My letter has an odd date.  You would not expect I should be writing in such a dirty place as Reggio:  but the fair is charming; and here come all the nobility of Lombardy, and all the broken dialects of Genoa, Milan, Venice, Bologna, etc.  You never heard such a ridiculous confusion of tongues.  All the morning one goes to the fair undressed, as to the walks of Tunbridge:  ’tis Just in that manner, with lotteries, raffles, etc.  After dinner all the company return in their coaches, and make a kind of corso, with the ducal family, who go to shops, where you talk to ’em, from thence to the opera, in mask if you will, and afterwards to the ridotto.  This five nights in the week, Fridays there are masquerades, and Tuesdays balls at the Rivalta, a villa of the Duke’s.  In short, one diverts oneself.  I pass most part of the opera in the Duchess’s box, who is extremely civil to me and extremely agreeable.  A daughter of the Regent’s, (230) that could please him, must be so.  She is not young, though still handsome, but fat; but has given up her gallantries cheerfully, and in time, and lives easily with a dull husband, two dull sisters of his, and a dull court.  These two princesses are wofully ugly, old maids and rich.  They might have been married often; but the old Duke was whimsical and proud, and never would consent to any match for them, but left them much money, and pensions of three thousand pounds a year apiece.  There was a design to have given the eldest to this King of Spain, and the Duke was to have had the Parmesan princess; so that now he would have had Parma and Placentia, Joined to Modena, Reggio, Mirandola, and Massa.  But there being a Prince of Asturias, the old Duke Rinaldo broke off the match, and said his daughter’s children should not be younger brothers:  and so they mope old virgins.

I am goin@ from hence to Venice, in a fright lest there be a war with France, and then I must drag myself through Germany.  We have had an imperfect account of a sea-fight in America . but we are so out of the way, that one can’t be sure of it.  Which way soever I return, I shall be soon in England, and there you ’will find me again.

As much as ever yours.

(229) of a tragedy called Pausanias, The first act, and probably all that was ever written by Mr. West. [In the preceding month West had forwarded to Gray the sketch of this tragedy, which he appears to have criticised with much freedom; but Mr. Mason did not find among Gray’s papers either the sketch itself, or the free critique upon it.]

(230) Philip Duke of Orleans.

172 Letter 32
To Sir Horace Mann. (231)
Calais, and Friday, and here I have been these two days, 1741.