outh;
they are pale, but not fair; and their gestures are neither plastic
nor graceful. In fact, in all that I have seen here, I am sadly
disappointed-all, save the Raffaelle's! they are above my conception of
them.

How much of this lies in myself I dare not stop to inquire; a large
share, perhaps, but assuredly not all. This climate should be avoided
by those of weak chest. Symptoms of further "breaking-up" crowd upon me
each day; and this burning sun and piercing wind make a sad conflict in
the debilitated frame. But where to go, where to seek out a quiet spot
to linger a few days and die! Rome is in all the agonies of its
mock liberty--Naples in open revolt: here, where I am, all rule and
government have ceased to exist; the mob have every thing at their
mercy: that they have not abused their power, is more owing to their
ignorance than their honour. When the Irish rebels carried the town
of Ross by storm, they broke into the grocers' shops to eat sugar!
The Florentines having bullied the Duke, are only busied about the new
uniforms of their Civic Guard!

Hitherto the reforms have gone no further than in organising this same
National Guard, and in thrashing the police authorities wherever found.
Now, bad as this police was, it was still the only protection to the
public peace. It exists no longer; and Tuscany has made her first step
in liberty "_en Americaine_" by adopting "Lynch Law."

I was about to note down a singular instance of this indignant justice
of the people, when the arrival of a letter, in a hand unknown to
me, suddenly-routed all my intentions. If I am able to record the
circumstance here, calmly and without emotion, it is neither from that
philosophy the world teaches, nor from any higher motive--it is merely
on the same principle that one would bear with tolerable equanimity the
break-down of a carriage when within a few miles of the journey's end!
The fact, then, is simply this, that I, Horace Templeton, whose draughts
a few days back might have gone far into the "tens of thousands,"
without fear of "dishonour," am now ruined! When we read this solemn
word in the newspapers, we at once look back to the rank and station of
him whose ruin is predicated. A Duke is "ruined" when he must sell
three packs of hounds, three studs of horses, four of his five or six
mansions, part with his yacht at Cowes, and his racers at Newmarket,
and retire to the Continent with a beggarly pittance of some fifteen
th