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 AEneid? 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.