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

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

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

"February 20. 1821.

"The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans are full of energy. The
public spirit here is certainly well kept up. The 'Americani' (a
patriotic society here, an under branch of the 'Carbonari') give a
dinner in _the Forest_ in a few days, and have invited me, as one of the
Ci. It is to be in _the Forest_ of Boccacio's and Dryden's 'Huntsman's
Ghost;' and, even if I had not the same political feelings, (to say
nothing of my old convivial turn, which every now and then revives,) I
would go as a poet, or, at least, as a lover of poetry. I shall expect
to see the spectre of 'Ostasio [24] degli On