“Returned—met some masques in the Corso—‘Vive la bagatelle!’—the Germans are on the Po, the Barbarians at the gate, and their masters in council at Leybach (or whatever the eructation of the sound may syllable into a human pronunciation), and lo! they dance and sing, and make merry, ‘for to-morrow they may die.’ Who can say that the Arlequins are not right? Like the Lady Baussiere, and my old friend Burton—I ‘rode on.’
“Dined—(damn this pen!)—beef tough—there is no beef in Italy worth a curse; unless a man could eat an old ox with the hide on, singed in the sun.
| 416 | NOTICES OF THE | A. D. 1821. |
“The principal persons in the events which may occur in a few days are gone out on a shooting party. If it were like a ‘highland hunting,’ a pretext of the chase for a grand reunion of counsellors and chiefs, it would be all very well. But it is nothing more or less than a real snivelling, popping, small-shot, water-hen waste of powder, ammunition, and shot, for their own special amusement:—a rare set of fellows for ‘a man to risk his neck with,’ as ‘Marishal Wells’ says in the Black Dwarf.
If they gather,—‘whilk is to be doubted,’—they will not muster a thousand men. The reason of this is, that the populace are not interested,—only the higher and middle orders. I wish that the peasantry were: they are a fine savage race of two-legged leopards. But the Bolognese won’t—the Romagnuoles can’t without them. Or, if they try—what then? They will try, and man can do no more—and, if he would but try his utmost, much might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against the Spaniards—then, the tyrants of Europe—since, the slaves—and, lately, the freedmen.
“The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the individual me, whatever it may be for the nations. I lost a lawsuit, after two decisions in my favour. The project of lending money on an Irish mortgage was finally rejected by my wife’s trustee after a year’s hope and trouble. The Rochdale lawsuit had endured fifteen years, and always prospered till I married; since which, every thing has gone wrong—with me, at least.
“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..
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‘Many small articles make up a sum,
And hey ho for Caleb Quotem, oh!’
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