October that he tore himself away from
the masterpieces of ancient and modern art which are collected in the
city so long the mistress of the world. He then journeyed northward,
passed through Sienna, and for a moment forgot his prejudices in favor
of classic architecture as he looked on the magnificent cathedral. At
Florence he spent some days with the Duke of Shrewsbury, who, cloyed
with the pleasures of ambition, and impatient of its pains, fearing both
parties, and loving neither, had determined to hide in an Italian
retreat talents and accomplishments which, if they had been united with
fixed principles and civil courage, might have made him the foremost man
of his age. These days, we are told, passed pleasantly; and we can
easily believe it. For Addison was a delightful companion when he was
at his ease; and the Duke, though he seldom forgot that he was a Talbot,
had the invaluable art of putting at ease all who came near him.

Addison gave some time to Florence, and especially to the sculptures in
the Museum, which he preferred even to those of the Vatican. He then
pursued his journey through a country in which the ravages of the last
war were still discernible, and in which all men were looking forward
with dread to a still fiercer conflict. Eugene had already descended
from the Rhaetian Alps, to dispute with Catinat the rich plain of
Lombardy. The faithless ruler of Savoy was still reckoned among the
allies of Louis. England had not yet actually declared war against
France; but Manchester had left Paris; and the negotiations which
produced the Grand Alliance against the House of Bourbon were in
progress. Under such circumstances it was desirable for an English
traveller to reach neutral ground without delay. Addison resolved to
cross Mont Cenis. It was December; and the road was very different from
that which now reminds the stranger of the power and genius of Napoleon.
The winter, however, was mild; and the passage was, for those times,
easy. To this journey Addison alluded when, in the ode which we have
already quoted, he said that for him the Divine goodness had warmed the
hoary Alpine hills.

It was in the midst of the eternal snow that he composed his Epistle to
his friend Montague, now Lord Halifax. That Epistle, once widely
renowned, is now known only to curious readers, and will hardly be
considered by those to whom it is known as in any perceptible degree
heightening Addison's fame. It is, however, de