“’For my first night I’ll go
      To those regions of snow
    Where the sun for six months never shines;
      And think, even then,
      He too soon came again,
    To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynes.’

“To-day I have had no communication with my Carbonari cronies; but, in the mean time, my lower apartments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and what not.  I suppose that they consider me as a depot, to be sacrificed, in case of accidents.  It is no great matter, supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed.  It is a grand object—­the very poetry of politics.  Only think—­a free Italy!!!  Why, there has been nothing like it since the days of Augustus.  I reckon the times of Caesar (Julius) free; because the commotions left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty equal at the set out.  But, afterwards, it was all praetorian and legionary business—­and since!—­we shall see, or, at least, some will see, what card will turn up.  It is best to hope, even of the hopeless.  The Dutch did more than these fellows have to do, in the Seventy Years’ War.

“February 19. 1821.

“Came home solus—­very high wind—­lightning—­moonshine—­solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks—­women in mask—­white houses—­clouds hurrying over the sky, like spilt milk blown out of the pail—­altogether very poetical.  It is still blowing hard—­the tiles flying, and the house rocking—­rain splashing—­lightning flashing—­quite a fine Swiss Alpine evening, and the sea roaring in the distance.

“Visited—­conversazione.  All the women frightened by the squall:  they won’t go to the masquerade because it lightens—­the pious reason!

“Still blowing away.  A. has sent me some news to-day.  The war approaches nearer and nearer.  Oh those scoundrel sovereigns!  Let us but see them beaten—­let the Neapolitans but have the pluck of the Dutch of old, or the Spaniards of now, or of the German Protestants, the Scotch Presbyterians, the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks under Themistocles—­all small and solitary nations (except the Spaniards and German Lutherans), and there is yet a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world.

“February 20. 1821.

“The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans are full of energy.  The public spirit here is certainly well kept up.  The ‘Americani’ (a patriotic society here, an under branch of the ‘Carbonari’) give a dinner in the Forest in a few days, and have invited me, as one of the Ci.  It is to be in the Forest of Boccacio’s and Dryden’s ’Huntsman’s Ghost;’ and, even if I had not the same political feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, which every now and then revives,) I would go as a poet, or, at least, as a lover of poetry.  I shall expect to see the spectre of ‘Ostasio [24] degli Onesti’ (Dryden has turned him into Guido Cavalcanti—­an essentially different person, as may be found in Dante) come ‘thundering for his prey’ in the midst of the festival.  At any rate, whether he does or no.  I will get as tipsy and patriotic as possible.