There are men here however who, because they are not quite in the gay world, keep themselves awake whole nights at study; and much has been told me, of a collection of books belonging to a private scholar, Pinelli, who goes very little out, as worthy attentive examination.

All literary topics are pleasingly discussed at Quirini’s Casino, where every thing may be learned by the conversation of the company, as Doctor Johnson said of his literary Club; but more agreeably, because women are always half the number of persons admitted here.

One evening our society was amused by the entrance of a foreign nobleman, exactly what we should in London emphatically call a Character,—­learned, loud, and overbearing; though of a carriage that impressed great esteem.  I have not often listened to so well-furnished a talker; nor one more capable of giving great information.  He had seen the Pyramids of Egypt, he told us; had climbed Mount Horeb, and visited Damascus; but possessed the art of detaining our attention more on himself, than on the things or places he harangued about; for conversation that can scarcely be called, where one man holds the company suspended on his account of matters pompously though instructively related.  He staid here a very little while among us; is a native of France, a grandee of Spain, a man of uncommon talents, and a traveller.  I should be sorry never to meet him more.

The Abate Arteaga, a Spanish ecclesiastic of the same agreeable coterie, seemed of a very different and far more pleasing character;—­full of general knowledge, eminent in particular scholarship, elegant in his sentiments, and sound in his learning.  I liked his company exceedingly, and respected his opinions.

Zingarelli, the great musical composer, was another occasional member of this charming society:  his wit and repartie are famous, and his bons mots are repeated wherever one runs to.  I cannot translate any of them, but will write one down, which will make such of my readers laugh as understand Italian.—­The Emperor was at Milan, and asked Zingarelli his opinion of a favourite singer? “Io penso maesta che non e cattivo suddito del principi,” replied the master, “quantunque fara gran nemico di giove.” “How so?” enquired the King.—­“Maesta,” answered our lively Neapolitan, “ella sa naturalmente che Giove tuona, ma questo stuona.”  This we see at once was humour not wit; and sallies of humour are scarcely ever capable of translation.

An odd thing to which I was this morning witness, has called my thoughts away to a curious train of reflections upon the animal race; and how far they may be made companionable and intelligent.  The famous Ferdinand Bertoni, so well known in London by his long residence among us, and from the undisputed merit of his compositions, now inhabits this his native city, and being fond of dumb creatures, as we call them, took to petting a pigeon, one of the few