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great appetite. There are a good many ill at present, I suppose, of the same.

I feel sorry for Horner,1 if there was any thing in the world to make him like it; and still more sorry for his friends, as there was much to make them regret him. I had not heard of his death till by your letter.

Some weeks ago I wrote to you my acknowledgments of W[alter] S[cott]'s article. Now I know it to be his, it cannot add to my good opinion of him, but it adds to that of myself. He, and Gifford, and Moore, are the only regulars I ever knew who had nothing of the Garrison about their manner: no nonsense, nor affectations, look you! As for the rest whom I have known, there was always more or less of the author about them --the pen peeping from behind the ear, and the thumbs a little inky, or so.

Lalla Rookh-you must recollect that, in the way of title, The Giaour 2 has never been pronounced to this day; and both it and Childe Harold sounded very formidable and facetious to the blue-bottles of wit and honour about town, till they were taught and startled into a proper deportment; and therefore Lalla Rookh, which is very orthodox and oriental, is as good a title as need be, if not better. I could wish rather that he had not called it "a Persian tale;" firstly, because we have had Turkish tales, and Hindoo tales, and Assyrian tales, already; and tale is a word of which it repents me to have nicknamed poesy. "Fable" would be better; and, secondly, "Persian "tale" reminds one of the lines of Pope on Ambrose

1. Francis Horner (see Letters, vol. ii. p. 353, note 4) died at Pisa, February 8, 1817. Dr. Polidori, who was studying at Pisa, was one of his attendants.

2. In Miss Austen's Persuasion (ch. xi.) Anne Elliot and Captain Benwick discuss "how ranked the Giaour and The Bride of Abydos, "and, moreover, how the Giaour was to be pronounced.'

Phillips; though no one can say, to be sure, that this tale has been "turned for half-a-crown;" still it is as well to avoid such clashings. "Persian story"-why not?-or romance? I feel as anxious for Moore as I could do for myself, for the soul of me, and I would not have him succeed otherwise than splendidly, which I trust he will do.

With regard to the "witch drama," I sent all the three acts by post, week after week, within this last month. I repeat that I have not an idea if it is good or bad. If bad, it must, on no account, be risked in publication; if good, it is at your service. I value it at three hundred guineas, or less, if you like it. Perhaps, if published, the best way will be to add it to your winter volume, and not publish separately. The price will show you I don't pique myself upon it; so speak out. You may put it in the fire, if you like, and Gifford don't like.

The Armenian Grammar is published-that is, one; the other is still in MS. My illness has prevented me from moving this month past, and I have done nothing more with the Armenian.

Of Italian or rather Lombard manners, I could tell you little or nothing. I went two or three times to the Governor's Conversazione, (and if you go once, you are free to go always,) at which, as I only saw very plain women,—a formal circle, in short a worse sort of rout, I did not go again. I went to some Academie and to Madame Albrizzi's, where I saw pretty much the same thing, with the addition of some literati, who are the same-blue by God! all the world over. I fell in love

1. Ambrose Philips (circa 1675-1749) translated, in 1709, the Contes Persans of Petit de la Croix. Pope attacked him in his Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot (line 179, et seqq.)—

"The bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,

Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown," etc., etc.

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87

the first week with Madame Segati, and I have continued so ever since, because she is very pretty and pleasing, and talks Venetian, which amuses me, and is naïve, and I can besides see her, and make love with her at all or any hours, which is convenient with my temperament.

I have seen all their spectacles and sights, but I do not know anything very worthy of observation except that the women kiss better than those of any other nation, which is notorious, and is attributed to the worship of images and the early habit of osculation induced thereby.

Very truly yours,

B.

P.S.-Pray send the red tooth-powder by a safe hand and speedily.1

To hook the Reader, you, John Murray,

Have published "Anjou's Margaret,"
Which won't be sold off in a hurry,

(At least, it has not been as yet);
And then, still further to bewilder him,
Without remorse you set up "Ilderim ;

So mind you don't get into debt,—
Because as how-if you should fail,
These books would be but baddish bail.
And mind you do not let escape

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry,
Which would be very treacherous-very,

And get me into such a scrape!
For, firstly, I should have to sally,

All in my little boat, against a Galley;

1. Here follow the same rhymes ("I read the Christabel," etc.) which have already been given on p. 79.

And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight,
Have next to combat with the female knight.
And pricked to death expire upon her needle,

A sort of end which I should take indeed ill!

You may show these matters to Moore and the select, but not to the prophane; and tell Moore that I wonder he don't write to me now and then.

640.-To Thomas Moore.

Venice, March 31, 1817.

You will begin to think my epistolary offerings (to whatever altar you please to devote them) rather prodigal. But until you answer, I shall not abate, because you deserve no better. I know you are well, because I hear of your voyaging to London and the environs, which I rejoice to learn, because your note alarmed me by the purgation and phlebotomy therein prognosticated. I also hear of your being in the press; all which, methinks, might have furnished you with subject-matter for a middle-sized letter, considering that I am in foreign parts, and that the last month's advertisements and obituary would be absolute news to me from your Tramontane country.

I told you, in my last, I have had a smart fever. There is an epidemic in the place; but I suspect, from the symptoms, that mine was a fever of my own, and had nothing in common with the low, vulgar typhus, which is at this moment decimating Venice, and which has half unpeopled Milan, if the accounts be true. This malady has sorely discomfited my serving men, who want sadly to be gone away, and get me to remove. But, besides my natural perversity, I was seasoned in Turkey, by the continual whispers of the plague, against apprehensions

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89

of contagion. Besides which, apprehension would not prevent it; and then I am still in love, and "forty thou"sand" fevers should not make me stir before my minute, while under the influence of that paramount delirium. Seriously speaking, there is a malady rife in the city-a dangerous one, they say. However, mine did not appear so, though it was not pleasant.

This is Passion-week-and twilight-and all the world are at vespers. They have an eternal churching, as in all Catholic countries, but are not so bigoted as they seem to be in Spain.

I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that you are leaving Mayfield. Had I ever been at Newstead during your stay there, (except during the winter of 1813-14, when the roads were impracticable,) we should have been within hail, and I should like to have made a giro of the Peak with you. I know that country well, having been all over it when a boy. Was you ever in Dovedale? I can assure you there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or Switzerland. But you had always a lingering after London, and I don't wonder at it. I liked it as well as any body, myself, now and then.

Will you remember me to Rogers? whom I presume to be flourishing, and whom I regard as our poetical papa. You are his lawful son, and I the illegitimate. Has he begun yet upon Sheridan ?1 If you see our republican friend, Leigh Hunt, pray present my remembrances. I saw about nine months ago that he was in a row (like my friend Hobhouse) with the Quarterly Reviewers. For my part, I never could understand these quarrels of authors with critics and with one

1. Moore's Life of Sheridan, a work in which (see his Diary for October 18-22, 1818, Memoirs, etc., vol. ii. pp. 191-200) he received considerable help from Rogers, was published in October, 1825.