[1] Wednesday June 19th Padua

The Morn: was delightful and St Anthonys bells in full chime – a Shower which had fallen in the Night rendered the air so fresh and fragrant that Mad: de R and myself determined to seize the opportunity and go to Miribello a Country House which Alzarotti had inhabited situated amongst the Eugauean Hills eight or nine Miles from Padua. — Our road lay between poplar alleys and fields of yellow corn – oerhung by garlands of vine most beautifully green – I soon found myself in the midst of my favorite Hills upon slopes – covered with clover and shaded by Cherry trees – Bending down their boughs – I gathered the fruit and grew cooler and cooler and happier and happier every instant We dined very comfortably in a strange Hall where I pittched my piano forte and sung the voluptuous airs of Bertonis Armida. That Enchantress might have raised her Palace in this situation and had I been Rinaldo I certainly should not very soon have abandoned it — After dinner we drank Coffee under some branching Lemons which spring from a Terrace commanding a boundless Scene of Towers and Villas – tall Cypress and shrubby [2] hillocs rising like Islands out of a Sea of Corn and vine. Evening drawing on and the breeze blowing cool from the distant Adriatic I reclin’d on a slope and turned my eyes anxiously towards Venice then on some little field where they were making Hay hemmed in by Chesnuts in blossom and then to a Mountain crowned by a circular grove of Fir and Cypress. In the center of those shades some Monks have a comfortable nest a perennial Spring a garden of delicious vegetables –:–:–:–:–:– and a thousand luxuries besides, I dare say, which the poor Mortals below never dream of. – If it had not been late I should certainly have climbed up to the grove and asked admittance into its recesses; but having no mind to pass the Night in this Eyrie I contented myself with beholding it a distance. –

June 20th
As soon as I had breakfasted I hastened into the cool sanctuary of St Anthony and knelt according to custom before his Shrine. —

[3] To Mr. Cozens
Fonthill March 13th 1780

I am become wild and timid as a stag, long used to roam in the recesses of a forest. I start when a Frengui presents himself; and, plunging into my solitudes, remain silent and fearful, till he is gone out of my sight. The news of the world affects me not half so much as the chirping of a sparrow, or the rustling of withered leaves. What care I, who pass my mornings in groves and my evenings in a quiet cell, whether this ship be taken, or t’other escape, provided the rout of Frenguis squabble at a distance! Ambition, at present lies dormant in my breast, and far from envying the triumphs of others, I exult in my happy, tho inglorious leisure. I wish not to eclipse those who retail the faded flowers of parliamentary eloquence. My senate house is a wood of pines, from whence on a misty evening, I watch the western sky streaked with portentous red, whilst awful whispers amongst the boughs above me, foretell a series of strange events and melancholly times. The blast plays in [4] my hair as I sit on this lonely eminence and chills my hand whilst it traces the name I adore. Perhaps I may never see the one who bears it, again! – that cruel possibility dims my eyes with tears, and in these sad moments I droop, like those languid flowers, oppressed with heavy rain, which Virgil describes; unable to implore consolation – You can comprehend this mute and almost unaccountable sorrow; this deep dejection (if I may be allowed the term); — you can abandon yourself, like me, to its influence. —

A.C.
Fonthill March 25 1780

The sky is blue, the verdure revives, the fish glide thro the transparent waters, larches tremble in the western breezes, the flocks are spread over the hills, I hear their bleatings at a distance and exult like the rest of Nature in the beams of the morning sun. —
But vain and transitory is my happiness! it shines one instant and vanishes the next. Just now the whole prospect [5] hightens, and birds flit gayly over glittering waves, dipping their wings in the stream: others more worthyly employed sail thro’ the æther with materials to form a convenient habitation. But, look black clouds roll from the north; blasts rage in the woods of Pan; showers descend, and vollies of hail beat the walls of the Paeceful Palace: The boughs crackle and whole branches are torn from the Oaks on the hill, whilst the rooks, my beloved rooks, fill the grove with clamours, and lament the ruin of their aerial town. I run wild thro the storm; ascend the steeps and hurrying to the central lawn where I have vowed to erect a Dome sacred to the mysterious influence of the setting sun; invoke the protection of those woodland Deities we adore; Pan and the good old Sylvanus. “O moderate these tempests and spare my trees: See how the turf is strewed with their once flourishing branches, that so soon would have blossomed to decorate your fanes! Hark how your winged worshippers complain; and, like me, accuse your inclemency but let me cease; the pines are no longer agitated, the rustlings subside, and a gleam of sunshine tells me ye are again [6] propitious.” — Once more delighted, forgetting all my cares, I rove heedlessly thro thickets, where the straw–coloured blossoms of the hazel dangle in the sun; and, pursuing a path between shades of laurel, ascend an eminence and gaze at the azure hills afar off towards Cornwall the western main, beyond which lye stretched out those fortunate Isles, and pleasant countries
where Hesperus and his Daughters three
Sing around the golden tree. –
Oh, that we could join the chorus and follow it over Atlas, to those deep solitudes and woody dells, which afford a secure retreat to the happiest of mortals, the Children of the Evening Sun. You are surely one of the number, and so I hope is the little Courtenay. —

To Sir Wm Hamilton
Geneva October 12th 1782

Here am I snug in the apartment of my Friend Huber and as happy as I can be without you; for to say the truth I miss you more and more every hour — An Extract of Bark mixed up with some rare stinkabuss as Strong as old Nicholas’s Scratch and [7] bitter as your humble servant when in a passion, has driven the Ague away and it has never returned since I left Turin, six days ago; so I found myself in spirits to enjoy the wild Prospects of Mt. Cenis and the delightful Verdure of the Savoyard Valleys. What would you sun burnt Dæmons of the Campi Phlogrei give for our dewy Vegetables and tufted Chesnuts at this moment loaden with Clusters of Fruit! Pray gratify my Love of Coral and Nautilus and when any secure opportunity offers send me a Box of Intaglio Pills. — Talking of Boxes will you be graciously pleased to order me one of the finest Tartaruca, bevased and bescrolled in the style you approve most of and a good comfortable size – dont imagine ’tis for snuff no, no, for Devilkins. — Remember the Pacquet of Letters; as it is of the utmost consequence they should be in my possession.
What think you of the floating Batteries How looks your Gooseman? Our Gooseman must be very triumphant. I hope the Gooseman of Spain won’t now turn his thoughts towards my territories — Peace I believe is gone upon a [8] visit to Truth in her Well. Heaven only knows whose Luck it will be to fish them up again. —
I long for summer impatiently, not because it is green bough time and that I may run wild about my shrubberies but because it will bring you to England. – In the course of my peregrinations I picked up a rare old Japan Porringer which came out of the Medici Lumber Room; but hunted about for some bronze Deities in vain. Alas! I must return to England without my Penates: tis your fault; but I know what you expect in Paradise, where you will certainly go, being a pure soul, to speak in the side hole diverish style. — As you sweep along the milky way to the melodious jingling of St Peters Keys lo and behold a grand perspective of the British Museum, all Glory and Transparence like the last scene of a Pantamime Doors wide open – Pulvinaria set in the Entry Vases behind and a whole world of bonetty Gentlewomen and their spouses sauntering about and observing what a wonderful larned Gemman was Sir Wm. H— who knew what was underground [9] just as well as you Mr Alderman Portsocken knows Turtle tho’ it lie smug under a silver Kiver. I humble Being who mean to lead a harmless innocent Life and hope to be transported to any Place of Bliss / save Ab–m’s Bosom / I shall sneak off to a little Pavillion full of Antiques on the verge of a Hill. There under shelter of a copse, let a stream be just perceived and on its Banks huge piles of Books and Maccaroni. That divine Food has been absolutely forbidden to enter my lean Chops since I landed at Leghorn. Alack a day! I have fared like a Hermit of Mount Libanus or like poor Father Anthony Pigmei, very often I dare engage. My affectionate Compliments to him. As for Angelica She is my Idol; so say every thing that can be said in my name and tell her how I long to see Telemachus’s Papa and all the noble Family. — —
I should scribble to you for ever if old Huber was not telling stories, the best imaginable, and young Huber making Sketches of Vatheck’s Adventures, the boldest you ever beheld. — Adieu! then – thank your friends the Genii of the Arts, for your Deliverance and to conclude with Grandeur those Genii excepted who shadow you with their Wings assure yourself there is no Being so much attached to you as your affectionate and obliged
WB

[10] To Mr. Hamilton
Fonthill January 4th 1783

I thank you my dear Hamilton for your amusing Letter and heartily wish you all the joys that Gunning can give — May you splash and dash from morn: to eve: and be over head and ears in Mud and enjoyment. – We are vere clean and quiet at Fonthill ride out every Morn: and translate Arabic every Night — The Sun has smiled upon us almost without interruption and I have no cause to complain of our English Climate. – This morning the water looked delightfully blue and the wild fowl in high spirits, tis well for them that my wishes of having you with me were not realized. — You certainly would have dipped many beautiful feathers in blood. —
Mr. Henley and I have toiled like Dromedaries in the Library, which I can assure you is not a little improved. — Don Quixotte blazes forth in all the pomp of Morocco and golden daggers: —
Cozens creeps about like a domestic Animal – twould be no bad scheme to cut a little cat’s door for him in the great

[CONTINUED]