“In the same year, 1820, the Countess T.G. nata Ga.  Gi. in despite of all I said and did to prevent it, would separate from her husband, Il Cavalier Commendatore Gi. &c. &c. &c. and all on the account of ’P.P. clerk of this parish.’  The other little petty vexations of the year—­overturns in carriages—­the murder of people before one’s door, and dying in one’s beds—­the cramp in swimming—­colics—­indigestions and bilious attacks, &c. &c. &c.—­

    Many small articles make up a sum,
    And hey ho for Caleb Quotem, oh!”

“January 25. 1821.

“Received a letter from Lord S.O. state secretary of the Seven Islands—­a fine fellow—­clever—­dished in England five years ago, and came abroad to retrench and to renew.  He wrote from Ancona, in his way back to Corfu, on some matters of our own.  He is son of the late Duke of L. by a second marriage.  He wants me to go to Corfu.  Why not?—­perhaps I may, next spring.

“Answered Murray’s letter—­read—­lounged.  Scrawled this additional page of life’s log-book.  One day more is over of it and of me:—­but ’which is best, life or death, the gods only know,’ as Socrates said to his judges, on the breaking up of the tribunal.  Two thousand years since that sage’s declaration of ignorance have not enlightened us more upon this important point; for, according to the Christian dispensation, no one can know whether he is sure of salvation—­even the most righteous—­since a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, like a skaiter, while gliding smoothly to his paradise.  Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in the facts may be, the certainty of the individual as to his happiness or misery is no greater than it was under Jupiter.

“It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a ’grand peut-etre’—­but still it is a grand one.  Every body clings to it—­the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.

“January 26. 1821.

“Fine day—­a few mares’ tails portending change, but the sky clear, upon the whole.  Rode—­fired pistols—­good shooting.  Coming back, met an old man.  Charity—­purchased a shilling’s worth of salvation.  If that was to be bought, I have given more to my fellow-creatures in this life—­sometimes for vice, but, if not more often, at least more considerably, for virtue—­than I now possess.  I never in my life gave a mistress so much as I have sometimes given a poor man in honest distress; but no matter.  The scoundrels who have all along persecuted me (with the help of * * who has crowned their efforts) will triumph;—­and, when justice is done to me, it will be when this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts which have stung me.