“I have been a day without continuing the log, because I could not find a blank book.  At length I recollected this.

“Rode, &c.—­dined—­wrote down an additional stanza for the 5th canto of D.J. which I had composed in bed this morning.  Visited l’Amica.  We are invited, on the night of the Veglione (next Domenica) with the Marchesa Clelia Cavalli and the Countess Spinelli Rusponi.  I promised to go.  Last night there was a row at the ball, of which I am a ‘socio.’  The Vice-legate had the imprudent insolence to introduce three of his servants in masque—­without tickets, too! and in spite of remonstrances.  The consequence was, that the young men of the ball took it up, and were near throwing the Vice-legate out of the window.  His servants, seeing the scene, withdrew, and he after them.  His reverence Monsignore ought to know, that these are not times for the predominance of priests over decorum.  Two minutes more, two steps farther, and the whole city would have been in arms, and the government driven out of it.

“Such is the spirit of the day, and these fellows appear not to perceive it.  As far as the simple fact went, the young men were right, servants being prohibited always at these festivals.

“Yesterday wrote two notes on the ‘Bowles and Pope’ controversy, and sent them off to Murray by the post.  The old woman whom I relieved in the forest (she is ninety-four years of age) brought me two bunches of violets.  ‘Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus,’ I was much pleased with the present.  An English woman would have presented a pair of worsted stockings, at least, in the month of February.  Both excellent things; but the former are more elegant.  The present, at this season, reminds one of Gray’s stanza, omitted from his elegy:—­

    Here scatter’d oft, the earliest of the year,
      By hands unseen, are showers of violets found;
    The red-breast loves to build and warble here,
      And little footsteps lightly print the ground.’

As fine a stanza as any in his elegy.  I wonder that he could have the heart to omit it.

“Last night I suffered horribly—­from an indigestion, I believe.  I never sup—­that is, never at home.  But, last night, I was prevailed upon by the Countess Gamba’s persuasion, and the strenuous example of her brother, to swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to dilute them, not reluctantly, with some Imola wine.  When I came home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swallowed three or four glasses of spirits, which men (the venders) call brandy, rum, or hollands, but which Gods would entitle spirits of wine, coloured or sugared.  All was pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat swollen, and considerably vertiginous.  I got out, and mixing some soda-powders, drank them off.  This brought on temporary relief.  I returned to bed; but grew sick and sorry once and again.  Took more soda-water.  At last I fell