of violets found;
The red-breast loves to build and warble here,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.'

As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that he could have the
heart to omit it.

"Last night I suffered horribly--from an indigestion, I believe. I
_never_ sup--that is, never at home. But, last night, I was prevailed
upon by the Countess Gamba's persuasion, and the strenuous example of
her brother, to swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to
dilute them, _not_ reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When I came home,
apprehensive of the consequences, I swallowed three or four glasses of
spirits, which men (the venders) call brandy, rum, or hollands, but
which Gods would entitle spirits of wine, coloured or sugared. All was
pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat swollen, and
considerably vertiginous. I got out, and mixing some soda-powders, drank
them off. This brought on temporary relief. I returned to bed; but grew
sick and sorry once and again. Took more soda-water. At last I fell into
a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill all day, till I had galloped a few
miles. Query--was it the cockles, or what I took to correct them, that
caused the commotion? I think both. I remarked in my illness the
complete inertion, inaction, and destruction of my chief mental
faculties. I tried to rouse them, and yet could not--and this is the
_Soul!!!_ I should believe that it was married to the body, if they did
not sympathise so much with each other. If the one rose, when the other
fell, it would be a sign that they longed for the natural state of
divorce. But as it is, they seem to draw together like post-horses.

"Let us hope the best--it is the grand possession."

* * * * *

During the two months comprised in this Journal, some of the Letters of
the following series were written. The reader must, therefore, be
prepared to find in them occasional notices of the same train of events.

* * * * *

LETTER 404. TO MR. MOORE.

"Ravenna, January 2. 1821.

"Your entering into my project for the Memoir is pleasant to me.
But I doubt (contrary to my dear Made Mac F * *, whom I always
loved, and always shall--not only because I really _did_ feel
attached to her _personally_, but because she and about a dozen
others of that sex were all who stuck by me in the grand conflict
of 1815)--but I