The evening previous to my quitting Naples, 22nd May, I walked in the Villa Reale after supper with Ly. Plymouth, Ld. Berwick,[37] and Italinski. The latter was much dejected at my approaching absence, and I really was affected by his sorrow, as he is not a man to say lightly things he does not feel. He said when I went he should imitate Mark Antony, who after his defeat retired to Alexandria and wrote _Timoleon_ [_sic_] over his door, thereby declaring he was become a misanthrope. I was sorry at leaving Ly. P., because, tho’ I am not very prudent, I think she is less so, and I might have kept her out of the scrape she is on the brink of falling into, for Ld. Berwick remains the whole summer. Lord Palmerston, comically enough, calls them ‘Cymon and Iphigenia,’ for till their attachment began Ld. B. was never heard to speak: love roused him. On the 23rd the Websters left Naples for Capua, ‘the antidote to all pleasure at present from its filth and dulness,’ and continuing their journey crossed the River Garigliano. The gayest scenes until Mola di Gaeta, the verdure, the festoons of vines hanging between the trees, with the glow of a crimson sun sinking into the Mediterranean. Upon my arrival at Mola I dined, and in the evening was tempted by the beauty of the moon to row upon the sea within the bay for a short time. Early in the morning, by seven, I was again in the boat, and examined the extensive remains of Cicero’s Formian Villa. The bath is the principal object; it is beautiful. It is in a covered recess _dans le fond d’un beau salon_, with columns on each side: adjoining to it there are many rooms, high and narrow, and very like those at Pompeia. The fishponds are large. I did not go to Gaeta, distant about three miles: I regretted the impracticability of the disposition of him who invariably checks all I wish to do. There are still preserved unburied the bones of the Connétable de Bourbon, his adherents not venturing to inter in consecrated ground one who had perished in a sacrilegious act. He was killed in 1527, in the assault of Rome. Benvenuto Cellini in his entertaining Life of Himself assumes the honour of marking him with his _scoppietto_ and killing him, but this _glory_ rests upon his own assertion. There are few characters in history more deserving of compassion and indulgence than this high-spirited and unfortunate Constable. The caresses and revenge of Louisa de Savoie offended and urged him to be a traitor; the one he rejected (?), the other he resisted. Thus he became her victim beyond her wishes, for by deserting his country and adding infamy to his name, he deprived her of her hopes of making him yield to her desires.