Florence, November 5.—A rainy day. I went, however, to see my friend Bellocq, whom I knew in Madrid as Secretary of the French Embassy there, and who is here Charge d'affaires from France, a bachelor, grown old, and somewhat delabre, but apparently with as much bonhomie as ever.
I drove, too, to Greenough's house, but found he had gone to the United States;
Horatio Greenough, the American sculptor. . . . . but I did little elsido's conjugium vocat, hoc proetexit nomine culpam,— and when she died she left him all her property; so the Palazzo Alfieri, as it is called, is turned into a lodging-house, and all Alfieri's books and manuscripts are carried off to the South of France, except a duplicate copy of his Tragedies, which Monsieur Fabre gave to the Laurentian Library.
This annoys the Italians, and so much the more, because Alfieri, not in legal, but in poetical form, by a sonnet, had signified his wish that his lib