[Footnote 21: Thus marked, with impatient strokes of the pen, by himself in the original.] "Past Midnight. One o' the clock. "I have been reading W.F.S * * (brother to the other of the name) till now, and I can make out nothing. He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitt, in English, who _talks pimples_--a red and white corruption rising up (in little imitation of mountains upon maps), but containing nothing, and discharging nothing, except their own humours. "I dislike him the worse, (that is, S * *,) because he always seems upon the verge of meaning; and, lo, he goes down like sunset, or melts like a rainbow, leaving a rather rich confusion,--to which, however, the above comparisons do too much honour. "Continuing to read Mr. F. S * *. He is not such a fool as I took him for, that is to say, when he speaks of the North. But still he speaks of things _all over the world_ with a kind of authority that a philosopher would disdain, and a man of common sense, feeling, and knowledge of his own ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is evidently wanting to make an impression, like his brother,--or like George in the Vicar of Wakefield, who found out that all the good things had been said already on the right side, and therefore 'dressed up some paradoxes' upon the wrong side--ingenious, but false, as he himself says--to which 'the learned world said nothing, nothing at all, sir.' The 'learned world,' however, _has_ said something to the brothers S * *. "It is high time to think of something else. What they say of the antiquities of the North is best. "January 29. 1821. "Yesterday, the woman of ninety-five years of age was with me. She said her eldest son (if now alive) would have been seventy. She is thin--short, but active--hears, and sees, and talks incessantly. Several teeth left--all in the lower jaw, and single front teeth. She is very deeply wrinkled, and has a sort of scattered grey beard over her chin, at least as long as my mustachios. Her head, in fact, resembles the drawing in crayons of Pope the poet's mother, which is in some editions of his works. "I forgot to ask her if she remembered Alberoni (legate here), but will ask her next time. Gave her a louis--ordered her a new suit of clothes, and put her upon a weekly pension. Till now, she had worked at gathering wood and pine-nuts in the forest,--pretty work at ninety-five years old! She had a dozen children, of whom some are alive. Her name is Maria Montanari. "Met a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal Club) called the 'Americani' in the forest, all armed, and singing, with all their might, in Romagnuole--'_Sem_ tutti soldat' per la liberta' ('we are all soldiers for liberty'). They cheered me as I passed--I returned their salute, and rode on. This may show the spirit of Italy at present.