"Ravenna, April 23. 1820.
"The proofs don't contain the _last_ stanzas of Canto second, but
end abruptly with the 105th stanza.
"I told you long ago that the new Cantos[72] were _not_ good, and I
also _told you a reason_. Recollect, I do not oblige you to publish
them; you may suppress them, if you like, but I can alter nothing.
I have erased the six stanzas about those two impostors * * * *
(which I suppose will give you great pleasure), but I can do no
more. I can neither recast, nor replace; but I give you leave to
put it all into the fire, if you like, or _not_ to publish, and I
think that's sufficient.
"I told you that I wrote on with no good will--that I had been,
_not_ frightened, but _hurt_ by the outcry, and, besides, that when
I wrote last November, I was ill in body, and in very great
distress of mind about some private things of my own; but you would
have it: so I sent it to you, and to make it lighter, cut it in
two--but I can't piece it together again. I can't cobble: I must
'either make a spoon or spoil a horn,'--and there's an end; for
there's no remeid: but I leave you free will to suppress the whole,
if you like it.
"About the _Morgante Maggiore, I won't have a line omitted_. It may
circulate, or it may not; but all the criticism on earth sha'n't
touch a line, unless it be because it is badly translated. Now you
say, and I say, and others say, that the translation is a good one;
and so it shall go to press as it is. Pulci must answer for his own
irreligion: I answer for the translation only.
"Pray let Mr. Hobhouse look to the Italian next time in the proofs:
this time, while I am scribbling to you, they are corrected by one
who passes for the prettiest woman in Romagna, and even the
Marches, as far as Ancona, be the other who she may.
"I am glad you like my answer to your enquiries about Italian
society. It is fit you should like _something_, and be d----d to
you.
"My love to Scott. I shall think higher of knighthood ever after
for his being dubbed. By the way, he is the first poet titled for
his talent in Britain: it has happened abroad before now; but on
the Continent titles are universal and worthless. Why don't you
send me Ivanhoe and the Monastery? I have never written to Sir
Walter, for I know he has a thousand things, and I a thousand
nothings, to do; but I hope to see him at Abbotsford before very
long, and I will sweat his claret for him, though Italian
abstemiousness has made my brain but a shilpit concern for a Scotch
sitting 'inter pocula.' I love Scott, and Moore, and all the better
brethren; but I hate and abhor that puddle of water-worms whom you
have taken into your troop.
"Yours, &c.
"P.S. You say that _one half_ is very good: you are _wrong_; for,
if it were, it would be the finest poem in existence. _Where_ is
the poetry of which _one half_ is good? is it the _Æneid_? is it
_Milton's_? is it _Dryden's_? is it any one's except _Pope's_ and
_Goldsmith's_, of which _all_ is good? and yet these two last are
the poets your pond poets would explode. But if _one half_ of the
two new Cantos be good in your opinion, what the devil would you
have more? No--no; no poetry is _generally_ good--only by fits and
starts--and you are lucky to get a sparkle here and there. You
might as well want a midnight _all stars_ as rhyme all perfect.
"We are on the verge of a _row_ here. Last night they have
overwritten all the city walls with 'Up with the republic!' and
'Death to the Pope!' &c. &c. This would be nothing in London, where
the walls are privileged. But here it is a different thing: they
are not used to such fierce political inscriptions, and the police
is all on the alert, and the Cardinal glares pale through all his
purple.
"April 24. 1820. 8 o'clock, P.M.
"The police have been, all noon and after, searching for the
inscribers, but have caught none as yet. They must have been all
night about it, for the 'Live republics--Death to Popes and
Priests,' are innumerable, and plastered over all the palaces: ours
has plenty. There is 'Down with the Nobility,' too; they are down
enough already, for that matter. A very heavy rain and wind having
come on, I did not go out and 'skirr the country;' but I shall
mount to-morrow, and take a canter among the peasantry, who are a
savage, resolute race, always riding with guns in their hands. I
wonder they don't suspect the serenaders, for they play on the
guitar here all night, as in Spain, to their mistresses.
"Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look at the
_conclusion_ of my Ode on _Waterloo_, written in the year 1815,
and, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820,
tell me if I have not as good a right to the character of '_Vates_'
in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge?
"'Crimson tears will follow yet--'
and have not they?
"I can't pretend to foresee what will happen among you Englishers
at this distance, but I vaticinate a row in Italy; in whilk case, I
don't know that I won't have a finger in it. I dislike the
Austrians, and think the Italians infamously oppressed; and if they
begin, why, I will recommend 'the erection of a sconce upon
Drumsnab,' like Dugald Dalgetty."
[Footnote 72: Of Don Juan.]
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