is hemmed in to a narrow and still narrower circle; till at last the moss of years and hopelessness gathers over and deadens his mind. For the present governments of Italy know that there is a spirit abroad in that country, which forces every Italian that thinks and feels, to hate them and rebel in his heart.
Still no letter: the mystery of its non-appearance grows darker. I have been better off these last few days, from the arrival of the friends who accompanied us down the Moselle. With them I have revisited the Brera, and their society has cheered me. They are gone, and I am fallen again into solitude and perplexity.
At last there is change; my letter is come, or rather I have found it, for it has been here almost ever since our arrival—long before I was left alone. I had as usual visited the post-office, and looked over the letters arrived this day—in vain. I then asked for yesterday’s letters; yesterday was not post-day from England, and I had not visited the office; but letters might have come to me from Venice or Florence. The huge packet of all the
