The subject of one of his tragedies is to be the Sicilian Vespers.  Casimir Delavigne, who wrote Les Vepres Siciliennes, which obtained some years ago such amazing popularity at Paris, and in which the national vanity of the French is flattered at the expense of the Italians, received a pension from Louis XVIII.  B** spoke with contempt of Casimir Delavigne’s tragedy, and with indignation of what he called “his wilful misrepresentation of history.”  He is determined to give the reverse of the picture:  the French will be represented as “gente crudeli—­tiranni—­oppressori, senza fede;” Giovanni di Procida, as a hero and patriot, a l’antique, and the Sicilians as rising in defence of their freedom and national honour.  The other tragedy is to be founded on the history of the famous Congiura dei Baroni in the reign of Ferdinand the First, as related by Giannone.  The simple facts of this history need not any ornaments, borrowed from invention or poetry, to form a most interesting tale, and furnish ample materials for a beautiful tragedy, in incident, characters, and situations.  B** is a little man, dwarfish and almost deformed in person; but full of talent, spirit, and enthusiasm.  I asked him why he did not immediately finish these tragedies, which appeared from the sketches he had given me, so admirably calculated to succeed.  He replied, that under the present regime, he dared not write up to his own conceptions; and if he curbed his genius, he could do nothing; “Besides,” added he mournfully, “I have no time; I am poor—­poverissimo!  I must work hard all to-day to supply the wants of to-morrow:  I am always surveille by the police, as a known liberal and literato.” “Davvero,” added he, gaily, “I would soon do, or say, or write something to attract the honour of their more particular notice, if I could be certain they would only imprison me for a couple of years, and ensure me during that time a blanket, bread and water, and the use of pen and ink:  then I would write!  I would write! dalla mattina alla sera; and thank my gaolers as my best friends:  but pens are poignards, ink is poison in the eyes of the present government; imprisonment for life, or banishment, is the least I could expect.  Now the mere idea of imprisonment for life would kill me in a week, and banishment!—­Ah lungi dalla mia bella Patria, come cantare! come scrivere! come vivere! moriro io anzi nell’ momento di partire!”

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I drove to-day, tete-a-tete with Laura, to the Lago d’Agnano, about a mile and a half beyond Pausilippo.  This lovely fair lake is not more than two miles in circuit; and embosomed in romantic woody hills:  innumerable flocks of wild fowl were skimming over its surface, and gave life and motion to the beautiful but quiet landscape.  While we were wandering here, enjoying the stillness and solitude, so delightfully contrasted with the unceasing noise, bustle, and crowd