"Venice, March 9. 1817.
"In remitting the third Act of the sort of dramatic poem of which
you will by this time have received the two first (at least I hope
so), which were sent within the last three weeks, I have little to
observe, except that you must not publish it (if it ever is
published) without giving me previous notice. I have really and
truly no notion whether it is good or bad; and as this was not the
case with the principal of my former publications, I am, therefore,
inclined to rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Gifford,
and to whomsoever you please besides. With regard to the question
of copyright (if it ever comes to publication), I do not know
whether you would think _three hundred_ guineas an over-estimate;
if you do, you may diminish it: I do not think it worth more; so
you may see I make some difference between it and the others.
"I have received your two Reviews (but not the 'Tales of my
Landlord'); the Quarterly I acknowledged particularly to you, on
its arrival, ten days ago. What you tell me of Perry petrifies me;
it is a rank imposition. In or about February or March, 1816, I was
given to understand that Mr. Croker was not only a coadjutor in the
attacks of the Courier in 1814, but the author of some lines
tolerably ferocious, then recently published in a morning paper.
Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of the lines I have
forgotten, and even the purport of them I scarcely remember; for on
_your_ assuring me that he was not, &c. &c., I put them into the
_fire before your face_, and there _never was_ but that _one rough_
copy. Mr. Davies, the only person who ever heard them read, wanted
a copy, which I refused. If, however, by some _impossibility_,
which I cannot divine, the ghost of these rhymes should walk into
the world, I never will deny what I have really written, but hold
myself personally responsible for satisfaction, though I reserve to
myself the right of disavowing all or any _fabrications_. To the
previous facts you are a witness, and best know how far my
recapitulation is correct; and I request that you will inform Mr.
Perry from me, that I wonder he should permit such an abuse of my
name in his paper; I say an _abuse_, because my absence, at least,
demands some respect, and my presence and positive sanction could
alone justify him in such a proceeding, even were the lines mine;
and if false, there are no words for him. I repeat to you that the
original was burnt before you on your _assurance_, and there
_never_ was a _copy_, nor even a verbal repetition,--very much to
the discomfort of some zealous Whigs, who bored me for them (having
heard it bruited by Mr. Davies that there were such matters) to no
purpose; for, having written them solely with the notion that Mr.
Croker was the aggressor, and for _my own_ and not party reprisals,
I would not lend me to the zeal of any sect when I was made aware
that he was not the writer of the offensive passages. _You know_,
if there was such a thing, I would not deny it. I mentioned it
openly at the time to you, and you will remember why and where I
destroyed it; and no power nor wheedling on earth should have made,
or could make, me (if I recollected them) give a copy after that,
unless I was well assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of
that which you assured me he was not.
"I intend for England this spring, where I have some affairs to
adjust; but the post hurries me. For this month past I have been
unwell, but am getting better, and thinking of moving homewards
towards May, without going to Rome, as the unhealthy season comes
on soon, and I can return when I have settled the business I go
upon, which need not be long. I should have thought the Assyrian
tale very succeedable.
"I saw, in Mr. W.W.'s poetry, that he had written my epitaph; I
would rather have written his.
"The thing I have sent you, you will see at a glimpse, could never
be attempted or thought of for the stage; I much doubt it for
publication even. It is too much in my old style; but I composed
it actually with a _horror_ of the stage, and with a view to
render the thought of it impracticable, knowing the zeal of my
friends that I should try that for which I have an invincible
repugnance, viz. a representation.
"I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must leave off; but
what could I do? Without exertion of some kind, I should have sunk
under my imagination and reality. My best respects to Mr. Gifford,
to Walter Scott, and to all friends.
"Yours ever."
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