_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
the lovers of the intermediate twenty-five years, arrived at last at the
recollection of her _povero_ sub-lieutenant.--She then said, 'Was there
ever such virtue?' (that was her very word) and, being now a widow, gave
him apartments in her palace, reinstated him in all the rights of wrong,
and held him up to the admiring world as a miracle of incontinent fidelity,
and the unshaken Abdiel of absence.
"Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of Marmontel's. Here is
another. The same lady, several years ago, made an escapade with a Swede,
Count Fersen (the same whom the Stockholm mob quartered and lapidated not
very long since), and they arrived at an Osteria, on the road to Rome or
thereabouts. It was a summer evening, and while they were at supper, they
were suddenly regaled by a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment,
so prettily played, that, wishing to hear them more distinctly, the count
rose, and going into the musical society, said--'Gentlemen, I am sure that,
as a company of gallant cavaliers, you will be delighted to show your
skill to a lady, who feels anxious,' &c. &c. The men of harmony were all
acquiescence--every instrument was tuned and toned, and, striking up one
of their most ambrosial airs, the whole band followed the count to the
lady's apartment. At their head was the first fiddler, who, bowing and
fiddling at the same moment, headed his troop, and advanced up the room.
Death and discord!--it was the marquess himself, who was on a serenading
party in the country, while his spouse had run away from town.--The rest
may be imagined; but, first of all, the lady tried to persuade him that
she was there on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for an
harmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which amused me when I heard
it, and I send it to you, in the hope it may have the like effect. Now
we'll return to Venice."
"The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being Christmas-day) the Carnival
begins. I dine with the Countess Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera.
On that day the Phenix (not the Insurance Office, but) the theatre of that
name opens: I have got me a box there for the season, for two reasons, one
of which is, that the music is remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, of
whom I have made mention, is the De Staël of Venice--not young, but a very
learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very polite to strangers, and, I
believe, not at all dissolute, as most of the women are. She has written
very well on the works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besides
other printed matter. She is of Corfu, but married a dead Venetian--that
is, dead since he married.
"My flame (my 'Donna,' whom I spoke of in my former epistle, my Marianna)
is still my Marianna, and I, her--what she pleases. She is by far the
prettiest woman I have seen here, and the most loveable I have met with
any where--as well as one of the most singular. I believe I told you the
rise and progress of our _liaison_ in my former letter. Lest that should
not have reached you, I will merely repeat that she is a Venetian,
two-and-twenty years old, married to a merchant well to do in the world,
and that she has great black oriental eyes, and all the qualities which
her eyes promise. Whether being in love with her has steeled me or not, I
do not know; but I have not seen many other women who seem pretty. The
nobility, in particular, are a sad-looking race--the gentry rather better.
And now, what art _thou_ doing?
"What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,
Which, Thomas Moore?
Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there's a row, but I'll be
among ye! How go on the weavers--the breakers of frames--the Lutherans of
politics--the reformers?
"As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will _die_ fighting, or _live_ free,
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
"When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding-sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd.
"Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew
Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!
There's an amiable _chanson_ for you--all impromptu. I have written it
principally to shock your neighbour ----, who is all clergy and
loyalty--mirth and innocence--milk and water.
"But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore,
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore,
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore.
The other night I saw a new play--and the author. The subject was the
sacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, and they called for the
author--according to continental custom--and he presented himself: a noble
Venetian, Mali, or Malapiero by name. Mala was his name, and _pessima_ his
production--at least, I thought so, and I ought to know, having read more
or less of five hundred Drury-lane offerings, during my coadjutorship with
the sub-and-super committee.
"When does your Poem of Poems come out? I hear that the E.R. has cut up
Coleridge's Christabel, and declared against me for praising it. I praised
it, firstly, because I thought well of it; secondly, because Coleridge was
in great distress, and, after doing what little I could for him in
essentials, I thought that the public avowal of my good opinion might help
him further, at least with the booksellers. I am very sorry that J---- has
attacked him, because, poor fellow, it will hurt him in mind and pocket.
As for me, he's welcome,--I shall never think less of J---- for any thing
he may say against me or mine in future.
"I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send (for I do not know whether
they are out or no) the poem, or poesies, of mine, of last summer. By the
mass! they're sublime--'Ganion Coheriza'--gainsay who dares! Pray, let me
hear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me know that you have
received these three letters. Direct, right _here, poste restante_.--"Ever
and ever, &c."