“This morning I gat me up late, as usual—­weather bad—­bad as England—­worse.  The snow of last week melting to the sirocco of to-day, so that there were two d——­d things at once.  Could not even get to ride on horseback in the forest.  Stayed at home all the morning—­looked at the fire—­wondered when the post would come.  Post came at the Ave Maria, instead of half-past one o’clock, as it ought, Galignani’s Messengers, six in number—­a letter from Faenza, but none from England.  Very sulky in consequence (for there ought to have been letters), and ate in consequence a copious dinner; for when I am vexed, it makes me swallow quicker—­but drank very little.

“I was out of spirits—­read the papers—­thought what fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that ’Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused.  He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing for waste paper, &c. &c.  In the cheese was found, &c. and a leaf of Pamela wrapt round the bacon.’ What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living authors (i.e. while alive)—­he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature) and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets)—­what would he have said, could he have traced his pages from their place on the French prince’s toilets (see Boswell’s Johnson) to the grocer’s counter and the gipsy-murderess’s bacon!!!

“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.