Life and Correspondence of David Hume, Volume 2

David Hume · en

You are so kind as to ask me about my coming down. I can yet
     answer nothing. I have the strangest reluctance to change
     places. I lived several years happy with my brother at
     Ninewells; and had not his marriage changed a little the state
     of the family, I believe I should have lived and died there. I
     used every expedient to evade this journey to London; yet it
     is now uncertain whether I shall ever leave it. I have had
     some invitations, and some intentions, of taking a trip to
     Paris; but I believe it will be safer for me not to go
     thither, for I might probably settle there for life. No one
     was ever endowed with so great a portion of the _vis
     inertiae_. But as I live here very privately, and avoid as
     much as possible (and it is easily possible) all connexion
     with the great, I believe I should be better in Edinburgh. . . . .


     _London, 8th February, 1759._

     . . . . As to the "Age of Leo the Tenth," it was Warton
     himself who intended to write it; but he has not wrote it, and
     probably never will. If I understand your hint, I should
     conjecture, that you had some thoughts of taking up the
     subject. But how can you acquire knowledge of the great works
     of sculpture, architecture, and painting, by which that age
     was chiefly distinguished? Are you versed in all the anecdotes
     of the Italian literature? These questions I heard proposed in
     a company of literati, when I inquired concerning this design
     of Warton. They applied their remarks to that gentleman, who
     yet, they say, has travelled. I wish they do not, all of them,
     fall more fully on you. However, you must not be idle. May I
     venture to suggest to you the Ancient History, particularly
     that of Greece? I think Rollin's success might encourage you;
     nor need you be in the least intimidated by his merit. That
     author has no other merit but a certain facility and sweetness
     of narration; but has loaded his work with silly
     puerilities. . . . .

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