Chapter X · (continued 2)

Bologna, June 14th, 1830

I went yesterday morning to Pratolino to see the statue of the genius of the Apennines, by John of Bologna, six miles from Florence. Pratolino was the favourite residence of the famous Bianca Capello. The house has been pulled down. It is in a very pretty English garden belonging to the Grand Duke, and, I think, amazingly MEZZOFANTI grand, but disgraced by presiding over a duck pond. They told me that if he stood up (and he looks as if he could if he would) he would be thirty braccia in height. I went into his head, and surveyed him on all sides. He ought to be placed over some torrent, or on the side of a mountain; but as he is, from a little distance (whence the ducks and their pond are not visible) he is sublime. Myriads of fire-flies sparkled in every bush; they are beautiful in a night journey, flitting about like meteors and glittering like shooting stars.

Dined with Lady Normanby at Sesto, set off at half-past eight, and arrived here at nine this morning. The first thing I did was to present my letter to Madame de Marescalchi from her sister, the Duchesse de Dalberg, who received me graciously and asked me to dinner; the next to call on Mezzofanti at the public library, whom I found at his desk in the great room, surrounded by a great many people reading. He received me very civilly, and almost immediately took me into another room, where I had a long conversation with him. He seems to be between fifty and sixty years of age, short, pale, and thin, and not at all remarkable in countenance or manner. He spoke English with extraordinary fluency and correctness, and with a very slight accent. I endeavoured to detect some inaccuracy of expression, but could not, though perhaps his phraseology was occasionally more stiff than that of an Englishman would be. He gave me an account of his beginning to study languages, which he did not do till he was of a mature age. The first he mastered were the Greek and Hebrew, the latter on account of divinity, and afterwards he began the modern languages, acquiring the idioms of each as he became acquainted with the parent tongue. He said that he had no particular disposition that way when a child, and I was surprised when he said that the knowledge of several languages was of no assistance to him in mastering others; on the contrary, that when he set to work at a fresh language he tried to put out of his head all others. I asked him of all modern languages which he preferred, and which he considered the richest in literature. He said, ‘Without doubt the Italian.’ He then discussed the genius of the English language, and the merits of our poets and historians, read, and made me read, a passage of an English book, and then examined the etymology and pronunciation of several words. He has never been out of Italy, or further in it than Leghorn, talks of going to Rome, but says it is so difficult to leave his library. He is very pleasing, simple, and communicative, and it is extraordinary, with his wonderful knowledge, that he should never have written and published any work upon languages. He asked me to return if I stayed at Bologna. The library has a tolerable suite of apartments, and the books, amounting to about 80,000 volumes, are in excellent order. One thousand crowns a year are allowed for the purchase of new books.

The Bolognese jargon is unintelligible. A man came and asked him some questions while I was there in a language that was quite strange to me, and when I asked Mezzofanti what it was, he said Bolognese, and that, though not harmonious, it was forcible and expressive. Afterwards to the gallery, which contains the finest pictures in Italy, though only a few: the Guidos and Domenichinos are splendid. I think Domenichino the finest painter that ever existed.

June 15th, 1830

Dined yesterday with Madame de Marescalchi, who lives in a great palace, looking dirty and uncomfortable, except one or two rooms which they occupy. There is a gallery of pictures, all of which are for sale. Seven or eight Italians came to dinner, whose names I never discovered. After dinner she took me to the Certosa, to see the Campo Santo, which is a remarkably pretty spot, and the dead appear to be more agreeably lodged at Bologna than the living. I had much rather die here than live here. It is very unlike the Campo Santo at Pisa, entirely modern, and looks exceedingly cheerful. Guido’s skull is kept here.

Went again to the gallery, and the Zambeccari Palace, where there are a few good pictures, but not many. All the pictures in all the palaces are for sale.

FERRARA In the ferry, crossing the Po (i.e. written in the ferry).—Called on Madame de Marescalchi to take leave. Set off at half-past one, and in clouds of dust arrived at Ferrara. It is curious to see this town, so large, deserted, and melancholy. A pestilence might have swept over it, for there seems no life in it, and hardly a soul is to be seen in the streets. It is eight and a half miles round, and contains 24,000 inhabitants, of which 3,000 are Jews, and their quarter is the only part of the town which seems alive. They are, as usual, crammed into a corner, five streets being allotted to them, at each end of which is a gate that is closed at nine o’clock, when the Jews are shut in for the night. The houses are filthy, stinking, and out of repair. The Corso is like a street in an English town, broad, long, the houses low, and with a trottoir on both sides. The Castle, surrounded by a moat, stands in the middle of the town, a gloomy place. In it lives the Cardinal Legate. I went to see the dungeon in which Tasso was confined; and the library, where they show Ariosto’s chair and inkstand, a medal found upon his body when his tomb was opened, two books of his manuscript poetry; also the manuscript of the ‘Gerusalemme,’ with the alterations which Tasso made in it while in prison, and the original manuscript of Guarini’s ‘Pastor Fido.’ The custode told me that in the morning the library was full of readers, which I did not believe. There are some illuminated Missals, said to be the finest in Italy. Though the idea of gaiety seems inconsistent with Ferrara, they have an opera, corso, and the same round of festivals and merriment as other Italian towns, but I never saw so dismal a place.

Venice, June 16th, 1830

We crossed the Po, and afterwards the Adige, in boats. The country is flat, and reminded me of the Netherlands. I was asleep all night, but awoke in time to see some of the villas on the banks of the Brenta. Of Padua I was unconscious. Embarked in a gondola at Fusina, and arrived at this remarkable city under the bad auspices of a dark, gloomy, and very cold day. It is Venice, but living Venice no more. In my progress to the inn I saw nothing but signs of ruin and blasted grandeur, palaces half decayed, and the windows boarded up. The approach to the city is certainly as curious as possible, so totally unlike everything else, and on entering the Great Canal, and finding

of a place which was once the gayest and most brilliant in the world, a little pang shoots across the imagination, recollecting its strange and romantic history and its poetical associations.

Two o’clock.—I am just driven in by a regular rainy day, and have the prospect of shivering through the rest of it in a room with marble floor and hardly any furniture. However, it is the only bad day there has been since the beginning of my expedition. The most striking thing in Venice (at least in such weather as this) is the unbroken silence. The gondolas glide along without noise or motion, and, except other gondolas, one may traverse the city without perceiving a sign of life. I went first to the Church of Santa Maria dei Frati, which is fine, old, and adorned with painting and sculpture. At Santa Maria dei Frati Titian was buried. Canova intended a monument for him, but after his death his design was executed and put up in this church, but for him, and not for Titian, the reverse of ‘sic vos non vobis.’ Here are tombs of several Doges, of Francis Foscari, with a pompous inscription. The body of Carmagnola lies here in a wooden coffin; his head is under the stone on which it was cut off in the Piazza di San Marco. He was beheaded by one of those pieces of iniquity and treachery which the Venetian Government never scrupled to use when it suited them. Then to the Scuola di San Rocco, containing a splendid apartment and staircase, all richly gilded, painted by Tintoret, and with bronze doors. To the Church of Santa Maria della Salute, containing a very rich altar-piece of precious stones, which is locked up, and produced on great occasions; and in the sacristy three fine pictures by Titian. To the Church of St. Mark and the Doge’s Palace—all very interesting, antique, and splendid. But the Austrians have modernised some of the rooms, and consequently spoilt them. They VENICE have also blocked up the Bridge of Sighs, and the reason (they told me) is that all the foreigners who come here are so curious to walk over it, which seems an odd one for shutting it up. The halls of audience and of the different councils are magnificently gilded, and contain some very fine pictures.

The Hall of the Council of Ten (the most powerful and the most abominable tribunal that ever existed) has been partly modernised. In the Chamber of the Inquisitors of State is still the hole in the wall which was called the ‘Lion’s Mouth,’ through which written communications were made; and the box into which they fell, which the Inquisitors alone could open. There were ‘Bocche di Lioni’ in several places at the head of the Giant’s Staircase, and in others. The mouths are gone, but the holes remain. Though the interior of the Ponte di Sospiri is no longer visible, the prisons are horrible places, twenty-four in number, besides three others under water which the French had closed up. They are about fourteen feet long, seven wide, and seven high, with one hole to admit air, a wooden bed, which was covered with straw, and a shelf. In one of the prisons are several inscriptions, scrawled on the wall and ceiling.

There are two places in which criminals, or prisoners, were secretly executed; they were strangled, and without seeing their executioner, for a cord was passed through an opening, which he twisted till the victim was dead. This was the mode pursued with the prisoners of the Inquisitors; those of the Council were often placed in a cell to which there was a thickly grated window, through which the executioner did his office, and if they resisted he stabbed them in the throat. The wall is still covered with the blood of those who have thus suffered. From the time of their erection, 800 years ago, to the destruction of the Republic nobody was ever allowed to see these prisons, till the French came and threw them open, when the people set fire to them and burnt all the woodwork; the stone was too solid to be destroyed. One or two escaped, and they remain as memorials of the horrors that were perpetrated in them.

June 17th, 1830

This morning was fine again, and everything looks gayer than yesterday. From the Rialto to the Piazza di San Marco there is plenty of life and movement, and it is exactly like Cranbourne Alley and the other alleys out of Leicester Square. While Venice was prosperous St. Mark’s must have been very brilliant, but everything is decayed. All round the piazza are coffee houses, which used to be open and crowded all night, and some of them are still open, but never crowded. They used to be illuminated with lamps all round, but most of these are gone. One sees a few Turks smoking and drinking their coffee here, but they are all obliged to dine and sleep in one house, which is on the Grand Canal, and called the Casa dei Turchi. I went this morning to the Chiesa Scalzi, San Georgio Meggiore, Redentore, SS. Giovanni e Paolo, and the Gesuiti. The latter is the most beautiful church I ever saw, the whole of it adorned with white marble inlaid with verd antique in a regular pattern. SS. Giovanni e Paolo has no marble or gilding, but is full of monuments of Doges and generals. To the Manfrini Palace for the pictures. The finest picture in the palace is Titian’s ‘Deposition from the Cross,’ for which the Marchese Manfrini refused 10,000 ducats. A Guido (Lucretia) and some others. Tintoret was no doubt a great genius, but his large pictures I cannot admire, and Bassano’s still less. Titian’s portrait of Ariosto is the most interesting in the collection. To the Arsenal, which is three miles in circumference, and a prodigious establishment. In the time of the Republic there were nearly 6,000 men employed in it, VENICE in that of the French 4,000, now 800. The old armoury is very curious, full of ancient weapons, the armour of Henry IV. of France, and of several Doges, Turkish spoils, and instruments of torture. The Austrians have made the French much regretted here. It is since the last peace that the population of Venice has diminished a fourth, and the palaces of the nobles have been abandoned. There is no commerce; the Government spend no money, and do nothing to enliven or benefit the town (there has not yet been time to see the effect of making it a free port). The French employed the people, and spent money and embellished the place. They covered over a wide canal and turned it into a fine street, and adjoining it they formed a large public garden, which is a delightful addition to the town. Till the French came the bridges were dangerous; there was no balustrade on either side, and people often fell into the water. They built side walls to all of them, which was the most useful gift they could bestow upon the Venetians.

This morning I asked for the newspapers which came by the post yesterday, and found that they had not yet returned from the police, and would not be till to-morrow. Before anybody is allowed to read their newspapers they must undergo examination, and if they contain anything which the censor deems objectionable they detain them altogether. After dinner I went to the public gardens, and into a theatre which is in them; there is no roof to it, and the acting is all by daylight, and in the open air. I only arrived at the end, just in time to see the deliverance of a Christian heroine and a very truculent-looking Turk crammed down a trap-door, but I could not understand the dialogue. Nothing certainly can be more extraordinary or more beautiful than Venice with her adjacent islands, and nothing more luxurious than throwing oneself into a gondola and smoothly gliding about the whole day, without noise, motion, or dust. At night I went to a dirty, ill-lit theatre, to see the ‘Barbiere di Seviglia,’ which was very ill performed. There was a ballet, but I did not stay for it.

June 18th, 1830

To the Church of St. Mark, and examined it. It is not large, but very curious, so loaded with ornament within and without, and so unlike any other church. The pavement, instead of being flat, is made to undulate like the waves of the sea. All the sides are marble, all the top mosaic, all the pavement coloured marble in exquisite patterns. There is not a single tomb in it, but it wants no ornament that the wealth and skill of ages could supply. Climbed up the tower to see Venice and the islands; a man is posted here day and night to strike the hours and quarters on a great bell, to ring the alarm in case of fire in any part of the city. It is a very curious panorama, and the only spot from which this strange place can be completely seen. In the Grimani Palace there are some Titians (not very good) of Grimani Doges, and others of the family; the famous statue of Agrippa, which Cardinal Grimani brought from Home, and a ceiling by Salviati of Neptune and Minerva contending to give a name to Athens. In the Pisani Palace, a fine picture of P. Veronese, ‘Darius’s Family at the Feet of Alexander.’[13] The Barbarigo Palace has never been modernised, has kept all its original form and decorations. It is full of Titians, all very dirty and spoiling. The finest is the ‘Magdalen,’ which is famous. The Royal Academy, called the Scuola della Carità, contains a magnificent collection of the Venetian school.

In I forget which church is the ‘Martyrdom of St. Peter’ by Titian, so like in composition the same subject by Domenichino at Bologna that the one is certainly an imitation of the other (Titian died in 1576; Domenichino was born in 1581). There is the same sort of landscape, same number of figures, and in the same respective attitudes and actions, and even the same dress to each. In the hall of the Academy are preserved Canova’s right hand in an urn, and underneath it his chisel, with these words inscribed: ‘Quod amoris monumentum idem gloriæ instrumentum fuit.’ There is also a collection of drawings and sketches by various masters; some by M. Angelo and some by Raphael.

Vicenza, June 19th, 1830

VINCENZA AND PADUA This morning went again to St. Mark’s to examine the library and the palace, which I could hardly see the other day, it was such, gloomy weather. The library is open to everybody, but with a long list of rules, among which silence is particularly enjoined. The custos librorum is a thorough Venetian; talked with fond regret of the splendour of the Republic, and is very angry with Daru for his history. The Hall of the Great Council, containing the portraits of the Doges (and Marino Faliero’s black curtain), is splendid, and adorned with paintings of Paul Veronese, Bassano, Tintoret, and Palma Giovane. At twelve o’clock I got into the gondola and left Venice without the least regret or desire to return there. The banks of the Brenta would be very gay if the villas were inhabited, but most of them are shut up, like the palaces at Venice. There is one magnificent building, formerly a Pisani palace, which belongs to the Viceroy, the Archduke Rainer.

Padua is a large and rather gloomy town. They say it is beginning to flourish, having been ruined by the French, and that, since their downfall, the population has increased immensely. The University contains 1,400 scholars. It contained 52,500 in the time of the French, and in the great days of Padua 18,000. I went to look at the outside of the building, which is not large, but handsome. The old palace of the Carraras is half ruined, and what remains is tenanted by the commandant of the place. The old Sala di Giustizia, which, is very ancient, is now a lumber room, and they were painting scenes in it. Still it is undamaged, and they call it the finest room in Europe, and perhaps it is. It is 300 feet long, 100 wide, and 100 high. At one end of it is the monument and bust of Livy, the latter of which they pretend to have found here; they also talk of his house and the marbles, &c., that have been dug up in it, which they may believe who can. The Cathedral has nothing to boast of, except that Petrarch was one of its canons, and in it is his bust, put up by a brother canon. I had not time to go to the churches.

The whole road from Fusina to this place is as flat as the paper on which I am writing. I really don’t believe there is a molehill, but it is extremely gay from the variety of habitations and the prodigious cultivation of all sorts. Vicenza is one of the most agreeable towns I ever saw, and I would rather live in it than in any place I have seen since Rome. It is spacious and clean, full of Palladio’s architecture; besides the Palazzo della Ragione, a very fine building, there are twenty-two palaces built by him in various parts of the town. They show the house in which he lived. From the Church of Santa Maria del Monte, a mile from the town, there is a magnificent view, and the town itself, under the mountains of the Tyrol, and the end of a vast cultivated plain, looks very inviting and gay. There is a Campo di Marte, a public walk and drive, and from it a covered walk (colonnade) half a mile long up to the church on the hill. One of the most remarkable things here is the Olympic Theatre, which was begun by Palladio and finished by his son. It is a small Grecian theatre, exactly as he supposes those ancient theatres to have been, with the same proscenium, scenes, decorations, and seats for the audience. There appeared to me to be some material variations from the theatre at Pompeii. In the latter the seats go down to the level of the orchestra, which they do not here, and at Pompeii there is no depth behind the proscenium, whereas here there is very considerable. It is, however, a beautiful model. The air and the water are good, and there is shooting, so that I really think it would be possible to live here. They talk with horror of the French, and of the two seem to prefer the Austrians, but peace is better than war, cæteris paribus.

Brescia, June 21st, 1830

This is a particularly nice town, airy, spacious, and clean, and in my life I never saw so many good-looking women. There is a drive and walk on the ramparts, where I found all the beauty and fashion of Brescia, a string of carriages not quite so numerous as in Hyde Park, but a very decent display. The women are excessively dressed, and almost all wear black lace veils, thrown over the back of the head, which are very becoming. The BRESCIA AND MILAN walks on the ramparts are shaded by double rows of trees, and command a very pretty view of the mountains and country round. This inn is execrable. I stopped at Verona to see the Amphitheatre, which is only perfect in the inside, and has been kept so by repeated repairs. It is hardly worth seeing after the Flavian and the Pompeiian. There is a wooden theatre in it, where they act, and the spectators occupy the ancient seats. The tombs of the Scaligeri are admirable, the most beautiful and graceful Gothic; their castle (now the Castle Vecchio) a gloomy old building in a moat, but with a very curious bridge over the Po. The Church of St. Zeno is remarkable from its Gothic antiquity and the profusion of ornament about it of a strange sort. Here is the tomb of Pepin, erected by Charlemagne, but empty; for the French, in one of their invasions, carried the body to France. In the Cathedral is a fine picture of the ‘Assumption of the Virgin’ by Titian. I saw many Veronese beauties in their balconies, but none quite like Juliet. Her tomb (or, as they would say at Rome, ‘sepolcro detto di Giulietta’) I did not see, for it was too far off. I was in a hurry to be off, and there was nobody to detain me with a tender ‘Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near’ night. The road, which is excellent, runs in sight of the Alps all the way, and the Lago di Garda is excessively pretty.

Milan, June 23rd, 1830

Milan is a very fine town, without much to see in it. The Duomo, Amphitheatre, Arch of the Simplon, Brera (pictures). There are a few fine pictures in the Brera; among others Guido’s famous ‘St. Peter and St. Paul,’ Guercino’s ‘Hagar and Abraham;’ a row of old columns which were broken and lying about till the French set them upon their legs; Leonardo da Vinci’s fresco, which is entirely spoilt. The view from the top of the Duomo is superb, over the boundless plain of Lombardy with the range of the Alps, and the Apennines in the distance. I like the Duomo, but I know my taste is execrable in architecture. I don’t, however, like the mixture of Italian with the Gothic—balustrades over the door, for instance—but I admire its tracery and laborious magnificence. Buonaparte went on with it (for it was never finished), and this Government are completing it by degrees; there will be 7,000 statues on different parts of the outside, and there are already 4,500. St. Charles Borromeo’s tomb is very splendid, and for five francs they offered to uncover the glass case in which his much esteemed carcase reposes, and show me the venerable mummy, but I could not afford it. The entrance to Milan from Venice, and the Corso, are as handsome as can be. The Opera is very bad, but the Scala is not open, and none of the good singers are here.

Varese, June 26th, 1830

Left Milan at six o’clock on the 24th, and got to Como after dark. Embarked in the steam boat at eight yesterday morning, went as far as Cadenebbia, where I got out, saw the Villa Sommariva, then crossed over and went round the point of Bellagio to see the opening of the Lake of Lecco, turned back to the Villa Melzi, saw the house and gardens, and then went back to dine at Cadenebbia, and waited for the steam boat, which returned at four, and got back to Como at half-past six. Nothing can surpass the beauty of all this scenery, or the luxury of the villas, particularly Melzi, which is the best house, and contains abundance of shade, flowers, statues, and shrubberies. The owners live very little there, and principally in winter, when, they say, it is seldom cold in this sheltered spot. The late Count Melzi was Governor of Milan under Napoleon, and used to feast the Viceroy here. He once gave him a fête, and had all the mountain tops illuminated, of which the effect must have been superb.

Evening. Top of the Simplon.—Set off at five from Varese, travelled very slowly through a very pretty road to Navero, where I crossed the Lago Maggiore in a boat, and landed at the Isola Bella, which is very fine in its way, though rather flattered in its pictures. The house is large and handsome, and there is a curious suite of apartments fitted up with pebbles, spars, and marble, a suite of habitable grottoes. The garden and terraces are good specimens of formal grandeur, and as the Count Borromeo’s son is a botanist, they are full of flowers and shrubs of all sorts and climates. RETURN TO ENGLAND

The expense of keeping this place up is immense, but the owner is very rich. He lives there during August and September, and has fifteen other country houses. All the island belongs to him, and is occupied by the palace and gardens, except some fishermen’s huts, which are held by a sort of feudal tenure. They live there as his vassals, fishing for him, rowing him about the lake, and their children and wives alone are employed in the gardens. It was built about 150 years ago by a younger son (a nephew of San Carlo), who was richer than his elder brother. He was his own architect, and planned both house and garden, but never completed his designs. The cost was enormous, but if he had lived and finished it all, he would have spent four millions more. There is a laurel in the garden, the largest in Europe, two trees growing from one stem, one nine and the other ten feet round and eighty high; under this tree Buonaparte dined, as he came into Italy, before the battle of Marengo, and with a knife he cut the word ‘Battaglia’ on the bark, which has since been stripped off, or has grown out—so the gardeners said at least. Breakfasted at Baveno, which is the best inn I have seen in Italy. The road from Baveno is exceedingly beautiful, but on the whole I am rather disappointed with the Simplon, though it is very wild and grand; but I am no longer struck with the same admiration at the sight of mountains that I was when I entered Savoy and saw them for the first time. I walked the last thirteen miles of the ascent to this place, and found one of the best dinners I ever tasted, or one which my hunger made appear such.

Geneva, June 29th, 1830

Got here last night, and found twenty letters at least. I only think of getting home as fast as I can. Left the Simplon in torrents of rain, which lasted the whole day. The descent is uncommonly grand, wild, savage, and picturesque, the Swiss side the finest. All along the valley of the Rhone fine scenery; and yesterday, in the most delightful weather I ever saw, the drive from Martigny, along the lake and under the mountains, is as beautiful as possible. The approach to Geneva is gay, but Mont Blanc looks only very white, and not very tall, which is owing to the level from which he is seen. They tell me it has never ceased raining here, while on the other side of the Alps hardly a drop has fallen. Only three rainy days while I was in Italy—one at Venice, one at Rome, and a couple of halves elsewhere.

Evening.—Passed the whole day driving about Geneva, in Bautt’s shop, and at the Panorama of Switzerland. Dined with Newton, drove round the environs by Sécheron; a great appearance of wealth and comfort, much cultivation, no beggars, and none of the houses tumbling down and deserted. Altogether I like the appearance of the place, though in a great hurry to get away from it. We had a storm of thunder and lightning in the evening, which was neither violent nor long, but I had the pleasure of hearing

Mont Blanc was hid in clouds all day, but the mountains owe me some grudge. Mont Blanc won’t show his snows, nor would Vesuvius his fires. It was dark when I crossed the Cenis, and raining when I descended the Simplon.

Paris, July 3rd, 1830

Got here last night, after a fierce journey of sixty-three hours from Geneva, only stopping two hours for breakfast; but by never touching anything but bread and coffee I was neither heated nor tired. The Jura Mountains, which they say are so tedious, were the pleasantest part of the way, for the road is beautiful all through them, not like the Alps, but like a hilly, wooded park. It rained torrents when I set out, but soon cleared up, and when I got to the top of the first mountain, I saw a mass of clouds rise like a curtain and unveil the whole landscape DEATH OF GEORGE IV. of Geneva, lake, mountains, and country—very fine sight. We heard of the King’s death in the middle of the night.

Calais, July 6th, 1830

Voilà qui est fini. Got here last night, and found the Government packet only goes out five days a week, and not to-day. I am very sorry my journey is all over, but glad to find myself in England again—that is, when I get there. I saw Lord Stuart at Paris, just breaking up his establishment and sending his wife off to the Pyrenees. Heard all the news of London and Paris, such as it was. Not a soul left in Paris, which was like a dead city. I only heard that, notwithstanding the way the elections are going against the Government, Polignac is in high spirits. The King of France was very civil about the death of our King,[14] and, without waiting, as is usual, for the announcement of the event by the English Ambassador, he ordered the Court into mourning upon the telegraphic account reaching Paris.

Here is the end of my brief but most agreeable expedition, probably the only one I shall ever make. However this may be, I have gained thus much at least—