I cannot close this letter without a word about myself.  I am sorry to say I am not yet settled to any serious employment.  The expectation of Coleridge not a little unhinges me, and, still more, the number of visitors we have had; but winter is approaching, and I have good hopes.  I mentioned Michael Angelo’s poetry some time ago; it is the most difficult to construe I ever met with, but just what you would expect from such a man, shewing abundantly how conversant his soul was with great things.  There is a mistake in the world concerning the Italian language; the poetry of Dante and Michael Angelo proves, that if there be little majesty and strength in Italian verse, the fault is in the authors, and not in the tongue.  I can translate, and have translated, two books of Ariosto, at the rate, nearly, of 100 lines a day; but so much meaning has been put by Michael Angelo into so little room, and that meaning sometimes so excellent in itself, that I found the difficulty of translating him insurmountable.  I attempted, at least, fifteen of the sonnets, but could not anywhere succeed.  I have sent you the only one I was able to finish:  it is far from being the best, or most characteristic, but the others were too much for me.[34]

[34] ‘Yes, Hope may with my strong desire keep pace,’ &c.

I began this letter about a week ago, having been interrupted.  I mention this, because I have on this account to apologise to Lady Beaumont, and to my sister also, whose intention it was to have written, but being very much engaged, she put it off as I was writing.  We have been weaning Dorothy, and since, she has had a return of the croup from an imprudent exposure on a very cold day.  But she is doing well again; and my sister will write very soon.  Lady Beaumont inquired how game might be sent us.  There is a direct conveyance from Manchester to Kendal by the mail, and a parcel directed for me, to be delivered at Kendal, immediately, to John Brockbank, Ambleside, postman, would, I dare say, find its way to us expeditiously enough; only you will have the goodness to mention in your letters when you do send anything, otherwise we may not be aware of any mistake.

I am glad the Houbraken will be acceptable, and will send it any way you shall think proper, though perhaps, as it would only make a small parcel, there might be some risk in trusting it to the waggon or mail, unless it could be conveniently inquired after.  No news of Coleridge.  The length of this letter is quite formidable; forgive it.  Farewell, and believe me, my dear Sir George,

Your truly affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.[35]

[35] Memoirs, vol. i. pp. 345-54, with very important additions from the original.  G.

OF THE INSCRIPTIONS AT COLEORTON.

Letter to Sir George H. Beaumont, Bart.

MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,

Had there been room at the end of the small avenue of lime-trees for planting a spacious circle of the same trees, the urn might have been placed in the centre, with the inscription thus altered: