotheque Britannique. I was struck with the exhibition of talent I witnessed, and particularly with De Candolle, professor of botany, who has great powers of conversation, without that perpetual attempt at brilliancy and epigram which I found in Paris society, and which I have found here only in Dumont. In the evening I went to a large party at Dr. Buttini's, the first physician in Geneva. I found most of the society I met last evening, but was so much interested by the conversation of President de la Rive that I made few new acquaintances. September 14.—A Russian Countess Bruess is living here, and finding it difficult to spend an income—said to be a million of francs a year —amuses herself with giving such entertainments as the simple Genevans rarely see. Just at this time the bir<
M. Simond (search for this): chapter 7
itality which had brought me to him, he ordered his carriage and took me to Geneva, to a ball at Mad. de Saussure's, a distant relation of the famous De Saussure who first ascended Mont Blanc. I found there many English, and much of the fashionable and respectable society of the city; and I observed that the ladies were handsomer than at Paris, but not so graceful; and seemingly more genuinely and simply kind and amiable, but not so ostentatiously gracious. Among other strangers, I found Simond, author of the Travels in England, a man of fifty, talking little, but in such a manner as to make others talk to him; with few apparent prejudices, and yet in all respects a decisive way of thinking and judging. September 13.—The Baron de Bonstetten, formerly in the government of Berne, but a Genevan, and the author of several metaphysical and political works, has been uncommonly kind to me ever since I have been in Geneva. To-day he invited me to a dinner, where I found myself surroun
German (search for this): chapter 7
nt. He told me incidentally that M. G. Lewis once translated Goethe's Faust to him extemporaneously, and this accounts for the resemblance between that poem and Manfred, which I could not before account for, as I was aware that he did not know German. His residence in Italy, he said, had given him great pleasure; and spoke of the comparatively small value of his travels in Greece, which, he said, contained not the sixth part of its attractions. Mr. Hobhouse had already told me of a plan forn Germany, he expressed a kind of interest to know more about it that looked extremely like Shylock's satisfaction that other men have ill luck too; and when I added the story of the translation of the whole of a very unfair Edinburgh review into German, directly under Goethe's nose at Jena, Byron discovered at first a singular eagerness to hear it, and then, suddenly checking himself, said, as if half in earnest, though still laughing, And yet I don't know what sympathy I can have with Goethe,
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