“Within this last fortnight I have been rather indisposed with a rebellion of stomach, which would retain nothing, (liver, I suppose,) and an inability, or fantasy, not to be able to eat of any thing with relish but a kind of Adriatic fish called ‘scampi,’ which happens to be the most indigestible of marine viands.  However, within these last two days, I am better, and very truly yours.”

* * * * *

LETTER 327.  TO MR. MURRAY.

     “Venice, April 6. 1819.

“The second Canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday last, by post, in four packets, two of four, and two of three sheets each, containing in all two hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure.  But I will permit no curtailments, except those mentioned about Castlereagh and * * * *.  You sha’n’t make canticles of my cantos.  The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is stupid, it will fail:  but I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing.  If you please, you may publish anonymously; it will perhaps be better; but I will battle my way against them all, like a porcupine.

“So you and Mr. Foscolo, &c. want me to undertake what you call a ‘great work?’ an Epic Poem, I suppose, or some such pyramid.  I’ll try no such thing; I hate tasks.  And then ‘seven or eight years!’ God send us all well this day three months, let alone years.  If one’s years can’t be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man had better be a ditcher.  And works, too!—­is Childe Harold nothing?  You have so many ‘divine poems,’ is it nothing to have written a human one? without any of your worn-out machinery.  Why, man, I could have spun the thoughts of the four Cantos of that poem into twenty, had I wanted to book-make, and its passion into as many modern tragedies.  Since you want length, you shall have enough of Juan, for I’ll make fifty Cantos.

“And Foscolo, too!  Why does he not do something more than the Letters of Ortis, and a tragedy, and pamphlets?  He has good fifteen years more at his command than I have:  what has he done all that time?—­proved his genius, doubtless, but not fixed its fame, nor done his utmost.

“Besides, I mean to write my best work in Italian, and it will take me nine years more thoroughly to master the language; and then if my fancy exist, and I exist too, I will try what I can do really.  As to the estimation of the English which you talk of, let them calculate what it is worth, before they insult me with their insolent condescension.

“I have not written for their pleasure.  If they are pleased, it is that they chose to be so; I have never flattered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. Neither will I make