"Ravenna, January 4. 1821.
"'A sudden thought strikes me.' Let me begin a Journal once more. The
last I kept was in Switzerland, in record of a tour made in the Bernese
Alps, which I made to send to my sister in 1816, and I suppose that she
has it still, for she wrote to me that she was pleased with it. Another,
and longer, I kept in 1813-1814, which I gave to Thomas Moore in the
same year.
"This morning I gat me up late, as usual--weather bad--bad as
England--worse. The snow of last week melting to the sirocco of to-day,
so that there were two d----d things at once. Could not even get to ride
on horseback in the forest. Stayed at home all the morning--looked at
the fire--wondered when the post would come. Post came at the Ave Maria,
instead of half-past one o'clock, as it ought, Galignani's Messengers,
six in number--a letter from Faenza, but none from England. Very sulky
in consequence (for there ought to have been letters), and ate in
consequence a copious dinner; for when I am vexed, it makes me swallow
quicker--but drank very little.
"I was out of spirits--read the papers--thought what _fame_ was, on
reading, in a case of murder, that 'Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold
some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some
gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a
_book_, the Life of _Pamela_, which he was _tearing_ for _waste_ paper,
&c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c. and a _leaf_ of _Pamela wrapt round
the bacon._' What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of _living_
authors (_i.e._ while alive)--he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy
and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human
nature) and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets)--what would he have
said, could he have traced his pages from their place on the French
prince's toilets (see Boswell's Johnson) to the grocer's counter and the
gipsy-murderess's bacon!!!
"What would he have said? what can any body say, save what Solomon said
long before us? After all, it is but passing from one counter to
another, from the bookseller's to the other tradesman's--grocer or
pastry-cook. For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks; so
that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of authorship.
"Wrote five letters in about half an hour, short and savage, to all my
rascally correspondents. Carriage came. Heard the news of three murders
at Faenza and Forli--a carabinier, a smuggler, and an attorney--all last
night. The two first in a quarrel, the latter by premeditation.
"Three weeks ago--almost a month--the 7th it was--I picked up the
commandant, mortally wounded, out of the street; he died in my house;
assassins unknown, but presumed political. His brethren wrote from Rome
last night to thank me for having assisted him in his last moments. Poor
fellow! it was a pity; he was a good soldier, but imprudent. It was
eight in the evening when they killed him. We heard the shot; my
servants and I ran out, and found him expiring, with five wounds, two
whereof mortal--by slugs they seemed. I examined him, but did not go to
the dissection next morning.
"Carriage at 8 or so--went to visit La Contessa G.--found her playing on
the piano-forte--talked till ten, when the Count, her father, and the no
less Count, her brother, came in from the theatre. Play, they said,
Alfieri's Filippo--well received.
"Two days ago the King of Naples passed through Bologna on his way to
congress. My servant Luigi brought the news. I had sent him to Bologna
for a lamp. How will it end? Time will show.
"Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the road and weather are
comfortable, mean to ride to-morrow. High time--almost a week at this
work--snow, sirocco, one day--frost and snow the other--sad climate for
Italy. But the two seasons, last and present, are extraordinary. Read a
Life of Leonardo da Vinci by Rossi--ruminated--wrote this much, and will
go to bed.
"January 5. 1821.
"Rose late--dull and drooping--the weather dripping and dense. Snow on
the ground, and sirocco above in the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to
the horse's belly, so that riding (at least for pleasure) is not very
feasible. Added a postscript to my letter to Murray. Read the
conclusion, for the fiftieth time (I have read all W. Scott's novels at
least fifty times), of the third series of 'Tales of my
Landlord,'--grand work--Scotch Fielding, as well as great English
poet--wonderful man! I long to get drunk with him.
"Dined versus six o' the clock. Forgot that there was a plum-pudding, (I
have added, lately, _eating_ to my 'family of vices,') and had dined
before I knew it. Drank half a bottle of some sort of spirits--probably
spirits of wine; for what they call brandy, rum, &c. &c. here is nothing
but spirits of wine, coloured accordingly. Did _not_ eat two apples,
which were placed by way of dessert. Fed the two cats, the hawk, and the
tame (but _not tamed_) _crow_. Read Mitford's History of
Greece--Xenophon's Retreat of the Ten Thousand. Up to this present
_moment writing, 6 minutes before eight o' the clock_--French hours, not
Italian.
"Hear the carriage--order pistols and great coat, as usual--necessary
articles. Weather cold--carriage open, and inhabitants somewhat
savage--rather treacherous and highly inflamed by politics. Fine
fellows, though, good materials for a nation. Out of chaos God made a
world, and out of high passions comes a people.
"Clock strikes--going out to make love. Somewhat perilous, but not
disagreeable. Memorandum--a new screen put up to-day. It is rather
antique, but will do with a little repair.
"Thaw continues--hopeful that riding may be practicable to-morrow. Sent
the papers to Alli.--grand events coming.
"11 o' the clock and nine minutes. Visited La Contessa G. Nata G.G.
Found her beginning my letter of answer to the thanks of Alessio del
Pinto of Rome for assisting his brother the late Commandant in his last
moments, as I had begged her to pen my reply for the purer Italian, I
being an ultra-montane, little skilled in the set phrase of Tuscany. Cut
short the letter--finish it another day. Talked of Italy, patriotism,
Alfieri, Madame Albany, and other branches of learning. Also Sallust's
Conspiracy of Catiline, and the War of Jugurtha. At 9 came in her
brother, Il Conte Pietro--at 10, her father, Conte Ruggiero.
"Talked of various modes of warfare--of the Hungarian and Highland modes
of broad-sword exercise, in both whereof I was once a moderate 'master
of fence.' Settled that the R. will break out on the 7th or 8th of
March, in which appointment I should trust, had it not been settled that
it was to have broken out in October, 1820. But those Bolognese shirked
the Romagnuoles.
"'It is all one to Ranger.' One must not be particular, but take
rebellion when it lies in the way. Come home--read the 'Ten Thousand'
again, and will go to bed.
"Mem.--Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this afternoon) to copy out
seven or eight apophthegms of Bacon, in which I have detected such
blunders as a school-boy might detect rather than commit. Such are the
sages! What must they be, when such as I can stumble on their mistakes
or misstatements? I will go to bed, for I find that I grow cynical.
"January 6. 1821.
"Mist--thaw--slop--rain. No stirring out on horseback. Read Spence's
Anecdotes. Pope a fine fellow--always thought him so. Corrected blunders
in _nine_ apophthegms of Bacon--all historical--and read Mitford's
Greece. Wrote an epigram. Turned to a passage in Guinguené--ditto in
Lord Holland's Lope de Vega. Wrote a note on Don Juan.
"At eight went out to visit. Heard a little music--like music. Talked
with Count Pietro G. of the Italian comedian Vestris, who is now at
Rome--have seen him often act in Venice--a good actor--very. Somewhat of
a mannerist; but excellent in broad comedy, as well as in the
sentimental pathetic. He has made me frequently laugh and cry, neither
of which is now a very easy matter--at least, for a player to produce in
me.
"Thought of the state of women under the ancient Greeks--convenient
enough. Present state a remnant of the barbarism of the chivalry and
feudal ages--artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind home--and be
well fed and clothed--but not mixed in society. Well educated, too, in
religion--but to read neither poetry nor politics--nothing but books of
piety and cookery. Music--drawing--dancing--also a little gardening and
ploughing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads in Epirus
with good success. Why not, as well as hay-making and milking?
"Came home, and read Mitford again, and played with my mastiff--gave him
his supper. Made another reading to the epigram, but the turn the same.
To-night at the theatre, there being a prince on his throne in the last
scene of the comedy,--the audience laughed, and asked him for a
_Constitution_. This shows the state of the public mind here, as well as
the assassinations. It won't do. There must be an universal
republic,--and there ought to be.
"The crow is lame of a leg--wonder how it happened--some fool trod upon
his toe, I suppose. The falcon pretty brisk--the cats large and
noisy--the monkeys I have not looked to since the cold weather, as they
suffer by being brought up. Horses must be gay--get a ride as soon as
weather serves. Deuced muggy still--an Italian winter is a sad thing,
but all the other seasons are charming.
"What is the reason that I have been, all my lifetime, more or less
_ennuyé?_ and that, if any thing, I am rather less so now than I was at
twenty, as far as my recollection serves? I do not know how to answer
this, but presume that it is constitutional,--as well as the waking in
low spirits, which I have invariably done for many years. Temperance and
exercise, which I have practised at times, and for a long time together
vigorously and violently, made little or no difference. Violent passions
did;--when under their immediate influence--it is odd, but--I was in
agitated, but _not_ in depressed, spirits.
"A dose of salts has the effect of a temporary inebriation, like light
champagne, upon me. But wine and spirits make me sullen and savage to
ferocity--silent, however, and retiring, and not quarrelsome, if not
spoken to. Swimming also raises my spirits,--but in general they are
low, and get daily lower. That is _hopeless_; for I do not think I am so
much _ennuyé_ as I was at nineteen. The proof is, that then I must game,
or drink, or be in motion of some kind, or I was miserable. At present,
I can mope in quietness; and like being alone better than any
company--except the lady's whom I serve. But I feel a something, which
makes me think that, if I ever reach near to old age, like Swift, 'I
shall die at top' first. Only I do not dread idiotism or madness so much
as he did. On the contrary, I think some quieter stages of both must be
preferable to much of what men think the possession of their senses.
"January 7. 1821, Sunday.
"Still rain--mist--snow--drizzle--and all the incalculable combinations
of a climate where heat and cold struggle for mastery. Head Spence, and
turned over Roscoe, to find a passage I have not found. Read the fourth
vol. of W. Scott's second series of 'Tales of my Landlord.' Dined. Read
the Lugano Gazette. Read--I forget what. At eight went to conversazione.
Found there the Countess Geltrude, Betti V. and her husband, and others.
Pretty black-eyed woman that--_only_ nineteen--same age as Teresa, who
is prettier, though.
"The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that the Patriots have had
notice from Forli (twenty miles off) that to-night the government and
its party mean to strike a stroke--that the Cardinal here has had orders
to make several arrests immediately, and that, in consequence, the
Liberals are arming, and have posted patroles in the streets, to sound
the alarm and give notice to fight for it.
"He asked me 'what should be done?' I answered, 'Fight for it, rather
than be taken in detail;' and offered, if any of them are in immediate
apprehension of arrest, to receive them in my house (which is
defensible), and to defend them, with my servants and themselves (we
have arms and ammunition), as long as we can,--or to try to get them
away under cloud of night. On going home, I offered him the pistols
which I had about me--but he refused, but said he would come off to me
in case of accidents.
"It wants half an hour of midnight, and rains;--as Gibbet says, 'a fine
night for their enterprise--dark as hell, and blows like the devil.' If
the row don't happen _now_, it must soon. I thought that their system of
shooting people would soon produce a re-action--and now it seems coming.
I will do what I can in the way of combat, though a little out of
exercise. The cause is a good one.
"Turned over and over half a score of books for the passage in question,
and can't find it. Expect to hear the drum and the musquetry momently
(for they swear to resist, and are right,)--but I hear nothing, as yet,
save the plash of the rain and the gusts of the wind at intervals. Don't
like to go to bed, because I hate to be waked, and would rather sit up
for the row, if there is to be one.
"Mended the fire--have got the arms--and a book or two, which I shall
turn over. I know little of their numbers, but think the Carbonari
strong enough to beat the troops, even here. With twenty men this house
might be defended for twenty-four hours against any force to be brought
against it, now in this place, for the same time; and, in such a time,
the country would have notice, and would rise,--if ever they _will_
rise, of which there is some doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read
as do any thing else, being alone.
"January 8. 1821, Monday.
"Rose, and found Count P.G. in my apartments. Sent away the servant.
Told me that, according to the best information, the Government had not
issued orders for the arrests apprehended; that the attack in Forli had
not taken place (as expected) by the Sanfedisti--the opponents of the
Carbonari or Liberals--and that, as yet, they are still in apprehension
only. Asked me for some arms of a better sort, which I gave him. Settled
that, in case of a row, the Liberals were to assemble _here_ (with me),
and that he had given the word to Vincenzo G. and others of the _Chiefs_
for that purpose. He himself and father are going to the chase in the
forest; but V.G. is to come to me, and an express to be sent off to him,
P.G., if any thing occurs. Concerted operations. They are to seize--but
no matter.
"I advised them to attack in detail, and in different parties, in
different _places_ (though at the _same_ time), so as to divide the
attention of the troops, who, though few, yet being disciplined, would
beat any body of people (not trained) in a regular fight--unless
dispersed in small parties, and distracted with different assaults.
Offered to let them assemble here, if they choose. It is a strongish
post--narrow street, commanded from within--and tenable walls.
"Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Murray, with corrections of
Bacon's Apophthegms and an epigram--the _latter not_ for publication. At
eight went to Teresa, Countess G. At nine and a half came in Il Conte P.
and Count P.G. Talked of a certain proclamation lately issued. Count
R.G. had been with * * (the * *), to sound him about the arrests. He,
* *, is a _trimmer_, and deals, at present, his cards with both hands.
If he don't mind, they'll be full. * * pretends (_I_ doubt him--_they_
don't,--we shall see) that there is no such order, and seems staggered
by the immense exertions of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of
the Liberals here. The truth is, that * * cares for little but his place
(which is a good one), and wishes to play pretty with both parties. He
has changed his mind thirty times these last three moons, to my
knowledge, for he corresponds with me. But he is not a bloody
fellow--only an avaricious one.
"It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia Languish says), there will
be no elopement after all. I wish that I had known as much last
night--or, rather, this morning--I should have gone to bed two hours
earlier. And yet I ought not to complain; for, though it is a sirocco,
and heavy rain, I have not _yawned_ for these two days.
"Came home--read History of Greece--before dinner had read Walter
Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote address to the letter in answer to Alessio del
Pinto, who has thanked me for helping his brother (the late Commandant,
murdered here last month) in his last moments. Have told him I only did
a duty of humanity--as is true. The brother lives at Rome.
"Mended the fire with some 'sgobole' (a Romagnuole word), and gave the
falcon some water. Drank some Seltzer-water. Mem.--received to-day a
print, or etching, of the story of Ugolino, by an Italian
painter--different, of course, from Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and I think
(as far as recollection goes) _no worse_, for Reynolds's is not good in
history. Tore a button in my new coat.
"I wonder what figure these Italians will make in a regular row. I
sometimes think that, like the Irishman's gun (somebody had sold him a
crooked one), they will only do for 'shooting round a corner;' at least,
this sort of shooting has been the late tenor of their exploits. And
yet, there are materials in this people, and a noble energy, if well
directed. But who is to direct them? No matter. Out of such times heroes
spring. Difficulties are the hotbeds of high spirits, and Freedom the
mother of the few virtues incident to human nature.
"Tuesday, January 9. 1821.
"Rose--the day fine. Ordered the horses; but Lega (my _secretary_, an
Italianism for steward or chief servant) coming to tell me that the
painter had finished the work in fresco, for the room he has been
employed on lately, I went to see it before I set out. The painter has
not copied badly the prints from Titian, &c. considering all things.
"Dined. Read Johnson's 'Vanity of Human Wishes,'--all the examples and
mode of giving them sublime, as well as the latter part, with the
exception of an occasional couplet. I do not so much admire the opening.
I remember an observation of Sharpe's, (the _Conversationist_, as he was
called in London, and a very clever man,) that the first line of this
poem was superfluous, and that Pope (the best of poets, _I_ think) would
have begun at once, only changing the punctuation--
"'Survey mankind from China to Peru.'
The former line, 'Let observation,' &c. is certainly heavy and useless.
But 'tis a grand poem--and _so true!_--true as the 10th of Juvenal
himself. The lapse of ages _changes_ all things--time--language--the
earth--the bounds of the sea--the stars of the sky, and every thing
'about, around, and underneath' man, _except man himself_, who has
always been, and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety
of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to
disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have
multiplied little but existence. An extirpated disease is succeeded by
some new pestilence; and a discovered world has brought little to the
old one, except the p---- first and freedom afterwards--the _latter_ a
fine thing, particularly as they gave it to Europe in exchange for
slavery. But it is doubtful whether 'the Sovereigns' would not think the
_first_ the best present of the two to their subjects.
"At eight went out--heard some news. They say the King of Naples has
declared, by couriers from Florence, to the _Powers_ (as they call now
those wretches with crowns) that his Constitution was compulsive, &c.
&c. and that the Austrian barbarians are placed again on _war_ pay, and
will march. Let them--'they come like sacrifices in their trim,' the
hounds of hell! Let it still be a hope to see their bones piled like
those of the human dogs at Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen.
"Heard some music. At nine the usual visiters--news, _war_, or rumours
of war. Consulted with P.G. &c. &c. They mean to _insurrect_ here, and
are to honour me with a call thereupon. I shall not fall back; though I
don't think them in force or heart sufficient to make much of it. But,
_onward!_--it is now the time to act, and what signifies _self_, if a
single spark of that which would be worthy of the past can be bequeathed
unquenchedly to the future? It is not one man, nor a million, but the
_spirit_ of liberty which must be spread. The waves which dash upon the
shore are, one by one, broken, but yet the _ocean_ conquers,
nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears the rock, and, if the
_Neptunians_ are to be believed, it has not only destroyed, but made a
world. In like manner, whatever the sacrifice of individuals, the great
cause will gather strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilise
(for _sea-weed_ is _manure_) what is cultivable. And so, the mere
selfish calculation ought never to be made on such occasions; and, at
present, it shall not be computed by me. I was never a good
arithmetician of chances, and shall not commence now.
"January 10. 1821.
"Day fine--rained only in the morning. Looked over accounts. Read
Campbell's Poets--marked errors of Tom (the author) for correction.
Dined--went out--music--Tyrolese air, with variations. Sustained the
cause of the original simple air against the variations of the Italian
school.
"Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier daily. To-morrow being
foreign post-day, probably something more will be known.
"Came home--read. Corrected Tom Campbell's slips of the pen. A good
work, though--style affected--but his defence of Pope is glorious. To be
sure, it is his _own cause_ too,--but no matter, it is very good, and
does him great credit.
"Midnight.
"I have been turning over different _Lives_ of the Poets. I rarely read
their works, unless an occasional flight over the classical ones, Pope,
Dryden, Johnson, Gray, and those who approach them nearest (I leave the
_rant_ of the rest to the _cant_ of the day), and--I had made several
reflections, but I feel sleepy, and may as well go to bed.
"January 11. 1821.
"Read the letters. Corrected the tragedy and the 'Hints from Horace.'
Dined, and got into better spirits. Went out--returned--finished
letters, five in number. Read Poets, and an anecdote in Spence.
"Alli. writes to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tuscany, and King of
Sardinia, have also been called to Congress; but the Pope will only deal
there by proxy. So the interests of millions are in the hands of about
twenty coxcombs, at a place called Leibach!
"I should almost regret that my own affairs went well, when those of
nations are in peril. If the interests of mankind could be essentially
bettered (particularly of these oppressed Italians), I should not so
much mind my own 'suma peculiar.' God grant us all better times, or more
philosophy!
"In reading, I have just chanced upon an expression of Tom
Campbell's;--speaking of Collins, he says that no reader cares any more
about the _characteristic manners_ of his Eclogues than about the
authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 'Tis false--we _do_ care about the
authenticity of the tale of Troy. I have stood upon that plain _daily_,
for more than a month in 1810; and if any thing diminished my pleasure,
it was that the blackguard Bryant had impugned its veracity. It is true
I read 'Homer Travestied' (the first twelve books), because Hobhouse and
others bored me with their learned localities, and I love quizzing. But
I still venerated the grand original as the truth of _history_ (in the
material _facts_) and of _place_. Otherwise, it would have given me no
delight. Who will persuade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that
it did not contain a hero?--its very magnitude proved this. Men do not
labour over the ignoble and petty dead--and why should not the _dead_ be
_Homer_'s dead? The secret of Tom Campbell's defence of _inaccuracy_ in
costume and description is, that his Gertrude, &c. has no more locality
in common with Pennsylvania than with Penmanmaur. It is notoriously full
of grossly false scenery, as all Americans declare, though they praise
parts of the poem. It is thus that self-love for ever creeps out, like a
snake, to sting any thing which happens, even accidentally, to stumble
upon it.
"January 12. 1821.
"The weather still so humid and impracticable, that London, in its most
oppressive fogs, were a summer-bower to this mist and sirocco, which has
now lasted (but with one day's interval), chequered with snow or heavy
rain only, since the 30th of December, 1820. It is so far lucky that I
have a literary turn;--but it is very tiresome not to be able to stir
out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for so many days. The roads
are even worse than the weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy
soil, and the growth of the waters.
"Read the Poets--English, that is to say--out of Campbell's edition.
There is a good deal of taffeta in some of Tom's prefatory phrases, but
his work is good as a whole. I like him best, though, in his own poetry.
"Murray writes that they want to act the Tragedy of Marino Faliero--more
fools they, it was written for the closet. I have protested against this
piece of usurpation, (which, it seems, is legal for managers over any
printed work, against the author's will,) and I hope they will not
attempt it. Why don't they bring out some of the numberless aspirants
for theatrical celebrity, now encumbering their shelves, instead of
lugging me out of the library? I have written a fierce protest against
any such attempt, but I still would hope that it will not be necessary,
and that they will see, at once, that it is not intended for the stage.
It is too regular--the time, twenty-four hours--the change of place not
frequent--nothing _melo_dramatic--no surprises, no starts, nor
trap-doors, nor opportunities 'for tossing their heads and kicking their
heels'--and no _love_--the grand ingredient of a modern play.
"I have found out the seal cut on Murray's letter. It is meant for
Walter Scott--or _Sir_ Walter--he is the first poet knighted since Sir
Richard Blackmore. But it does not do him justice.
Scott's--particularly when he recites--is a very intelligent
countenance, and this seal says nothing.
"Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. His novels are
a new literature in themselves, and his poetry as good as any--if not
better (only on an erroneous system)--and only ceased to be so popular,
because the vulgar learned were tired of hearing 'Aristides called the
Just,' and Scott the Best, and ostracised him.
"I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the extreme
pleasantness of his conversation, and his good-nature towards myself,
personally. May he prosper!--for he deserves it. I know no reading to
which I fall with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott's. I shall give
the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contesse G. this evening,
who will be curious to have the effigies of a man so celebrated.
"How strange are our thoughts, &c. &c. &c.[19]
[Footnote 19: Here follows a long passage, already extracted, relative
to his early friend, Edward Noel Long.]
"Midnight.
"Read the Italian translation by Guido Sorelli of the German
Grillparzer--a devil of a name, to be sure, for posterity; but they
_must_ learn to pronounce it. With all the allowance for a
_translation_, and above all, an _Italian_ translation (they are the
very worst of translators, except from the Classics--Annibale Caro, for
instance--and _there_, the bastardy of their language helps them, as, by
way of _looking legitimate_, they ape their father's tongue);--but with
every allowance for such a disadvantage, the tragedy of Sappho is superb
and sublime! There is no denying it. The man has done a great thing in
writing that play. And _who is he?_ I know him not; but _ages will_.
'Tis a high intellect.
"I must premise, however, that I have read _nothing_ of Adolph Müllner's
(the author of 'Guilt'), and much less of Goethe, and Schiller, and
Wieland, than I could wish. I only know them through the medium of
English, French, and Italian translations. Of the _real_ language I know
absolutely nothing,--except oaths learnt from postilions and officers in
a squabble. I can _swear_ in German potently, when I
like--'Sacrament--Verfluchter--Hundsfott'--and so forth; but I have
little of their less energetic conversation.
"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.'