"Fine day. Read--rode--fired pistols, and returned. Dined--read. Went out at eight--made the usual visit. Heard of nothing but war,--'the cry is still, They come.' The Cari. seem to have no plan--nothing fixed among themselves, how, when, or what to do. In that case, they will make nothing of this project, so often postponed, and never put in action. "Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in case of circumstances requiring a change of place. I shall act according to what may seem proper, when I hear decidedly what the Barbarians mean to do. At present, they are building a bridge of boats over the Po, which looks very warlike. A few days will probably show. I think of retiring towards Ancona, nearer the northern frontier; that is to say, if Teresa and her father are obliged to retire, which is most likely, as all the family are Liberals. If not, I shall stay. But my movements will depend upon the lady's wishes--for myself, it is much the same. "I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my little daughter, and my effects, which are of some quantity and value,--and neither of them do in the seat of war, where I think of going. But there is an elderly lady who will take charge of _her_, and T. says that the Marchese C. will undertake to hold the chattels in safe keeping. Half the city are getting their affairs in marching trim. A pretty Carnival! The blackguards might as well have waited till Lent. "January 24. 1821. "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. "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 re-union 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 'Marishall Wells' says in the Black Dwarf.