"Venice, November 15. 1817.
"Mr. Kinnaird has probably returned to England by this time, and
will have conveyed to you any tidings you may wish to have of us
and ours. I have come back to Venice for the winter. Mr. Hobhouse
will probably set off in December, but what day or week I know not.
He is my opposite neighbour at present.
"I wrote yesterday in some perplexity, and no very good humour, to
Mr. Kinnaird, to inform me about Newstead and the Hansons, of which
and whom I hear nothing since his departure from this place, except
in a few unintelligible words from an unintelligible woman.
"I am as sorry to hear of Dr. Polidori's accident as one can be
for a person for whom one has a dislike, and something of contempt.
When he gets well, tell me, and how he gets on in the sick line.
Poor fellow! how came he to fix there?
"I fear the Doctor's skill at Norwich
Will hardly salt the Doctor's porridge.
Methought he was going to the Brazils to give the Portuguese physic
(of which they are fond to desperation) with the Danish consul.
"Your new Canto has expanded to one hundred and sixty-seven
stanzas. It will be long, you see; and as for the notes by
Hobhouse, I suspect they will be of the heroic size. You must keep
Mr. * * in good humour, for he is devilish touchy yet about your
Review and all which it inherits, including the editor, the
Admiralty, and its bookseller. I used to think that _I_ was a good
deal of an author in _amour propre_ and _noli me tangere_; but
these prose fellows are worst, after all, about their little
comforts.
"Do you remember my mentioning, some months ago, the Marquis
Moncada--a Spaniard of distinction and fourscore years, my summer
neighbour at La Mira? Well, about six weeks ago, he fell in love
with a Venetian girl of family, and no fortune or character; took
her into his mansion; quarrelled with all his former friends for
giving him advice (except me who gave him none), and installed her
present concubine and future wife and mistress of himself and
furniture. At the end of a month, in which she demeaned herself as
ill as possible, he found out a correspondence between her and
some former keeper, and after nearly strangling, turned her out of
the house, to the great scandal of the keeping part of the town,
and with a prodigious éclat, which has occupied all the canals and
coffee-houses in Venice. He said she wanted to poison him; and she
says--God knows what; but between them they have made a great deal
of noise. I know a little of both the parties: Moncada seemed a
very sensible old man, a character which he has not quite kept up
on this occasion; and the woman is rather showy than pretty. For
the honour of religion, she was bred in a convent, and for the
credit of Great Britain, taught by an Englishwoman.
"Yours," &c.
* * * * *