ed 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, an