ster, had been
named poet to the emperor. What a dishonour to the memory of the great
Metastasio, a man free from all vices, adorned with all virtues, and of
the most singular ability.

Casti had neither a fine style, nor a knowledge of dramatic requirements,
as appears from two or three comic operas composed by him, in which the
reader will find nothing but foolish buffooneries badly put together. In
one of these comic operas he makes use of slander against King Theodore
and the Venetian Republic, which he turns into ridicule by means of
pitiful lies.

In another piece called The Cave of Trophonius, Casti made himself the
laughing-stock of the literary world by making a display of useless
learning which contributes nothing towards the plot.

Among the persons of quality who came to Gorice, I met a certain Count
Torriano, who persuaded me to spend the autumn with him at a country
house of his six miles from Gorice.

If I had listened to the voice of my good genius I should certainly never
have gone.

The count was under thirty, and was not married. He could not exactly be
called ugly in spite of his hangdog countenance, in which I saw the
outward signs of cruelty, disloyalty, treason, pride, brutal sensuality,
hatred, and jealousy. The mixture of bad qualities was such an appalling
one that I thought his physiognomy was at fault, and the goods better
than the sign. He asked me to come and see him so graciously that I
concluded that the man gave the lie to his face.

I asked about him before accepting the invitation, and I heard nothing
but good. People certainly said he was fond of the fair sex, and was a
fierce avenger of any wrong done to him, but not thinking either of these
characteristics unworthy of a gentleman I accepted his invitation. He
told me that he would expect me to meet him at Gorice on the first day of
September, and that the next day we would leave for his estate.

In consequence of Torriano's invitation I took leave of everybody,
especially of Count Wagensberg, who had a serious attack of that malady
which yields so easily to mercury when it is administered by a skilled
hand, but which kills the unfortunate who falls amongst quacks. Such was
the fate of the poor count; he died a month after I had left Trieste.

I left Trieste in the morning, dined at Proseco, and reached Gorice in
good time. I called at Count Louis Torriano's mansion, but was told he
was out. However, they allowed me to depos