Monday, February 4.—Breakfast with the Williams’. Edward, Jane, and Trelawny go to Leghorn. Walk with Jane. Southey’s letter concerning Lord Byron. Write to Clare. In the evening the Gambas and Taafe.
Thursday, February 7.—Read Homer, Tacitus, and Emile. Shelley and Edward depart for La Spezzia. Walk with Jane, and to the Opera with her in the evening. With E. Trelawny afterwards to Mrs. Beauclerc’s ball. During a long, long evening in mixed society how often do one’s sensations change, and, swiftly as the west wind drives the shadows of clouds across the sunny hill or the waving corn, so swift do sensations pass, painting—yet, oh! not disfiguring—the serenity of the mind. It is then that life seems to weigh itself, and hosts of memories and imaginations, thrown into one scale, make the other kick the beam. You remember what you have felt, what you have dreamt; yet you dwell on the shadowy side, and lost hopes and death, such as you have seen it, seem to cover all things with a funeral pall.
The time that was, is, and will be, presses upon you, and, standing the centre of a moving circle, you “slide giddily as the world reels.” You look to heaven, and would demand of the everlasting stars that the thoughts and passions which are your life may be as ever-living as they. You would demand of the blue empyrean that your mind might be as clear as it, and that the tears which gather in your eyes might be the shower that would drain from its profoundest depths the springs of weakness and sorrow. But where are the stars? Where the blue empyrean? A ceiling clouds that, and a thousand swift consuming lights supply the place of the eternal ones of heaven. The enthusiast suppresses her tears, crushes her opening thoughts, and.... But all is changed; some word, some look excite the lagging blood, laughter dances in the eyes, and the spirits rise proportionably high.
The Queen is all for revels, her light heart,
Unladen from the heaviness of state,
Bestows itself upon delightfulness.
Friday, February 8.—Sometimes I awaken from my visionary monotony, and my thoughts flow until, as it is exquisite pain to stop the flowing of the blood, so is it painful to check expression and make the overflowing mind return to its usual channel. I feel a kind of tenderness to those, whoever they may be (even though strangers), who awaken the train and touch a chord so full of harmony and thrilling music, when I would tear the veil from this strange world, and pierce with eagle eyes beyond the sun; when every idea, strange and changeful, is another step in the ladder by which I would climb....
Read Emile. Jane dines with me, walk with her. E. Trelawny and Jane in the evening. Trelawny tells us a number of amusing stories of his early life. Read third canto of L’Inferno.
They say that Providence is shown by the extraction that may be ever made of good from evil, that we draw our virtues from our faults. So I am to thank God for making me weak. I might say, “Thy will be done,” but I cannot applaud the permitter of self-degradation, though dignity and superior wisdom arise from its bitter and burning ashes.
Saturday, February 9.—Read Emile. Walk with Jane, and ride with T. Guiccioli. Dine with Jane. Taafe and T. Medwin call. I retire with E. Trelawny, who amuses me as usual by the endless variety of his adventures and conversation.
Mary to Mrs. Gisborne.
Pisa, 9th February 1822.