Part 5
"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.