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with the disease of domestic felicity, besides being overrun with fine feelings about women and constancy (that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal;) but, otherwise, a very worthy man, who has lately got a pretty wife, and (I suppose) a child by this time. Pray remember me to him, and say that I know not which to envy most--his neighbourhood, him, or you.
Of Venice I shall say little. You must have seen many descriptions; and they and they are most of them like. It is a poetical place; and classical, to us, from Shakspeare and Otway. I have not yet sinned against it in verse, nor do I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since I crossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the "estro." By the way, I suppose you have seen "Glenarvon." Madame de Sta?l lent it me to read from Copet last autumn. It seems to me that, if the authoress had written the truth, and nothing but the truth--the whole truth--the romance would not only have been more romantic, but more entertaining. As for the likeness, the picture can't be good--I did not sit long enough. When you have leisure, let me hear from and of you, believing me ever and truly yours most affectionately.
B.
P.S. Oh! _your Poem_--is it out? I hope Longman has paid his thousands; but don't you do as H---- T----'s father did, who, having, made money by a quarto tour, became a vinegar merchant; when, lo! his vinegar turned sweet (and be d----d to it) and ruined him. My last letter to you (from Verona) was inclosed to Murray--have you got it? Direct to me _here, poste restante_. There are no English here at present. There were several in Switzerland--some women; but, except Lady Dalrymple Hamilton, most of them as ugly as virtue--at least those that I saw."
AT VENICE.
_To Mr. Moore._
"Venice, December 24th, 1816.
"I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends postage--once from Verona--once from Venice, and again from Venice--thrice that is. For this you may thank yourself, for I heard that you complained of my silence--so here goes for garrulity.
"I trust that you received my other twain of letters. My 'way of life' (or 'May of life,' which is it, according to the commentators?)--my 'way of life' is fallen into great regularity. In the mornings I go over in my gondola to hobble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. Lazarus, and to help one of them in correcting the English of an English and Armenian grammar which he is publishing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings--either at the theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which are like our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semicircle by the lady of the mansion, and the men stand about the room. To be sure, there is one improvement upon ours--instead of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff _rum-punch--punch_, by my palate; and this they think English. I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an error--'no, not for Venice.'
"Last night I was at the Count Governor's, which, of course, comprises the best society, and is very much like other gregarious meetings in every country--as in ours--except that, instead of the Bishop of Winchester, you have the Patriarch of Venice; and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans, noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, you may be sure he is a consul. Oh, by the way, I forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you that at Milan I met with a countryman of yours--a Colonel ----, a very excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows all about Milan, and is, as it were, a native there. He is particularly civil to strangers, and this is his history--at least an episode of it.
"Six-and-twenty years ago, Colonel ----, then an ensign, being in Italy, fell in love with the Marchesa ----, and she with him. The lady must be, at least, twenty years his senior. The war broke out; he returned to England, to serve--not his country, for that's Ireland, but England, which is a different thing; and she, heaven knows what she did. In the year 1814, the first annunciation of the definitive treaty of peace (and tyranny) was developed to the astonished Milanese by the arrival of Colonel ----, who flinging himself full length at the feet of Madame ----, murmured forth, in half forgotten Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelible constancy. The lady screamed, and exclaimed 'Who are you?' The colonel cried, 'What, don't you know me? I am so and so,' &c. &c. &c.; till at length, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence, to reminiscence, through