"Venice, December 24. 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 babble 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, Col. * * * *, 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 Col. * * * *, who, flinging
himself full length at the feet of Mad. * * * *, 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 Marquis 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 are 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.
"P.S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of a bookseller, who
has published some d----d nonsense, swearing the bastards to me,
and saying he gave me five hundred guineas for them. He lies--never
wrote such stuff, never saw the poems, nor the publisher of them,
in my life, nor had any communication, directly or indirectly, with
the fellow. Pray say as much for me, if need be. I have written to
Murray, to make him contradict the impostor."
* * * * *