Chapter XI: Letter 403: To Mr. Moore (2)

"I like, however, their women, (I was once so _desperately_ in love with a German woman, Constance,) and all that I have read, translated, of their writings, and all that I have seen on the Rhine of their country and people--all, except the Austrians, whom I abhor, loathe, and--I cannot find words for my hate of them, and should be sorry to find deeds correspondent to my hate; for I abhor cruelty more than I abhor the Austrians--except on an impulse, and then I am savage--but not deliberately so.

"Grillparzer is grand--antique--_not so simple_ as the ancients, but very simple for a modern--too Madame de Staël_ish_, now and then--but altogether a great and goodly writer.

"January 13. 1821, Saturday.

"Sketched the outline and Drams. Pers. of an intended tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for some time meditated. Took the names from Diodorus Siculus, (I know the history of Sardanapalus, and have known it since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in the ninth vol. octavo, of Mitford's Greece, where he rather vindicates the memory of this last of the Assyrians.

"Dined--news come--the _Powers_ mean to war with the peoples. The intelligence seems positive--let it be so--they will be beaten in the end. The king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water, and tears like mist; but the peoples will conquer in the end. I shall not live to see it, but I foresee it.

"I carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer's Sappho, which she promises to read. She quarrelled with me, because I said that love was _not the loftiest_ theme for true tragedy; and, having the advantage of her native language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put more love into 'Sardanapalus' than I intended. I speak, of course, _if_ the times will allow me leisure. That _if_ will hardly be a peace-maker.

"January 14. 1821.

"Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote the opening lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanapalus. Rode out some miles into the forest. Misty and rainy. Returned--dined--wrote some more of my tragedy.

"Read Diodorus Siculus--turned over Seneca, and some other books. Wrote some more of the tragedy. Took a glass of grog. After having ridden hard in rainy weather, and scribbled, and scribbled again, the spirits (at least mine) need a little exhilaration, and I don't like laudanum now as I used to do. So I have mixed a glass of strong waters and single waters, which I shall now proceed to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude this day's diary.

"The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is, however, strange. It _settles_, but it makes me gloomy--gloomy at the very moment of their effect, and not gay hardly ever. But it composes for a time, though sullenly.

"January 15. 1821.

"Weather fine. Received visit. Rode out into the forest--fired pistols. Returned home--dined--dipped into a volume of Mitford's Greece--wrote part of a scene of 'Sardanapalus.' Went out--heard some music--heard some politics. More ministers from the other Italian powers gone to Congress. War seems certain--in that case, it will be a savage one. Talked over various important matters with one of the initiated. At ten and half returned home.

"I have just thought of something odd. In the year 1814, Moore ('the poet,' _par excellence_, and he deserves it) and I were going together, in the same carriage, to dine with Earl Grey, the Capo Politico of the remaining Whigs. Murray, the magnificent (the illustrious publisher of that name), had just sent me a Java gazette--I know not why, or wherefore. Pulling it out, by way of curiosity, we found it to contain a dispute (the said Java gazette) on Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of disputing on the subject. But, there is _fame_ for you at six and twenty! Alexander had conquered India at the same age; but I doubt if he was disputed about, or his conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus, at Java.

"It was a great fame to be named with Moore; greater to be compared with him; greatest--_pleasure_, at least--to be _with_ him; and, surely, an odd coincidence, that we should be dining together while they were quarrelling about us beyond the equinoctial line.

"Well, the same evening, I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of Lord Grey's daughters (a fine, tall, spirit-looking girl, with much of the _patrician, thorough-bred look_ of her father, which I dote upon) play on the harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she _looked music_. Well, I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore and me put together.

"The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the way to pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, the better for the pleasure and for us too. It was, however, agreeable to have heard our fame before dinner, and a girl's harp after.

"January 16. 1821.

"Read--rode--fired pistols--returned--dined--wrote--visited--heard music--talked nonsense--and went home.

"Wrote part of a Tragedy--advanced in Act 1st with 'all deliberate speed.' Bought a blanket. The weather is still muggy as a London May--mist, mizzle, the air replete with Scotticisms, which, though fine in the descriptions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome in real, prosaic perspective. Politics still mysterious.

"January 17. 1821.

"Rode i' the forest--fired pistols--dined. Arrived a packet of books from England and Lombardy--English, Italian, French, and Latin. Read till eight--went out.

"January 18. 1821.

"To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. Read letters--only two gazettes instead of twelve now due. Made Lega write to that negligent Galignani, and added a postscript. Dined.

"At eight proposed to go out. Lega came in with a letter about a bill _unpaid_ at Venice, which I thought paid months ago. I flew into a paroxysm of rage, which almost made me faint. I have not been well ever since. I deserve it for being such a fool--but it _was_ provoking--a set of scoundrels! It is, however, but five and twenty pounds.

"January 19. 1821.

"Rode. Winter's wind somewhat more unkind than ingratitude itself, though Shakspeare says otherwise. At least, I am so much more accustomed to meet with ingratitude than the north wind, that I thought the latter the sharper of the two. I had met with both in the course of the twenty-four hours, so could judge.

"Thought of a plan of education for my daughter Allegra, who ought to begin soon with her studies. Wrote a letter--afterwards a postscript. Rather in low spirits--certainly hippish--liver touched--will take a dose of salts.

"I have been reading the Life, by himself and daughter, of Mr. R.L. Edgeworth, the father of _the_ Miss Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name. In 1813, I recollect to have met them in the fashionable world of London (of which I then formed an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of something) in the assemblies of the hour, and at a breakfast of Sir Humphry and Lady Davy's, to which I was invited for the nonce. I had been the lion of 1812; Miss Edgeworth and Madame de Staël, with 'the Cossack,' towards the end of 1813, were the exhibitions of the succeeding year.

"I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a clarety, elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, and endless. He was seventy, but did not look fifty--no, nor forty-eight even. I had seen poor Fitzpatrick not very long before--a man of pleasure, wit, eloquence, all things. He tottered--but still talked like a gentleman, though feebly. Edgeworth bounced about, and talked loud and long; but he seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old.

"He began by telling 'that he had given Dr. Parr a dressing, who had taken him for an Irish bog-trotter,' &c. &c. Now I, who know Dr. Parr, and who know (_not_ by experience--for I never should have presumed so far as to contend with him--but by hearing him _with_ others, and _of_ others) that it is not so easy a matter to 'dress him,' thought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what was not true. He could not have stood before Parr an instant. For the rest, he seemed intelligent, vehement, vivacious, and full of life. He bids fair for a hundred years.

"He was not much admired in London, and I remember a 'ryghte merrie' and conceited jest which was rife among the gallants of the day,--viz. a paper had been presented for the _recall of Mrs. Siddons to the stage_, (she having lately taken leave, to the loss of ages,--for nothing ever was, or can be, like her,) to which all men had been called to subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of profane and poetical memory, did propose that a similar paper should be _sub_scribed and _circum_scribed 'for the recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.'[20]

"The fact was--every body cared more about _her_. She was a nice little unassuming 'Jeanie Deans'-looking body,' as we Scotch say--and, if not handsome, certainly not ill-looking. Her conversation was as quiet as herself. One would never have guessed she could write her name; whereas her father talked, not as if he could write nothing else, but as if nothing else was worth writing.

"As for Mrs. Edgeworth, I forget--except that I think she was the youngest of the party. Altogether, they were an excellent cage of the kind; and succeeded for two months, till the landing of Madame de Staël.

"To turn from them to their works, I admire them; but they excite no feeling, and they leave no love--except for some Irish steward or postilion. However, the impression of intellect and prudence is profound--and may be useful.

[Footnote 20: In this, I rather think he was misinformed; whatever merit there may be in the jest, I have not, as far as I can recollect, the slightest claim to it.]

"January 20. 1821.

"Rode--fired pistols. Read from Grimm's Correspondence. Dined--went out--heard music--returned--wrote a letter to the Lord Chamberlain to request him to prevent the theatres from representing the Doge, which the Italian papers say that they are going to act. This is pretty work--what! without asking my consent, and even in opposition to it!

January 21. 1821.

"Fine, clear frosty day--that is to say, an Italian frost, for their winters hardly get beyond snow; for which reason nobody knows how to skate (or skait)--a Dutch and English accomplishment. Rode out, as usual, and fired pistols. Good shooting--broke four common, and rather small, bottles, in four shots, at fourteen paces, with a common pair of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost as good wafering or shooting--considering the difference of powder and pistols--as when, in 1809, 1810, 1811, 1812, 1813, 1814, it was my luck to split walking-sticks, wafers, half-crowns, shillings, and even the eye of a walking-stick, at twelve paces, with a single bullet--and all by _eye_ and calculation; for my hand is not steady, and apt to change with the very weather. To the prowess which I here note, Joe Manton and others can bear testimony! for the former taught, and the latter has seen me do, these feats.

"Dined--visited--came home--read. Remarked on an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which says that 'Regnard et la plûpart des poëtes comiques étaient gens bilieux et mélancoliques; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est très gai, n'a jamais fait que des tragedies--et que la comedie gaie est le seul genre où il n'ait point réussi. C'est que celui qui rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes fort différens.'--Vol. VI.

"At this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, the next to Molière, who has written some of the best comedies in any language, and who is supposed to have committed suicide,) and am not in spirits to continue my proposed tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have, for some days, ceased to compose.

"To-morrow is my birth-day--that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight, _i.e._ in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty and three years of age!!!--and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose.

"It is three minutes past twelve.--'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,' and I am now thirty-three!

"Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni;--

but I don't regret them so much for what I have done, as for what I _might_ have done.

"Through life's road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragged to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing--except thirty-three.

"January 22. 1821.

1821.
Here lies
interred in the Eternity
of the Past,
from whence there is no
Resurrection
for the Days--whatever there may be
for the Dust--
the Thirty-Third Year
of an ill-spent Life,
Which, after
a lingering disease of many months,
sunk into a lethargy,
and expired,
January 22d, 1821, A.D.
Leaving a successor
Inconsolable
for the very loss which
occasioned its
Existence.

"January 23. 1821.

"Fine day. Read--rode--fired pistols, and returned. Dined--read. Went out at eight--made the usual visit. Heard of nothing but war,--'the cry is still, They come.' The Cari. seem to have no plan--nothing fixed among themselves, how, when, or what to do. In that case, they will make nothing of this project, so often postponed, and never put in action.

"Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in case of circumstances requiring a change of place. I shall act according to what may seem proper, when I hear decidedly what the Barbarians mean to do. At present, they are building a bridge of boats over the Po, which looks very warlike. A few days will probably show. I think of retiring towards Ancona, nearer the northern frontier; that is to say, if Teresa and her father are obliged to retire, which is most likely, as all the family are Liberals. If not, I shall stay. But my movements will depend upon the lady's wishes--for myself, it is much the same.

"I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my little daughter, and my effects, which are of some quantity and value,--and neither of them do in the seat of war, where I think of going. But there is an elderly lady who will take charge of _her_, and T. says that the Marchese C. will undertake to hold the chattels in safe keeping. Half the city are getting their affairs in marching trim. A pretty Carnival! The blackguards might as well have waited till Lent.

"January 24. 1821.

"Returned--met some masques in the Corso--'Vive la bagatelle!'--the Germans are on the Po, the Barbarians at the gate, and their masters in council at Leybach (or whatever the eructation of the sound may syllable into a human pronunciation), and lo! they dance and sing and make merry, 'for to-morrow they may die.' Who can say that the Arlequins are not right? Like the Lady Baussiere, and my old friend Burton--I 'rode on.'

"Dined--(damn this pen!)--beef tough--there is no beef in Italy worth a curse; unless a man could eat an old ox with the hide on, singed in the sun.

"The principal persons in the events which may occur in a few days are gone out on a _shooting party_. If it were like a '_highland_ hunting,' a pretext of the chase for a grand re-union of counsellors and chiefs, it would be all very well. But it is nothing more or less than a real snivelling, popping, small-shot, water-hen waste of powder, ammunition, and shot, for their own special amusement: a rare set of fellows for 'a man to risk his neck with,' as 'Marishall Wells' says in the Black Dwarf.

"If they gather,--'whilk is to be doubted,'--they will not muster a thousand men. The reason of this is, that the populace are not interested,--only the higher and middle orders. I wish that the peasantry were: they are a fine savage race of two-legged leopards. But the Bolognese won't--the Romagnuoles can't without them. Or, if they try--what then? They will try, and man can do no more--and, if he _would_ but try his utmost, much might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against the Spaniards--_then_ the tyrants of Europe, since, the slaves, and, lately, the freedmen.

"The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the individual me, whatever it may be for the nations. I lost a lawsuit, after two decisions in my favour. The project of lending money on an Irish mortgage was finally rejected by my wife's trustee after a year's hope and trouble. The Rochdale lawsuit had endured fifteen years, and always prospered till I married; since which, every thing has gone wrong--with me at least.

"In the same year, 1820, the Countess T.G. nata Ga. Gi. in despite of all I said and did to prevent it, _would_ separate from her husband, Il Cavalier Commendatore Gi. &c. &c. &c. and all on the account of 'P.P. clerk of this parish.' The other little petty vexations of the year--overturns in carriages--the murder of people before one's door, and dying in one's beds--the cramp in swimming--colics--indigestions and bilious attacks, &c. &c. &c.--

Many small articles make up a sum,
And hey ho for Caleb Quotem, oh!"

"January 25. 1821.

"Received a letter from Lord S.O. state secretary of the Seven Islands--a fine fellow--clever--dished in England five years ago, and came abroad to retrench and to renew. He wrote from Ancona, in his way back to Corfu, on some matters of our own. He is son of the late Duke of L. by a second marriage. He wants me to go to Corfu. Why not?--perhaps I may, next spring.

"Answered Murray's letter--read--lounged. Scrawled this additional page of life's log-book. One day more is over of it and of me:--but 'which is best, life or death, the gods only know,' as Socrates said to his judges, on the breaking up of the tribunal. Two thousand years since that sage's declaration of ignorance have not enlightened us more upon this important point; for, according to the Christian dispensation, no one can know whether he is _sure_ of salvation--even the most righteous--since a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, like a skaiter, while gliding smoothly to his paradise. Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in the facts may be, the certainty of the individual as to his happiness or misery is no greater than it was under Jupiter.

"It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a 'grand peut-être'--but still it is a _grand_ one. Every body clings to it--the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.

"January 26. 1821.

"Fine day--a few mares' tails portending change, but the sky clear, upon the whole. Rode--fired pistols--good shooting. Coming back, met an old man. Charity--purchased a shilling's worth of salvation. If that was to be bought, I have given more to my fellow-creatures in this life--sometimes for _vice_, but, if not more _often_, at least more _considerably_, for virtue--than I now possess. I never in my life gave a mistress so much as I have sometimes given a poor man in honest distress; but no matter. The scoundrels who have all along persecuted me (with the help of * * who has crowned their efforts) will triumph;--and, when justice is done to me, it will be when this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts which have stung me.

"Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an old woman. I asked her age--she said '_Trecroci_.' I asked my groom (though myself a decent Italian) what the devil _her_ three crosses meant. He said, ninety years, and that she had five years more to boot!! I repeated the same three times, not to mistake--ninety-five years!!!--and she was yet rather active--_heard_ my question, for she answered it--_saw_ me, for she advanced towards me; and did not appear at all decrepit, though certainly touched with years. Told her to come to-morrow, and will examine her myself. I love phenomena. If she _is_ ninety-five years old, she must recollect the Cardinal Alberoni, who was legate here.

"On dismounting, found Lieutenant E. just arrived from Faenza. Invited him to dine with me to-morrow. Did _not_ invite him for to-day, because there was a small _turbot_, (Friday, fast regularly and religiously,) which I wanted to eat all myself. Ate it.

"Went out--found T. as usual--music. The gentlemen, who make revolutions and are gone on a shooting, are not yet returned. They don't return till Sunday--that is to say, they have been out for five days, buffooning, while the interests of a whole country are at stake, and even they themselves compromised.

"It is a difficult part to play amongst such a set of assassins and blockheads--but, when the scum is skimmed off, or has boiled over, good may come of it. If this country could but be freed, what would be too great for the accomplishment of that desire? for the extinction of that Sigh of Ages? Let us hope. They have hoped these thousand years. The very revolvement of the chances may bring it--it is upon the dice.

"If the Neapolitans have but a single Massaniello amongst them, they will beat the bloody butchers of the crown and sabre. Holland, in worse circumstances, beat the Spains and Philips; America beat the English; Greece beat Xerxes; and France beat Europe, till she took a tyrant; South America beats her old vultures out of their nest; and, if these men are but firm in themselves, there is nothing to shake them from without.

"January 28. 1821.

"Lugano Gazette did not come. Letters from Venice. It appears that the Austrian brutes have seized my three or four pounds of English powder. The scoundrels!--I hope to pay them in _ball_ for that powder. Rode out till twilight.

"Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to be written (life and circumstances permitting), to wit, Sardanapalus, already begun; Cain, a metaphysical subject, something in the style of Manfred, but in five _acts_, perhaps, with the chorus; Francesca of Rimini, in five acts; and I am not sure that I would not try Tiberius. I think that I could extract a something, of _my_ tragic, at least, out of the gloomy sequestration and old age of the tyrant--and even out of his sojourn at Caprea--by softening the _details_, and exhibiting the despair which must have led to those very vicious pleasures. For none but a powerful and gloomy mind overthrown would have had recourse to such solitary horrors,--being also, at the same time, _old_, and the master of the world.

"_Memoranda._

"What is Poetry?--The feeling of a Former world and Future.

"_Thought Second._

"Why, at the very height of desire and human pleasure,--worldly, social, amorous, ambitious, or even avaricious,--does there mingle a certain sense of doubt and sorrow--a fear of what is to come--a doubt of what _is_--a retrospect to the past, leading to a prognostication of the future? (The best of Prophets of the future is the Past.) Why is this? or these?--I know not, except that on a pinnacle we are most susceptible of giddiness, and that we never fear falling except from a precipice--the higher, the more awful, and the more sublime; and, therefore, I am not sure that Fear is not a pleasurable sensation; at least, _Hope_ is; and _what Hope_ is there without a deep leaven of Fear? and what sensation is so delightful as Hope? and, if it were not for Hope, where would the Future be?--in hell. It is useless to say _where_ the Present is, for most of us know; and as for the Past, _what_ predominates in memory?--_Hope baffled_. Ergo, in all human affairs, it is Hope--Hope--Hope. I allow sixteen minutes, though I never counted them, to any given or supposed possession. From whatever place we commence, we know where it all must end. And yet, what good is there in knowing it? It does not make men better or wiser. During the greatest horrors of the greatest plagues, (Athens and Florence, for example--see Thucydides and Machiavelli,) men were more cruel and profligate than ever. It is all a mystery. I feel most things, but I know nothing, except ------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------[21]

"_Thought for a speech of Lucifer, in the tragedy of Cain:_--

"Were _Death_ an _evil_, would _I_ let thee _live_?
Fool! live as I live--as thy father lives,
And thy son's sons shall live for evermore.

[Footnote 21: Thus marked, with impatient strokes of the pen, by himself in the original.]

"Past Midnight. One o' the clock.

"I have been reading W.F.S * * (brother to the other of the name) till now, and I can make out nothing. He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitt, in English, who _talks pimples_--a red and white corruption rising up (in little imitation of mountains upon maps), but containing nothing, and discharging nothing, except their own humours.

"I dislike him the worse, (that is, S * *,) because he always seems upon the verge of meaning; and, lo, he goes down like sunset, or melts like a rainbow, leaving a rather rich confusion,--to which, however, the above comparisons do too much honour.

"Continuing to read Mr. F. S * *. He is not such a fool as I took him for, that is to say, when he speaks of the North. But still he speaks of things _all over the world_ with a kind of authority that a philosopher would disdain, and a man of common sense, feeling, and knowledge of his own ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is evidently wanting to make an impression, like his brother,--or like George in the Vicar of Wakefield, who found out that all the good things had been said already on the right side, and therefore 'dressed up some paradoxes' upon the wrong side--ingenious, but false, as he himself says--to which 'the learned world said nothing, nothing at all, sir.' The 'learned world,' however, _has_ said something to the brothers S * *.

"It is high time to think of something else. What they say of the antiquities of the North is best.

"January 29. 1821.

"Yesterday, the woman of ninety-five years of age was with me. She said her eldest son (if now alive) would have been seventy. She is thin--short, but active--hears, and sees, and talks incessantly. Several teeth left--all in the lower jaw, and single front teeth. She is very deeply wrinkled, and has a sort of scattered grey beard over her chin, at least as long as my mustachios. Her head, in fact, resembles the drawing in crayons of Pope the poet's mother, which is in some editions of his works.

"I forgot to ask her if she remembered Alberoni (legate here), but will ask her next time. Gave her a louis--ordered her a new suit of clothes, and put her upon a weekly pension. Till now, she had worked at gathering wood and pine-nuts in the forest,--pretty work at ninety-five years old! She had a dozen children, of whom some are alive. Her name is Maria Montanari.

"Met a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal Club) called the 'Americani' in the forest, all armed, and singing, with all their might, in Romagnuole--'_Sem_ tutti soldat' per la liberta' ('we are all soldiers for liberty'). They cheered me as I passed--I returned their salute, and rode on. This may show the spirit of Italy at present.

"My to-day's journal consists of what I omitted yesterday. To-day was much as usual. Have rather a better opinion of the writings of the Schlegels than I had four-and-twenty hours ago; and will amend it still further, if possible.

"They say that the Piedmontese have at length risen--_ça ira!_

"Read S * *. Of Dante he says, 'that at no time has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever been much the favourite of his countrymen.' 'Tis false! There have been more editors and commentators (and imitators, ultimately) of Dante than of all their poets put together. _Not_ a favourite! Why, they talk Dante--write Dante--and think and dream Dante at this moment (1821) to an excess, which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it.

"In the same style this German talks of gondolas on the Arno--a precious fellow to dare to speak of Italy!

"He says also that Dante's chief defect is a want, in a word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings!--and Francesca of Rimini--and the father's feelings in Ugolino--and Beatrice--and 'La Pia!' Why, there is gentleness in Dante beyond all gentleness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating of the Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not much scope or site for gentleness--but who _but_ Dante could have introduced any 'gentleness' at all into _Hell_? Is there any in Milton's? No--and Dante's Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty.

"One o'clock.

"I have found out, however, where the German is right--it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. 'Of all romances in miniature (and, perhaps, this is the best shape in which romance can appear) the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, the most exquisite.' He thinks!--he might be sure. But it is very well for a S * *. I feel sleepy, and may as well get me to bed. To-morrow there will be fine weather.

"'Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay."

"January 30. 1821.

"The Count P.G. this evening (by commission from the Ci.) transmitted to me the new _words_ for the next six months. * * * and * * *. The new sacred word is * * *--the reply * * *--the rejoinder * * *. The former word (now changed) was * * *--there is also * * *--* * *.[22] Things seem fast coming to a crisis--_ça ira!_

"We talked over various matters of moment and movement. These I omit;--if they come to any thing, they will speak for themselves. After these, we spoke of Kosciusko. Count R.G. told me that he has seen the Polish officers in the Italian war burst into tears on hearing his name.

"Something must be up in Piedmont--all the letters and papers are stopped. Nobody knows any thing, and the Germans are concentrating near Mantua. Of the decision of Leybach nothing is known. This state of things cannot last long. The ferment in men's minds at present cannot be conceived without seeing it.

[Footnote 22: In the original MS. these watch-words are blotted over so as to be illegible.]

"January, 31. 1821.

"For several days I have not written any thing except a few answers to letters. In momentary expectation of an explosion of some kind, it is not easy to settle down to the desk for the higher kinds of composition. I could do it, to be sure, for, last summer, I wrote my drama in the very bustle of Madame la Contesse G.'s divorce, and all its process of accompaniments. At the same time, I also had the news of the loss of an important lawsuit in England. But these were only private and personal business; the present is of a different nature.

"I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion that it may be laziness, which prevents me from writing; especially as Rochefoucalt says that 'laziness often masters them all'--speaking of the _passions_. If this were true, it could hardly be said that 'idleness is the root of all evil,' since this is supposed to spring from the passions only: ergo, that which masters all the passions (laziness, to wit) would in so much be a good. Who knows?

"Midnight.

"I have been reading Grimm's Correspondence. He repeats frequently, in speaking of a poet, or a man of genius in any department, even in music, (Gretry, for instance,) that he must have 'une ame qui se tourmente, un esprit violent.' How far this may be true, I know not; but if it were, I should be a poet 'per eccellenza;' for I have always had 'une ame,' which not only tormented itself but every body else in contact with it; and an 'esprit violent,' which has almost left me without any 'esprit' at all. As to defining what a poet _should_ be, it is not worth while, for what are _they_ worth? what have they done?

"Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and literary historian. His Correspondence form the annals of the literary part of that age of France, with much of her politics; and, still more, of her 'way of life.' He is as valuable, and far more entertaining than Muratori or Tiraboschi--I had almost said, than Ginguené--but there we should pause. However, 'tis a great man in its line.

"Monsieur St. Lambert has

"'Et lorsqu'à ses regards la lumière est ravie,
Il n'a plus, en mourant, à perdre que la vie.'

This is, word for word, Thomson's

"'And dying, all we can resign is breath,'

without the smallest acknowledgment from the Lorrainer of a poet. M. St. Lambert is dead as a man, and (for any thing I know to the contrary) damned, as a poet, by this time. However, his Seasons have good things, and, it may be, some of his own.

"February 2. 1821

"I have been considering what can be the reason why I always wake, at a certain hour in the morning, and always in very bad spirits--I may say, in actual despair and despondency, in all respects--even of that which pleased me over night. In about an hour or two, this goes off, and I compose either to sleep again, or, at least, to quiet. In England, five years ago, I had the same kind of hypochondria, but accompanied with so violent a thirst that I have drank as many as fifteen bottles of soda-water in one night, after going to bed, and been still thirsty--calculating, however, some lost from the bursting out and effervescence and over-flowing of the soda-water, in drawing the corks, or striking off the necks of the bottles from mere thirsty impatience. At present, I have _not_ the thirst; but the depression of spirits is no less violent.

"I read in Edgeworth's Memoirs of something similar (except that his thirst expended itself on _small beer_) in the case of Sir F.B. Delaval;--but then he was, at least, twenty years older. What is it?--liver? In England, Le Man (the apothecary) cured me of the thirst in three days, and it had lasted as many years. I suppose that it is all hypochondria.

"What I feel most growing upon me are laziness, and a disrelish more powerful than indifference. It I rouse, it is into fury. I presume that I shall end (if not earlier by accident, or some such termination) like Swift--'dying at top.' I confess I do not contemplate this with so much horror as he apparently did for some years before it happened. But Swift had hardly _begun life_ at the very period (thirty-three) when I feel quite an _old sort_ of feel.

"Oh! there is an organ playing in the street--a waltz, too! I must leave off to listen. They are playing a waltz which I have heard ten thousand times at the balls in London, between 1812 and 1815. Music is a strange thing[23].

[Footnote 23: In this little incident of the music in the streets thus touching so suddenly upon the nerve of memory, and calling away his mind from its dark bodings to a recollection of years and scenes the happiest, perhaps, of his whole life, there is something that appears to me peculiarly affecting.]

"February 5. 1821.

"At last, 'the kiln's in a low.' The Germans are ordered to march, and Italy is, for the ten thousandth time, to become a field of battle. Last night the news came.

"This afternoon--Count P.G. came to me to consult upon divers matters. We rode out together. They have sent off to the C. for orders. To-morrow the decision ought to arrive, and then something will be done. Returned--dined--read--went out--talked over matters. Made a purchase of some arms for the new enrolled Americani, who are all on tiptoe to march. Gave order for some _harness_ and portmanteaus necessary for the horses.

"Read some of Bowles's dispute about Pope, with all the replies and rejoinders. Perceive that my name has been lugged into the controversy, but have not time to state what I know of the subject. On some 'piping day of peace' it is probable that I may resume it.

"February 9. 1821.

"Before dinner wrote a little; also, before I rode out, Count P.G. called upon me, to let me know the result of the meeting of the Ci at F. and at B. * * returned late last night. Every thing was combined under the idea that the Barbarians would pass the Po on the 15th inst. Instead of this, from some previous information or otherwise, they have hastened their march and actually passed two days ago; so that all that can be done at present in Romagna is, to stand on the alert and wait for the advance of the Neapolitans. Every thing was ready, and the Neapolitans had sent on their own instructions and intentions, all calculated for the _tenth_ and _eleventh_, on which days a general rising was to take place, under the supposition that the Barbarians could not advance before the 15th.

"As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand troops, a number with which they might as well attempt to conquer the world as secure Italy in its present state. The artillery marches _last_, and alone, and there is an idea of an attempt to cut part of them off. All this will much depend upon the first steps of the Neapolitans. _Here_, the public spirit is excellent, provided it be kept up. This will be seen by the event.

"It is probable that Italy will be delivered from the Barbarians if the Neapolitans will but stand firm, and are united among themselves. _Here_ they appear so.

"February 10. 1821.

"Day passed as usual--nothing new. Barbarians still in march--not well equipped, and, of course, not well received on their route. There is some talk of a commotion at Paris.

"Rode out between four and six--finished my letter to Murray on Bowles's pamphlets--added postscript. Passed the evening as usual--out till eleven--and subsequently at home.

"February 11. 1821.

"Wrote--had a copy taken of an extract from Petrarch's Letters, with reference to the conspiracy of the Doge, M. Faliero, containing the poet's opinion of the matter. Heard a heavy firing of cannon towards Comacchio--the Barbarians rejoicing for their principal pig's birthday, which is to-morrow--or Saint day--I forget which. Received a ticket for the first ball to-morrow. Shall not go to the first, but intend going to the second, as also to the Veglioni.

"February 13. 1821.

"To-day read a little in Louis B.'s Hollande, but have written nothing since the completion of the letter on the Pope controversy. Politics are quite misty for the present. The Barbarians still upon their march. It is not easy to divine what the Italians will now do.

"Was elected yesterday 'Socio' of the Carnival ball society. This is the fifth carnival that I have passed. In the four former, I racketed a good deal. In the present, I have been as sober as Lady Grace herself.

"February 14. 1821

"Much as usual. Wrote, before riding out, part of a scene of 'Sardanapalus.' The first act nearly finished. The rest of the day and evening as before--partly without, in conversazione--partly at home.

"Heard the particulars of the late fray at Russi, a town not far from this. It is exactly the fact of Romēo and Giulietta--_not_ Roměo, as the Barbarian writes it. Two families of Contadini (peasants) are at feud. At a ball, the younger part of the families forget their quarrel, and dance together. An old man of one of them enters, and reproves the young men for dancing with the females of the opposite family. The male relatives of the latter resent this. Both parties rush home and arm themselves. They meet directly, by moonlight, in the public way, and fight it out. Three are killed on the spot, and six wounded, most of them dangerously,--pretty well for two families, methinks--and all _fact_, of the last week. Another assassination has taken place at Cesenna,--in all about _forty_ in Romagna within the last three months. These people retain much of the middle ages.

"February 15. 1821.

"Last night finished the first act of Sardanapalus. To-night, or to-morrow, I ought to answer letters.

"February 16. 1821.

"Last night Il Conte P.G. sent a man with a bag full of bayonets, some muskets, and some hundreds of cartridges to my house, without apprizing me, though I had seen him not half an hour before. About ten days ago, when there was to be a rising here, the Liberals and my brethren Ci. asked me to purchase some arms for a certain few of our ragamuffins. I did so immediately, and ordered ammunition, &c. and they were armed accordingly. Well--the rising is prevented by the Barbarians marching a week sooner than appointed; and an _order_ is issued, and in force, by the Government, 'that all persons having arms concealed, &c. &c. shall be liable to,' &c. &c.--and what do my friends, the patriots, do two days afterwards? Why, they throw back upon my hands, and into my house, these very arms (without a word of warning previously) with which I had furnished them at their own request, and at my own peril and expense.

"It was lucky that Lega was at home to receive them. If any of the servants had (except Tita and F. and Lega) they would have betrayed it immediately. In the mean time, if they are denounced or discovered, I shall be in a scrape.

"At nine went out--at eleven returned. Beat the crow for stealing the falcon's victuals. Read 'Tales of my Landlord'--wrote a letter--and mixed a moderate beaker of water with other ingredients.

"February 18. 1821.

"The news are that the Neapolitans have broken a bridge, and slain four pontifical carabiniers, whilk carabiniers wished to oppose. Besides the disrespect to neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in this German quarrel should be Italian. However, the war seems begun in good earnest: for, if the Neapolitans kill the Pope's carabiniers, they will not be more delicate towards the Barbarians. If it be even so, in a short time 'there will be news o' thae craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson says of Jenny Blane's 'unco cockernony' in the 'Tales of my Landlord.'

"In turning over Grimm's Correspondence to-day, I found a thought of Tom Moore's in a song of Maupertuis to a female Laplander.

"'Et tous les lieux,
Où sont ses yeux,
Font la Zone brûlante.'

This is Moore's,

"'And those eyes make my climate, wherever I roam.'

But I am sure that Moore never saw it; for this was published in Grimm's Correspondence in 1813, and I knew Moore's by heart in 1812. There is also another, but an antithetical coincidence--

"'Le soleil luit,
Des jours sans nuit
Bientôt il nous destine;
Mais ces longs jours
Seront trop courts,
Passés près des Christine.'

This is the _thought reversed_, of the last stanza of the ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in Miss Seward's Memoirs of Darwin, which is pretty--I quote from memory of these last fifteen years.

"'For my first night I'll go
To those regions of snow
Where the sun for six months never shines;
And think, even then,
He too soon came again,
To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynes.'

"To-day I have had no communication with my Carbonari cronies; but, in the mean time, my lower apartments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and what not. I suppose that they consider me as a depôt, to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed. It is a grand object--the very _poetry_ of politics. Only think--a free Italy!!! Why, there has been nothing like it since the days of Augustus. I reckon the times of Cæsar (Julius) free; because the commotions left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty equal at the set out. But, afterwards, it was all praetorian and legionary business--and since!--we shall see, or, at least, some will see, what card will turn up. It is best to hope, even of the hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows have to do, in the Seventy Years' War.

"February 19. 1821.

"Came home solus--very high wind--lightning--moonshine--solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks--women in mask--white houses--clouds hurrying over the sky, like spilt milk blown out of the pail--altogether very poetical. It is still blowing hard--the tiles flying, and the house rocking--rain splashing--lightning flashing--quite a fine Swiss Alpine evening, and the sea roaring in the distance.

"Visited--conversazione. All the women frightened by the squall: they _won't_ go to the masquerade because it lightens--the pious reason!

"Still blowing away. A. has sent me some news to-day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh those scoundrel sovereigns! Let us but see them beaten--let the Neapolitans but have the pluck of the Dutch of old, or the Spaniards of now, or of the German Protestants, the Scotch Presbyterians, the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks under Themistocles--_all_ small and solitary nations (except the Spaniards and German Lutherans), and there is yet a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world.

"February 20. 1821.

"The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans are full of energy. The public spirit here is certainly well kept up. The 'Americani' (a patriotic society here, an under branch of the 'Carbonari') give a dinner in _the Forest_ in a few days, and have invited me, as one of the Ci. It is to be in _the Forest_ of Boccacio's and Dryden's 'Huntsman's Ghost;' and, even if I had not the same political feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, which every now and then revives,) I would go as a poet, or, at least, as a lover of poetry. I shall expect to see the spectre of 'Ostasio [24] degli Onesti' (Dryden has turned him into Guido Cavalcanti--an essentially different person, as may be found in Dante) come 'thundering for his prey' in the midst of the festival. At any rate, whether he does or no. I will get as tipsy and patriotic as possible.

"Within these few days I have read, but not written.

[Footnote 24: In Boccacio, the name is, I think, Nastagio.]

"February 21, 1821.

"As usual, rode--visited, &c. Business begins to thicken. The Pope has printed a declaration against the patriots, who, he says, meditate a rising. The consequence of all this will be, that, in a fortnight, the whole country will be up. The proclamation is not yet published, but printed, ready for distribution. * * sent me a copy privately--a sign that he does not know what to think. When he wants to be well with the patriots, he sends to me some civil message or other.

"For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing but the most decided success of the Barbarians can prevent a general and immediate rise of the whole nation.

"February 23, 1821.

"Almost ditto with yesterday--rode, &c.--visited--wrote nothing--read Roman History.

"Had a curious letter from a fellow, who informs me that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards me. He is probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it so, even as he says. They cannot bestow their hostility on one who loathes and execrates them more than I do, or who will oppose their views with more zeal, when the opportunity offers.

"February 24, 1821.

"Rode, &c. as usual. The secret intelligence arrived this morning from the frontier to the Ci. is as bad as possible. The _plan_ has missed--the Chiefs are betrayed, military, as well as civil--and the Neapolitans not only have _not_ moved, but have declared to the P. government, and to the Barbarians, that they know nothing of the matter!!!

"Thus the world goes; and thus the Italians are always lost for lack of union among themselves. What is to be done _here_, between the two fires, and cut off from the Northern frontier, is not decided. My opinion was,--better to rise than be taken in detail; but how it will be settled now, I cannot tell. Messengers are despatched to the delegates of the other cities to learn their resolutions.

"I always had an idea that it would be _bungled_; but was willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever I can do by money, means, or person, I will venture freely for their freedom; and have so repeated to them (some of the Chiefs here) half an hour ago. I have two thousand five hundred scudi, better than five hundred pounds, in the house, which I offered to begin with.

"February 25. 1821.

"Came home--my head aches--plenty of news, but too tiresome to set down. I have neither read nor written, nor thought, but led a purely animal life all day. I mean to try to write a page or two before I go to bed. But, as Squire Sullen says, 'My head aches consumedly: Scrub, bring me a dram!' Drank some Imola wine, and some punch.

"_Log-book continued_[25].

[Footnote 25: In another paper-book.]

"February 27. 1821.

"I have been a day without continuing the log, because I could not find a blank book. At length I recollected this.

"Rode, &c.--dined--wrote down an additional stanza for the 5th canto of D.J. which I had composed in bed this morning. Visited _l'Amica_. We are invited, on the night of the Veglione (next Domenica) with the Marchesa Clelia Cavalli and the Countess Spinelli Rusponi. I promised to go. Last night there was a row at the ball, of which I am a 'socio.' The Vice-legate had the imprudent insolence to introduce _three_ of his servants in masque--_without tickets,_ too! and in spite of remonstrances. The consequence was, that the young men of the ball took it up, and were near throwing the Vice-legate out of the window. His servants, seeing the scene, withdrew, and he after them. His reverence Monsignore ought to know, that these are not times for the predominance of priests over decorum. Two minutes more, two steps farther, and the whole city would have been in arms, and the government driven out of it.

"Such is the spirit of the day, and these fellows appear not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact went, the young men were right, servants being prohibited always at these festivals.

"Yesterday wrote two notes on the 'Bowles and Pope' controversy, and sent them off to Murray by the post. The old woman whom I relieved in the forest (she is ninety-four years of age) brought me two bunches of violets. 'Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus,' I was much pleased with the present. An English woman would have presented a pair of worsted stockings, at least, in the month of February. Both excellent things; but the former are more elegant. The present, at this season, reminds one of Gray's stanza, omitted from his elegy:--

Here scatter'd oft, the _earliest_ of the year,
By hands unseen, are showers of violets found;
The red-breast loves to build and warble here,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.'

As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that he could have the heart to omit it.

"Last night I suffered horribly--from an indigestion, I believe. I _never_ sup--that is, never at home. But, last night, I was prevailed upon by the Countess Gamba's persuasion, and the strenuous example of her brother, to swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to dilute them, _not_ reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When I came home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swallowed three or four glasses of spirits, which men (the venders) call brandy, rum, or hollands, but which Gods would entitle spirits of wine, coloured or sugared. All was pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat swollen, and considerably vertiginous. I got out, and mixing some soda-powders, drank them off. This brought on temporary relief. I returned to bed; but grew sick and sorry once and again. Took more soda-water. At last I fell into a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill all day, till I had galloped a few miles. Query--was it the cockles, or what I took to correct them, that caused the commotion? I think both. I remarked in my illness the complete inertion, inaction, and destruction of my chief mental faculties. I tried to rouse them, and yet could not--and this is the _Soul!!!_ I should believe that it was married to the body, if they did not sympathise so much with each other. If the one rose, when the other fell, it would be a sign that they longed for the natural state of divorce. But as it is, they seem to draw together like post-horses.

"Let us hope the best--it is the grand possession."

* * * * *

During the two months comprised in this Journal, some of the Letters of the following series were written. The reader must, therefore, be prepared to find in them occasional notices of the same train of events.

* * * * *