December 8.—­In beginning another volume, I feel almost inclined to throw the last into the fire; as in writing it I have generally begun the record of one day by tearing away the half of what was written the day before:  but though it contains much that I would rather forget, and some things written under the impression of pain, and sick and irritable feelings, I will not yet ungratefully destroy it.  I have frequently owed to my little Diary not amusement only, but consolation.  It has gradually become not only the faithful depository of my recollections, but the confidante of my feelings, and the sole witness of my tears.  I know not if this be wise:  but if it be folly, I have the comfort of knowing that a mere act of my will destroys for ever the record of my weakness; and meantime a confidante whose mouth is sealed with a patent lock and key, and whom I can put out of existence in a single moment, is not dangerous; so, as Lord Byron elegantly expresses it, “Here goes.”

We left Florence this morning; and saw the sun rise upon a country so enchantingly beautiful, that I dare not trust myself to description; but I felt it, and still feel it—­almost in my heart.  The blue cloudless sky, the sun pouring his beams upon a land, which even in this wintry season smiles when others languish—­the soft varied character of the scenery, comprising every species of natural beauty—­the green slope, the woody hill, the sheltered valley,—­the deep dales, into which we could just peep, as the carriage whirled us too rapidly by—­the rugged fantastic rocks, cultivated plains, and sparkling rivers, and, beyond all, the chain of the Apennines with light clouds floating across them, or resting in their recesses—­all this I saw, and felt, and shall not forget.

I write this at Arezzo, the birth-place of Petrarch, of Redi, of Pignotti, and of that Guido who discovered Counter-point.  Whether Arezzo is remarkable for any thing else, I am too sleepy to recollect:  and as we depart early to-morrow morning, it would only tantalize me to remember.  We arrived here late, by the light of a most resplendent moon.  If such is this country in winter, what must it be in summer?

9th, at Perugia.—­All the beauties of natural scenery have been combined with historical associations, to render our journey of to-day most interesting; and with a mind more at ease, nothing has been wanting to render this one of the most delightful days I have spent abroad.

At Cortona, Hannibal slept the night before the battle of Thrasymene.  Soon after leaving this town on our left, we came in view of the lake, and the old tower on its banks.  There is an ancient ruin on a high eminence to the left, which our postilion called the “Forteressa di Annibale il Carthago.”  Further on, the Gualandra hills seem to circle round the lake; and here was the scene of the battle.  The channel of the Sanguinetto, which then ran red with the best blood of Rome and Carthage, was dry when we crossed it—­