"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.
"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.