to grow
insupportable; that which was before the vainest nation in the world is
now worse than ever." Sick of the arrogant exultation of the Parisians,
and probably foreseeing that the peace between France and England could
not be of long duration, he set off for Italy.

In December, 1700,[11] he embarked at Marseilles. As he glided along
the Ligurian coast, he was delighted by the sight of myrtles and olive
trees, which retained their verdure under the winter solstice. Soon,
however, he encountered one of the black storms of the Mediterranean.
The captain of the ship gave up all for lost, and confessed himself to a
Capuchin who happened to be on board. The English heretic, in the
meantime, fortified himself against the terrors of death with devotions
of a very different kind. How strong an impression this perilous voyage
made on him, appears from the ode, "How are thy servants blest, O Lord!"
which was long after published in The Spectator. After some days of
discomfort and danger, Addison was glad to land at Savona, and to make
his way, over mountains where no road had yet been hewn out by art, to
the city of Genoa.

At Genoa, still ruled by her own Doge, and by the nobles whose names
were inscribed on her Book of Gold, Addison made a short stay. He
admired the narrow streets overhung by long lines of towering palaces,
the walls rich with frescoes, the gorgeous temple of the Annunciation,
and the tapestries whereon were recorded the long glories of the House
of Doria. Thence he hastened to Milan, where he contemplated the Gothic
magnificence of the cathedral with more wonder than pleasure. He passed
Lake Benacus while a gale was blowing, and saw the waves raging as they
raged when Virgil looked upon them. At Venice, then the gayest spot in
Europe, the traveller spent the Carnival, the gayest season of the year,
in the midst of masques, dances, and serenades. Here he was at once
diverted and provoked by the absurd dramatic pieces which then disgraced
the Italian stage. To one of those pieces, however, he was indebted for
a valuable hint. He was present when a ridiculous play on the death of
Cato was performed. Cato, it seems, was in love with a daughter of
Scipio. The lady had given her heart to Caesar. The rejected lover
determined to destroy himself. He appeared seated in his library, a
dagger in his hand, a Plutarch and a Tasso before him; and, in this
position, he pronounced a soliloquy before he struck the blow.