"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 ragam.u.f.fins. 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 t.i.ta 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 sc.r.a.pe.

"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 c.o.c.kernony' 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, Ou sont ses yeux, Font la Zone brulante.'

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 ant.i.thetical coincidence--

"'Le soleil luit, Des jours sans nuit Bientot il nous destine; Mais ces longs jours Seront trop courts, Pa.s.ses pres 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 depot, 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 Caesar (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 m.u.f.fled 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:--