Emma! if that dear Queen of Naples does not write, herself, to Prince D’Oria, for me, I won’t look at your beautiful face these six months—“coute qui coute.”
To-morrow, for Pyrmont, near Hanover. Emma—adieu!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * There is no doubt but Don Luizi is implicated: that very circumstance, argues the extent of the mischief; for so cautious a man, and one whose sentiments are so publicly known, would not engage without good support.
I have conversed with one of his intimates—one “who is no stranger to his dearest secret.” The evidence will be difficult; perhaps, impracticable: unless his most confidential friends can be gained; and that, I deem, impossible.
But the character of the Garrison at Capua is of the most alarming complexion; and, yet, is what I can best depend on. I think, Wade could tell much, if he would speak out.
Lovel and I were on Vesuvius. He goes, like a true parson, only to eat the better. I foresee, he will once more fall into Nudi’s hands. Procyta will be another Duo; for I hate large parties on such, and especially females—unless they be Phoenixes, like yourself.
It is a great discouragement to a Caserta party, to view the whole town buried in a mist; and the Belvidere alone, like a buoy, to point out the shoal.
Every wish of my heart beats for the dear Queen.
Send me word, Dearest Emma! how the invaluable, adorable Queen, finds herself.
The weather changed so unmercifully, yesterday, that Lovel and I both grew ill; and this makes me the more anxious to hear of our too sensible and inestimable Queen. My warmest wishes—physical, political, and moral—ever attend her.
Here is my cousin’s answer, Dearest Emma—“Io lo capisco.” Her brother assured me, there is not the semblance of an insurrection; and, that our dear, dear Queen, is misled by a set of scoundrels.
Send me word where you will be. Adieu!
Yesterday, we dined on Mount Vesuvius; to-day, we were to have dined on its victim, Pompeii: but, “by the grace of God, which passeth all understanding,” since Bartolomeo himself, that weather-soothsayer, did not foresee this British weather, we are prevented.
In the mean time, all this week and the next, is replete with projects to Ischia, Procita, &c. &c. so God only knows when I can worship, again, my Diana of Ephesus.
Write me word, explicitly, how you are, what you are, and where you are; and be sure that, wheresoever I am, still I am your’s, my dearest Emma.