spirits; but I am out of sorts, out of nerves, and now and then (I begin to fear) out of my senses.  All this Italy has done for me, and not England:  I defy all you, and your climate to boot, to make me mad.  But if ever I do really become a bedlamite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back among you; your people will then be proper company.

“I assure you what I here say and feel has nothing to do with England, either in a literary or personal point of view.  All my present pleasures or plagues are as Italian as the opera.  And after all, they are but trifles; for all this arises from my ‘Dama’s’ being in the country for three days (at Capo-fiume).  But as I could never live but for one human being at a time, (and, I assure you, that one has never been myself, as you may know by the consequences, for the selfish are successful in life,) I feel alone and unhappy.

“I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and I ride daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple canopy of grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk with the gardener of his tools, which seem greater than Adam’s, and with his wife, and with his son’s wife, who is the youngest of the party, and, I think, talks best of the three.  Then I revisit the Campo Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, has two—­but one the prettiest daughter imaginable; and I amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and innocent face of fifteen with the skulls with which he has peopled several cells, and particularly with that of one skull dated 1766, which was once covered (the tradition goes) by the most lovely features of Bologna—­noble and rich.  When I look at these, and at this girl—­when I think of what they were, and what she must be—­why, then, my dear Murray, I won’t shock you by saying what I think.  It is little matter what becomes of us ‘bearded men,’ but I don’t like the notion of a beautiful woman’s lasting less than a beautiful tree—­than her own picture—­her own shadow, which won’t change so to the sun as her face to the mirror.  I must leave off, for my head aches consumedly.  I have never been quite well since the night of the representation of Alfieri’s Mirra, a fortnight ago.  Yours ever.”

[Footnote 46: 

    “Am I now reposing on a bed of flowers?”

See ROBERTSON.]

* * * * *

LETTER 340.  TO MR. MURRAY.

     “Bologna, August 29. 1819.

“I have been in a rage these two days, and am still bilious therefrom.  You shall hear.  A captain of dragoons, * *, Hanoverian by birth, in the Papal troops at present, whom I had obliged by a loan when nobody would lend him a paul, recommended a horse to me, on sale by a Lieutenant * *, an officer who unites the sale of cattle to the purchase of men.  I bought it.  The next day, on shoeing the horse,